While waiting at an airport gate, I once had the privilege of observing something remarkable. As United States servicemen and women exited their flight, a tunnel opened, and the crowd profusely applauded, collectively setting aside their interests to stand at attention and express gratitude for protecting America and its freedom. This scene comes to mind now as I think of the heroic dedication and effort caregivers selflessly give, on a different but equally imperative battlefield. I've often told my choir director how much I admire his devotion to his wife after her stroke. Dependent on a wheelchair, this octogenarian faithfully brings her to practice, worship, and even to social events for brief visits—service worthy of applause. I feel the same admiration when I observe others making the best of their situation, whether helping a loved one in a wheelchair or walking alongside their labored gait. I empathize, and at the same time, I feel blessed. Matt, fortunately, has been on a forward trajectory, shedding his wheelchair and walking devices in less than a year, with only a residual slow gait.

Matt's world expanded rapidly. Two days after returning home, we metaphorically celebrated Liberation Day by venturing into the community, beginning with church. It was a perfect place to christen his new beginning. Everyone was overjoyed to see Matt, their faces radiating warmth and love as they profusely welcomed him. Entering the pew, however, proved to be a comical challenge. Rising from the wheelchair, Matt sidestepped into the row and plopped down, leaving no room for me. With a bit of grit and manhandling, we managed to scoot far enough to fit both of us. Later, as we stood to sing, my arm wrapped tightly around his back for stability and a demonstration of our shared strength. The choir, a symphony of voices, seemed to sing with even greater joy as they watched Matt mouthing the words to the hymns. Seeing the tangible outcome of their continuous prayers was immensely rewarding, a testament to the power of community and faith.

On Monday afternoon, Matt joined me for my monthly BookBound Book Club. The group is comprised of six near-retirement-aged women with diverse families, backgrounds, and careers. He was there but not quite there—eerily, like a store mannequin propped in a wheelchair, absently staring off in the distance. It was too much to expect of him to engage in dialogue with strangers or follow the threads of discussion, but he was content, still rejoicing in his recent release from captivity. The ladies welcomed him with unabashed and gracious acceptance. Like so many others, they were deeply inspired by his progress, their eyes filled with admiration and hope. I was grateful to have resumed this familiar activity with cherished friends, sharing Matt's journey with those who cared deeply.

Venturing outside demanded exponentially greater physical effort, constant vigilance, and unwavering determination.  There was no casual strolling, no spontaneous movement. To use my car, each step and each shift was a deliberate, planned effort. First, we had to navigate the garage. Squeezing the walker through small spaces and around obstacles, I tightly gripped Matt’s gait belt from behind. We’d perform a delicate, coordinated two-step, gradually building trust with each movement as we proceeded beyond the car door. Turning in place, we’d wiggle into the confined space between the door, car frame, and garage pole—a comical sight fit for Saturday Night Live. Next, Matt needed to duck his head and land safely on the car seat. The final steps: lift his legs inside, turn him to face forward, secure the seatbelt, wipe my brow, and breathe a sigh of relief.

Oh, but that wasn’t all; round two was up next: packing the wheelchair in the car. The wheelchair was needed to transport Matt to and from appointments and events. Before we could drive away, the trunk had to be emptied, the seat cushion and leg rests had to be removed and set aside, and the chair had to be collapsed. Then the awkwardly collapsed wheelchair was leveraged against my gut, hoisted up, and pushed back into the trunk. Lastly, the extra parts were retrieved and put on top, and fingers crossed, I hoped the trunk would close the first time around.

Thankfully, Matt’s mode of travel wasn’t an electric wheelchair or scooter because I already needed a nap, and we hadn’t even left the driveway. Moreover, there was more to come—repeating the process in reverse upon arrival at our destination, and again to return home, or worse yet, to another destination, and you guessed it: to do it all over again and again.

Other difficulties include navigating curbs, inclines, declines, uneven surfaces, gravel, or dirt, as well as maneuvering in tight spaces such as stores, physicians’ offices, elevators, and among pedestrians. In wet or muddy conditions, it was a dirty job, and the wheelchair refused to wipe its treads before entering the house, leaving a path of water and dirt streaks in its wake. Thankfully, by the time the snow flew, the wheelchair was no longer required.

Matt's first visit to the local MD was, to put it mildly, eventful. He vomited three times: twice at the feet of the remarkably patient physician and once in the waiting room. The optimism that had propelled me forward deflated like a slow leak from a balloon. Suddenly, I saw Matt's vulnerability through the eyes of the staff, all of whom I knew, and his needs seemed monumental. The doctor's suggestion of a group home, though perhaps well-intentioned, felt like a sharp rebuke. It was a disheartening start. I could only hope his upcoming appointments with specialists in urology, cardiology, neurology, and optometry would be less disruptive.

While the minutiae and logistics of ensuring Matt's safe movement were undeniably important, they paradoxically limited his potential progress. These daily demands often stole time and energy from the essential, hands-on rehabilitation needed to advance his recovery. Despite my "highly trained" grasp on weaving therapeutic concepts into the necessities of life, this perceived missed opportunity to do more was deeply frustrating. It echoes the "Tyranny of the Urgent," a concept famously coined by C.S. Lewis, in which immediate necessities eclipse what is truly important. In Matt's situation, the daily grind often constrained my sense of duty to less than what my inner drive envisioned would be the fastest and best outcome.

© 2025, Sarah Watkins