Dancin'

They rolled him down to this fresh version of Hell every day. It's bad enough that the prognosis sucked, but now to add insult to it, they decided he needed therapy. He just wanted to lay in his bed and think about dying. Too bad that ride on his motorcycle was his last. The weather sucked.

At first little Miss Chipper chattered at him and showed him all the machines and crap she was going to use. The therapy tubs seemed nice. If he could have felt something, a massage might be enjoyable. But that's not the reality of the situation. And he stopped listening after the word 'atrophy'.

On good days, suicide in her cleavage was an amusing thought. On bad days, he screamed. And screamed.

This morning she played the radio and sang along as she worked his legs. Not that he could feel it, but he could see his foot go up and down. "Jason, I can feel a difference in your tone."

I just grunted.

Six weeks later, not much changed. Up and down went my foot. Miss Happy Pants was singing some Megan Trainor song. Apparently, she liked it, she was bobbing up and down to the beat. I didn't mind it so much. I stared at my toes. Damn, they needed clipping. Then he saw a toe move. What the heck was that? He focused on it. It moved again. Holy shit!

He didn't say anything. But later he tried it again. It moved again. She got to the part in the lyrics and he automatically sang Oh Aye Oh along with her while staring at his foot. She stopped and followed his gaze.

"I'm going to get the doctor!"

Like he was going anywhere...he laughed.


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