John Heinz Institute of Rehabilitation Medicine

I’m a former patient of the John Heinz institute. In August of 1998 I was underwent brain surgery to remove a tumor in my cerebellum at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. The surgery was successful and I soon began physical and occupational therapy. My neurosurgeons saved my life, but the therapists at John Heinz taught me how to live again.
I arrived at the John Heinz institute in a wheelchair. I couldn’t walk, feed, or dress myself. For three days a week, for the better part of two years, I underwent physical and occupational therapy. My sessions would last two hours each and I would only have a fifteen-​minute break in between. At first, I had to relearn simple things, like how to button my shirt or make a sandwich.
Simply put, occupational therapy teaches a patient how to regain independence. One of my early challenges was learning how to feed myself again; I couldn’t cut my own meat or even bring a fork to my mouth. My hands shook so much it was impossible to hold an eating utensil. I was given special forks, knives, and spoons – three times the size, made of metal, and extremely heavy. I learned once again to feed myself, but only in private. I could never be seen by anyone eating with such comically oversized utensils – I still had some pride. My therapist also taught me how to type, as it was unknown if I would ever be able to write longhand again.
Physical therapy was even harder. I was never that athletic to begin with, and the fact I would never be able to play sports again was no big loss. However, during physical therapy, I exercised like I was training for the Olympics. Every day, whether at John Heinz institute, or at home, my prescribed workout routine was physically draining and emotionally exhausting. I lifted weights, learned to walk on the treadmill, and did a variety of other exercises meant to shock my system into performing again. My favorite day at John Heinz was when I received aquatic therapy. Within the natural buoyancy of water I once again felt normal. These days, however, it’s hard to get in a swimming pool without painful memories of the rehabilitation process flooding my mind.
Sometimes I would give up on myself. I was tired of working twice as hard as everyone else and seeing half the results. My therapists, however, never gave up on me. They pushed me to go that extra mile on the treadmill, or swim five more laps in the pool.
It wasn’t an easy recovery, as I seemed to be facing insurmountable odds. The rehabilitation process takes a lot of time, and I couldn’t expect changes overnight. As frustrating as my situation was I learned to go weeks, or even months, without seeing any signs of progress.
As I was making strides in my therapy, I felt up to spending more time in public. It was good to get out of the house. Even a short trip to the shopping mall was like a vacation. At first, I would get around in a wheelchair pushed by my parents. As my therapy progressed, I was able to use a walker. Still, the sight of a young teenager using a walker is very strange, and I was often met with stares and dropped jaws. It was those looks of disdain and abject horror that served as the impetuous for my recovery.
The most disheartening part of rehabilitation is relearning everything you’ve known for years. Though the therapists made sure to treat me like an adult, I felt like a toddler relearning such basic tasks. In the grand scheme of things, my sacrifices were small. I’ll never drive a car again or be able to ride a bike. I’ll never be what I was before the surgery, but thanks to the therapy I probably regained eighty percent of my strength and ability. The most-​important aspect of a successful recovery is recognizing that life will never be the same.