My mother wheeled me through the hallways of the hospital, passing by corridors with bright colors and pictures hanging on the walls. She loaded me into the elevator, and I felt my stomach drop until we reached the sixth floor, outside a door with the words "Terpia fisicas" inscribed above it. "Physical therapy," I thought, struggling to decipher the words, unsure if it was my rusty Spanish or Valium and morphine that contributed to my difficulties. Inside, I saw many kids rolling around in wheelchairs, or lying on mats and stretching. A sense of relief flooded through me, and I began to relax. Here, at last, were kids just like me. A young lady with blue eyes and blonde hair tied back in a ponytail approached me. "Hi," she said. "I'm Valerie. I'll be your physical therapist for the next couple of weeks." She helped me maneuver my stiff body onto an exercise mat, and led me through a series of stretches that left my muscles groaning in pain and sent fireworks ricocheting in my head. I began to wish that I had never agreed to this whole proposition. After that, she helped me sit up, let me rest for a few seconds, then said, "Okay. I want you to lean on the walker in front of you, and then very slowly try to stand up." Confident that I knew what I was doing, I grabbed the handles of the walker and pulled myself up with my arms. Almost immediately, my surroundings began to blur like the colors in a Monet painting, and the walls began to spin. I felt like I was going to faint. I heard my own voice say, "Whoa," and I clutched at the handles of the walker for support. Behind me, I could dimly hear Valerie's voice in my ears: "Think of this as the first day of the rest of your life. After ten days in bed, your muscles are weak, and you're going to have to learn how to stand -- and walk -- all over again. It will take some time." After hearing this, I sat down on the mat and cried.