In the early morning, with groggy eyes, I awoke to see my father, my mother and, of course, Trey, at my bedside.
“Hi!” He grinned as he shoved his hand in my face.
“Hi, Trey.” I weakly shook his hand.
“Dust off. Try again,” he told me.
“I can’t right now.”
“Ochay,” he sweetly said, and galloped out of my hospital room in search of a hand to shake.
“Trey, don’t shake hands. No one likes it,” I whispered after him.
Before I left the hospital the orthopedic surgeon said I would never have the same mobility. Not allowed to put weight on my leg for eight weeks, I wobbled about on crutches. Trey soon became impatient with me, for he wanted to go places that I couldn’t manage. He sat with his arms crossed on his large belly, with a pouty face. We read a lot of children’s books and drew pictures, but it was plain to see he was bored. He wanted to go to the pet store to see the mice and birds. He wanted to go to the library to count all the books. He wanted to go to the park to have me push him on the swing. I couldn’t do any of this for a while.
Meanwhile, I was plagued with questions. Would I be finished with my physical therapy in time to run track? Would I run at my capacity again? Would I do well in the 300-meter hurdles, the race I had lettered in the previous season? Would it still be my event? Or would the doctor’s prediction be correct?
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