A First Encounter: Part One

Crash. Crash. E.J woke up to her legs limp, a cloud of smoke and muffled voices. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard someone say, “Madam, are you okay. Wetin happen.”  She rubbed her eyes, desperate to break out of the groggy brain fog and splitting headache. The force of the air bag was so great, it compromised her breathing and her sternum and rib cage felt like it had caved in. Her vision finally normalized and she was able to mutter the word help. Suddenly, a rush of adrenaline coursed through her body and brought everything sharply into focus. She remembered all the medical knowledge she had gleaned from Grey’s Anatomy, journalarticles and late-night reading of various conditions from the Mayo Clinic website and used her knuckles to put pressure off her lower thoracic region because she had a strong feeling that her The rays of the afternoon sun peeked through the white, fluffy-looking clouds. In London, sunshine as bright as this in the middle of February is rare but believe me, no one was complaining.  Flip flops and crop tops by day, a pair of jeans and a light cardy by night. Ayomide, my exceptional physiotherapist, was tidying up in the corner of the drafty, third-floor inpatient gym at the Millington Hospital. Ayomide’s locs was packed neatly into a relatively high ponytail, bouncing back-and-forth like a mesmerising pendulum. Humming away “Thinking Out Loud as she put away the resistance bands, yoga mat and four kilo weights we had used during our session, in the box in the corner. She paused her clean-up when she heard a rumbling growl coming from her stomach. Her tummy was definitely letting her know that it was lunchtime.

 Primary-coloured plinths were placed against the walls. The polka-dotted linoleum floors had an unmistakable just-polished look; but the streaks left behind by the wheels of the wheelchairs could not be hidden.

My short-term memory betrayed me at the moment for I do not recall exactly what Ayomide and I were cackling about. Her sharp wit was pretty unparalleled. All I remember, was this sweet-smelling woodsy musk. I turned around and the first thing I noticed was this stranger’s sun-kissed blonde hair scrunched into a messy bun. His forest-green eyes were just so kind. I wanted; nay needed to know who he was. Emerald trousers signaled that he was an occupational therapist (O.T.) and the Millington Hospital staff name-tag meant he worked here.

With all the subtlety of a freight train, I asked Ayomide who he was. “Well, to put it simply, he is a locum occupational therapist from Australia. His name is Shay and he started working at the Millie (the staffs ’nickname for the Millington) 2 weeks ago. That’s pretty much all I know, hun,” she said, bemused because she knew me well enough to know the that he had piqued my interest.

 At this point, Shay had left the room. Given the fact I had three months left in my six month “room and board” hospital stay, I was in no rush to meet him. Somehow, our paths would cross again. I glided out of the gym. A makeshift sign taped to the bamboo-coloured doors read “Baking Competition starts tomorrow at 8am. Make sure you get all your bits and bobs by 5pm today.” Ayomide and I took the lift up to the 5^th floor and went to the room I have called home since the morning after the catastrophic road traffic accident that rendered me paralysed from the waist down. As the doors parted, there he stood. He furiously scribbled notes on the L-shaped mahogany countertop at the bustling nurses’ station. In between each session with patients, physiotherapists and occupational therapists alike had to quickly summarise the events and treatment plan in each patients’ file. Each specialist would then be informed of any incidents or concerns that occurred before they began a new session. A well-oiled system that made complete and total sense.

Before I realised, a sound escaped from my lips. The name Shay was uttered in breathy, not-so-hushed tones. To my absolute horror, he turned around and smiled. Basically, I had two choices. Either, I pretend like I hadn’t uttered a word, rolling away in embarrassment or I bite the bullet and start a conversation. A split second later, my wheelchair was parked in front of His Gorgeousness. Thank the heavens I mustered up the strength to colour coordinate that day. I had on my black Victoria Secret racerback top (the rose-colored push-up exercise bra peeking out at the sides), black Lululemon yoga pants and midnight Air Jordan Flight 45 high tops. My massive Afro was in its usual adorable pineapple up-do. 

“Hi! The name is Dele what’s yours?” with the cutest smile. I nearly melted into a puddle of swoon when he grinned and said “Shay.” Everyone at the nurses’ station faded away. You know those scenes in cheesy rom-coms where a spotlight hits the couple drawn towards each other from either side of the room and the crowd is suddenly immersed in the blackness of it all. That’s pretty much what happened. At least in my imagination.

 “Love your accent, where are you from?” The southern drawl had sent shivers down my spine.

 “Nashville, Tennessee by way of Sydney, Aussie, Ma’am.”

“Really? Music City was just added to my bucket list. Well, I kinda just wanted to introduce myself, say hello and….er…yeah”

“Sure honey, I’ll see ya around.”

As I rolled away, I could feel the hairs on the nape of neck stand up, replaying our interaction in my imagination. The sound of Ayomide’s giggles jerked me back to reality. The ‘click‘ sound of the wheelchair brakes did nothing to drown out the one single thought burrowing in my mind – Shay is going to be my top choice partner in the baking competition. There was something very calming about his presence. I have to set aside time to make that dream a reality. However, the five-p.m. deadline was fast approaching.