Refusing to take the easy road and use the wheelchair in the house challenged our problem-solving abilities. Walking into the dining room using the walker, for a scrumptious home-cooked meal, at first, I pulled out his chair and angled it away from the table for easy access. Quickly, I realized that once Matt sat down, he became dead weight with no ability to lift or scoot his chair in any direction, especially on our carpet, and even my years of bodybuilding couldn’t do it for him. We did better if the chair was kept in its normal alignment and only moved far enough away for Matt’s skinny butt to turn and sit sideways, followed by pivoting face forward like a top. But we weren’t done yet, oh no. He was too far away. Next, he placed both elbows on the table and leaned over them. In sync, I shifted his weight further forward by leaning my chest into his back while simultaneously lifting his bottom on the count of three. Finally, Matt could hold this position just long enough for me to grab the seat on either side to lift the chair and push it underneath him with my knees. Perhaps this is noteworthy as a Guinness World Record.

Next, Matt began tackling the dishwasher. With one hand securely on the counter for balance, he'd bend, twist, and reach up and down to load and unload. Beyond the dishwasher, setting the table, helping with his laundry, and making his bed also became part of his routine. Tucking sheets on the far side of the bed required a clumsy dance of balance and arm coordination, often with precarious results. Vacuuming his bedroom came surprisingly easily. By Thanksgiving, my journal proudly noted: 'Matt fairly routinely empties the dishwasher, occasionally folds his laundry, and helps with meal preparation. In the kitchen, Matt has helped brown ground beef in a skillet and even made an apple crumb pie.’

Day by day, we persisted in our efforts to teach the subtle nuances involved in taking care of himself. There was no shortage of details to master, or an end in sight. Matt was now able to stand to shave and brush his teeth, and by the end of the year, he knew where to find his toothbrush, at last. Not knowing what to expect, I had initially targeted six weeks to check this off our long to-do list. Boy, was I wrong. In time, he managed halting steps to his dresser to select his clothes for the day. He improved putting garments on: working his foot into a sock more easily, guiding his arms into shirt sleeves, and although he had yet to learn how to push his leg through a pant leg, at least it no longer buckled.

For three or four weeks, we had precut Matt's meals, prioritizing his energy for other demanding skills. Then, he was ready. With my hands overlapping his, I facilitated the process: guiding the knife in his right hand to saw, while his left struggled to stab and stabilize the meat. It wasn't just manipulating the utensils; it was finding the correct grip, coordinating the sawing motion, and simultaneously keeping the food steady with the fork. Like learning a new and elaborate dance, this complex coordination demanded meticulous practice and unwavering patience. He fared better with softer foods. As December faded, Matt began to have fleeting moments of success cutting something firm, like a pork chop—other times, not so much. Regardless, we advanced, slow and steady.

Beyond the obvious, hidden complexities were harder to address, as even automatic bodily functions required immense retraining. For Matt, even basic tasks like clearing his throat became a challenge due to weak respiratory support. This particular activity calls for a gentle 'huff,' like fogging a mirror, distinct from the harsh burst of air for a cough or the soft exhalation for blowing one’s nose. Unlike a child mastering these skills for the first time, Matt's efforts were weak and yielded limited results due to his impairments. Each required a series of attempts to be productive, along with prompting from the peanut gallery."

Even something as seemingly simple as licking one's fingers after eating chicken wings became a monumental task. This coordinated effort, for most people, involves formulating the desire, planning precise movements, and executing them through signals to hands, fingers, jaw, tongue, and throat—all while the brain suppresses unwanted movements and refines actions with sensory feedback. For Matt, getting something out of his eye and other intricate activities, especially those involving his right arm, like scratching his opposite shoulder, were exponentially more difficult. The challenges escalated even further if both hands were required.

There was a hierarchy of challenges, each demanding deliberate training. His arms might have to move in similar or different directions, with some involving mirrored motions and others an entirely distinct sequence of steps. Consider the choreography of putting on a shoe: it consists of lining up the foot and shoe, keeping the tongue open while guiding toes into a confined space, and holding everything steady. Then, applying counterpressure to offset the forward thrust of the foot, he needed a finger to guide the heel into place without crushing the backend. And all of this takes place in a less-than-ideal position, often scrunched forward with his head within a foot of the floor, or at least that was how Matt did it. Reprogramming even the most basic competence ultimately would take months.

By early October, Matt's world began to expand. He was walking short, purposeful distances more frequently throughout the day—to the bathroom, dining room, or bedroom—initially with assistance. The walker was gone, replaced by a quad cane, though only inside the house for now. Two weeks later, a significant milestone arrived: a trip to the grocery store. Matt walked the entire store, pushing the cart, up and down the aisles, on his feet for a solid half hour. His balance and endurance had improved so much that I was able to step away to retrieve items. Nap time had become a thing of the past as his tolerance for activity soared. This newfound stamina was truly evident during our grocery runs; soon he could push a cart for thirty minutes at Aldi, immediately followed by another thirty minutes at Hannaford—a feat unimaginable just weeks prior. Matt didn’t seem discouraged that his job was solely to push the cart, as he wasn’t yet ready to help find or fill the cart with items from the store shelves. These weekly outings became a cherished routine, filling me with quiet joy as he kept me company and made me smile.

Matt was so glad that he was no longer institutionalized that he would do almost anything we asked of him in the early days. Even at a snail’s pace, each tiny step forward was a testament to his perseverance. We were so proud that he wasn’t giving up. The family continuously reinforced his value, praising each small deposit in his recovery account, figuratively waving pompoms of recognition and cheering, “Go Matt, Go!”

© 2025, Sarah Watkins