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We knew the path forward was fraught with obstacles and challenges, yet a new rhythm of life was slowly emerging. However demanding each adventure might be, both at home and in the community, it was vital in rebuilding Matt’s world and our own. With every small step forward, we hoped to continually expand Matt’s horizon and his future.
Five weeks after his return home, the "Boot Camp" expanded to our neighborhood. On our first outdoor walk, Matt shuffled with a wheeled walker, leaning heavily on my physical support. We covered just a quarter-mile, resting frequently, as much for Matt as my screaming arm muscles straining to keep him upright. Yet, walking clearly held profound importance for Matt; despite the effort, his determination shone through. A week later, he surprised us all, earning the playful title of "Crazy Matt." He pushed past our designated distance, choosing to complete a full three-quarter-mile loop around the development. Once committed, we were committed, because turning back would have been even longer. It wasn't pretty, and it took a grueling fifty minutes with multiple breaks and Herculean support, but the triumphant smiles on his face upon returning home made every strained minute worthwhile. Our stretch goal for Thanksgiving had been shattered.
Peggy, the director of the Regional Therapy Center and my boss, generously extended us full access to the department's resources. This included a Cardiopulmonary rehabilitation program—a pseudo-YMCA of sorts, just without the spandex or young, buff enthusiasts. In other words, it was primarily comprised of older individuals recovering from cardiac and respiratory conditions. This created a perfect, welcoming environment of nurturing individuals who immediately took Matt under their wings. They spoke with him without feeling slighted or demanding that he reciprocate, often content with just a slight wave or nod of the head.
We first arrived by wheelchair on October 3rd. The distance from the main entrance was too great for Matt, and it was even further from the parking lot. So, I'd drop Matt off just inside, park, and then wheel him the rest of the way. Since I worked in this very clinic, my coworkers eagerly greeted and embraced both him and me with open arms. From the wheelchair, we carefully pivoted to a combo arm and leg bike for twenty minutes, then back to the wheelchair. We proceeded to the treadmill for five minutes, followed by the leg press, where he pumped fifty pounds. We went once a week, gradually adding the rowing machine, leg extension, and hamstring machines, while continuing our routine on the bike and treadmill. Each piece of equipment presented a learning curve. Consistent with his flat affect, Matt had a slow and laid-back approach that didn't align well with the training philosophy of "bigger, better, faster." Consequently, I repeatedly egged him on to push with everything he had.
Matt's walk transformed rapidly over the next three months. He progressed from the wheeled walker to a quad cane and began working with a straight cane at home to gain proficiency. His commitment was evident, and in short order, one November walk saw him complete the three-quarter-mile loop with his straight cane in a remarkable thirty-five minutes—half his previous time—driven purely by an inner mission. As his confidence grew, so did our anxiety; his right leg often toed inward, and his balance remained precarious, necessitating someone to hold a gait belt firmly around his waist. Yet, he pushed boundaries, daring to walk unannounced from the family room to the bathroom, and even getting himself out of bed and into the bathroom one morning. By late December, he had tackled walking a one-and-a-quarter-mile loop around our neighborhood, demonstrating his remarkable gains in stamina and mobility.
As Matt’s strength and endurance continued to increase, nine weeks after our first visit to the Wellness Gym, we ditched the wheelchair and walked in. This included ascending twenty steps to reach the second floor. Yes, an elevator was available, but where was the fun in that? He took the steps slowly, sometimes one at a time. Matt was now up to 1.5 mph on the treadmill, had begun walking backward on it, and was using even more gym equipment like the butterfly press, knee extension, and cable resistance for biceps work.
Matt was very much at our beck and call 80% of the day. It was hard to fathom that he felt no discontent or rebellion about his lost identity and freedom, no thoughts or opinions that would instigate such feelings. His behavior reminded me of a cute little puppy trotting along happily beside its master, faithful, trusting, and appreciative when a bone was thrown its way. Matt was simply happy to be alive and for the decisions we had made. I imagine occasionally, he must have resisted the unrelenting force to press on, but not enough to stick in my mind, except for this one time. It was late fall, and we had yet to rake the scattered oak leaves and pine needles or put the garden beds to bed. A friend and her son joined Mike, Ryan, and me to tackle the job. I made a concerted effort to include Matt in the gathering. Bundled him up in his signature Cornell hoodie, I situated him in a patio chair near the action, and snugly wrapped him in a blanket against the cold. Instantly and insistently, Matt wanted none of it. I was as dogged that he should be there. Rightly so, Mike pulled me aside and advocated on his behalf. Taking a deep breath and pausing, I stepped down and relocated Matt inside to watch a movie contentedly.
There are many ways to measure progress, some more profound than others. The first week I took Matt to church, we used the wheelchair. Matt slid into the pew, stood for half the songs and the scripture reading, and I held on securely and never took my eyes off him. The second Sunday was much the same, but I was more relaxed and only held on lightly when he stood. On the third Sunday, he stood without my support at all. On the fourth Sunday, I wheeled him half the distance, and using the walker, Matt walked the rest of the way to the pew and out afterwards, through the fellowship hall, and to the car. All this happened in the passage of one month. The following week, we began to transition to a quad cane. Two months later, Matt boldly walked into church without anything, just me, at the ready, proud to be by his side—such a dramatic difference and a fantastic indication of neuroplasticity in action.
Excitedly, my colleague reported after returning from a conference that research on neuroplasticity now emphasizes the brain’s capacity to reorganize (but not actually heal the damage). This was a much more favorable prognosis than the six to eight months initially offered us. Many variables come into play, depending on the severity of the injury, age, overall health, and level of rehabilitation and engagement outside the clinic. Of this list, other than the severity of Matt’s brain hemorrhage, he had many things in the plus column. The final take-home message I clung to was this: significant recovery often occurs within the first two years, particularly the first three to six months, when the brain is in a heightened state of plasticity. However, it's crucial for people to understand that recovery can continue even a decade later. This truth of the enduring potential for recovery and the hope it offers must be clearly and loudly articulated from the outset, for all to hear, and often.
© 2025, Sarah Watkins
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