Chapter 11 - I Thought My Wheelchair Would Separate Me From My Son—Instead, Sammy Became the Reason I Learned to Move AgainMy doctors said recovery was unlikely.
They never said impossible.
Sammy refused to accept the difference.
Every morning, he came into my room.
"Get up, Dad."
"I can't."
"Try."
"I tried."
"Try again."
At first, I got angry.
Then I realized he wasn't asking me to perform a miracle.
He was asking me not to give up.
Emily joined him.
Then Rebecca.
Then my physical therapist.
Weeks passed.
One morning, I moved my foot.
Just slightly.
I stared at it.
"Sammy."
He ran over.
"What?"
"My foot moved."
He screamed.
"I knew it!"
He hugged me.
For the first time in eleven months, I laughed without forcing it.
The doctors were cautiously optimistic.
The damage was severe.
But my nerves weren't entirely dead.
I could regain some mobility.
Maybe more.
I began therapy again.
Not because I needed to prove anyone wrong.
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Because I had a son.
A son who believed in me before I believed in myself.
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