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While researchers still have nothing tangible to give people like Reeve, they are certain that in addition to MP and 4-AP, therapies are imminent. They do not predict that patients will be running the 100, but they do believe patients will be able to feed themselves, use the bathroom on their own and lead fairly independent lives. Interestingly, Young says there is little evidence to suggest that the longer paralysis lasts, the worse are the chances of recovering some function. "It's important that patients not allow their muscles to atrophy," says Young. "I usually tell people that we have nothing yet to give you, but if I were you I'd start an exercise program to keep my body in good shape so that when the therapies come, I'll be ready."
This is exactly what Reeve is doing. His therapy routine consists of a combination of what is done for him and what he can do for himself. "Usually I don't fall asleep till well after midnight," he says. "I have to be turned every three or four hours during the night to prevent the skin from breaking down. If the nurses are gentle enough, I won't wake up. I have to sleep at a 90[degree] angle on my side. If I were lying on my back, the weight of my body could create another decubitus wound, and I don't want to go through that again.
"Sometimes I'll spasm while they turn me. The effect of a spasm, the tension of it, goes straight to my neck. It stiffens like a tree trunk. If I'm awake, I'll ask the nurse to give me a soft-tissue massage, which goes deep into the muscles. I have to take about 12 kinds of pills plus Metamucil. Pills to help control the spasms. Pills to prevent infection in the stool. And so on."
Then the ranging begins. Ranging is when the nurse stretches out his arms, legs and fingers to retain their flexibility and elasticity. Often his limbs will fight against the exercise. His hands will quiver, his legs will shake. "The nurse will take my leg out to one side," he says. "He's fighting to hold the knee down and the foot up. Then he'll bring it back to the middle and fight to bring my knee up to my chest. My whole leg is fighting, the foot flapping. But he holds on. You can hear the joints crunch.
"It's like watching someone else's body. Like it has nothing to do with me. But I look to see how the muscle tone is doing because we work very hard on that. My legs are really getting strong, particularly the thigh and calf. The nurse will hold the leg straight up, holding the knee with one hand and the foot with the other and pushing with all his body weight. I can't feel anything in the right leg; I just stare at it. But I feel the tension in the left."
When the nurses range his arms, he can feel a light touch from the hand up to the elbow, "as if someone were to brush a hand along the area, a kind of caress. And I can feel something in my shoulder blades."
As he is being ranged, he looks out the window--"down to the pond that we share with our neighbors. Goats are there, and sheep, and there are guinea hens running around. I see the old farmhouse that dates from the late 18th century. I see the lovely white fences along our driveway. And beyond to the hills. I can look at the view for hours and never get tired of it. That's something I've learned to do since the injury--to look at things for long periods of time."