I didn’t weep when they told me I’d never walk again. Just nodded like hearing the weather prediction. Sunny, maybe paralyzed. I didn’t want sympathy. Please no “you’re so strong” remarks. I needed room to feel like I’d lost something unnamed.
I flatly declined part-time help when the nurse suggested it. “I’ve got it,” I said. I didn’t. The kitchen was a battleground, baths were difficult, and utensils fell everywhere.
Then Saara arrived.
She was unlike my expectations. A bit younger and less sweet than expected. She never treated me like a weakling. She just inquired, “Where’s your coffee?” and made a cup like she had for years.
I first kept her at arm’s length. No talk, no personal inquiries. She assisted with essentials and departed. I eventually laughed at her stupid jokes. I saved books from my shelves and articles I thought she’d appreciate.
One day, I broke down over something silly. I dropped a dish and couldn’t get it. I sat there, outraged at the world. Saara took her time fixing it. “It’s not about the bowl, is it?” she murmured from the floor next to me.
Something opened.
No caregiver, please. I refused aid. It felt different because of her. Maybe I hadn’t lost everything. Connection might not be defeat.
Yesterday, she said she might move.
I was unsure how to answer.
Saara sat across from me in the living room, holding a tea mug. With her customary disheveled hairstyle and big sweatshirt, she looked as she always did. She appeared serious. That was unlike her. A dropped glass of water became an Olympic sport, and a burnt toast became a TikTok channel-worthy culinary disaster. Saara could make anything funny. None of that happened today.
Finally, “I’ve been offered a position,” she added quietly but steadily. In a clinic. More structured, full-time. They have perks, retirement plans, everything.”
I said, “That sounds great,” despite a tight throat. “You deserve it all.”
She nodded but looked at me searchingly. “It’s not here,” she whispered. “Three hours away.”
The words hovered between us like thunder clouds. Three hours. Not distant enough to be another country, yet far enough to disappear.
I forced a grin and answered, “I see.” “Well, you can’t miss that. You worked hard for this chance.”
She looked at me with a tilt. “Are you mad?”
“Mad? Why would I be mad? My laughter seemed empty even to me. This is fantastic news, Saara. Very wonderful news. You should accept.”
However, I felt gut-punched within. I wanted to shout, ask her to remain, and express my gratitude for her care and importance. Someone who entered my life unknowingly. Instead, I silently picked at my blanket edge.
I ignored the issue when Saara attempted to bring it up again a few days later. I assured her I understood, was pleased for her, and will work it out. Perhaps part of that was true. But primarily, I was afraid. Fearing solitude again. Fearful of returning to before she arrived—before anybody sat on the floor with me while I grieved over a broken dish.
Saara halted and held up a snapshot of me trekking one afternoon while helping me sort through old images, a process I’d avoided for months. I vividly recall that day before the accident. After climbing a mountain, fatigued but elated, my buddies and I took selfies against the limitless trees and sky.
“You look so happy here,” Saara handed me the photo.
“I was,” I said, marking the frame boundaries. Once, I loved adventures. Now I hardly make it to the mailbox without napping.”
Her face softened. “Do you miss it?”
I snapped, “Of course I do,” then regretted it. “Sorry. No doubt, I miss it. Is it irrelevant? I can’t return.”
“No,” she said softly. “But maybe you can advance.”
“You mean what?”
Her elbows were on her knees as she leaned forward. We have adapted sports programs nearby. Have you researched them?
I blinked at her. “Adaptive sports? For my kind?”
“For anyone who wants to try,” she corrected. “They have wheelchair basketball, hand cycling, and rock climbing. I investigated it last week—you might be interested.”
The heart twisted horribly. Why do that?
“Because I care about you,” she said. I think you’re stronger than you realize.
I kept quiet for a while. The thought of undertaking something physical was daunting. Suppose I failed? If I disgrace myself? What if I couldn’t do any of my old loves?
Then I considered Saara leaving. About being alone, glancing at old photos of a life I could never return to. Maybe I should stop lamenting what I’d lost and start focusing on what I could gain.
Saara took me to adapted sports a week later. Wheelchair users cheered and laughed in the bright, friendly environment. Neither pitying nor patronizing, it was unexpected. It lived.
We began low. Starting wheelchair basketball, I struggled with the ball and nearly fell numerous times. Saara yelled in delight whenever I dribbled without falling. I left the workout sweating, injured, and beaming.
She handed me a bottle of water and said, “You did amazing.” I told you.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I said, but my pride was obvious.
Over the weeks, I immersed myself in the program. I played basketball, hand-cycled, and took a beginner’s rock-climbing lesson. Each challenge pushed me physically and emotionally beyond my limits. Saara encouraged, cheered, and reminded me I could do more than I thought.
She had to go eventually.
Wheeling myself into the kitchen on her last morning, I saw her packing up her stuff. She turned and smiled at me, her eyes bright.
You ready? So I asked in a casual tone.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said. “What about you? Big game tonight?
I grin. “Yeah. First official game. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” she stated confidently. “You got this.”
After hugging farewell, I felt the usual pain of loss as she left. But this time was different. I knew I wouldn’t lose everything this time. Saara gave me a precious gift: the idea that I could live a full, meaningful life even if it looked different.
At the game that night, I played harder than ever. As our team triumphed, I lifted my arms in excitement, tears running down my cheeks. I saw Saara in the stands with my teammates’ families. She returned for one last time.
After that, she found me in the locker room beaming. “See?” she asked. “Told you.”
“Thank you,” I muttered, hugging her tightly. “For everything.”
My back was pinched. “Anytime. Promise me one thing.”
What’s that?
Continue forward.”
I pledged.
Unexpected visitors may make lasting impressions. Their presence teaches resilience, courage, and change acceptance. Despite losing chapters, these experiences tell us that progress frequently disguises loss and that moving on doesn’t imply forgetting where we’ve been.
