Because my incomplete spinal cord injury sometimes lets me stand and even walk, I was seduced by the possibility of more — more function, more normalcy, more of what I used to have. I’m not alone in this, as many people with incomplete injuries are beguiled by the thought of maybe, just maybe, they will be able to undo bad fortune and restore, in some small measure, what was.

Looking back at the past 30-plus years, I see my life with incomplete injury as a wild affair with a mistress who’s been by turns voluptuous, jealous, sultry and vengeful. I call her Mistress Incomplete. At her best, she is an incredible seductress. At her worst, she’s hell-bent on making me pay for any transgression, such as tricking myself into believing my SCI will continue to improve when, more often, the opposite is true.

When I got to rehab, I couldn’t touch my chin with either hand. Five years later I was spending my days doing the stuff of life — cooking, cleaning, dressing and working — more often than not on my feet. Regaining function and sensation “gifted” me with a panoply of emotions: I was ecstatic when I got more and depressed when I didn’t. Each step meant more hope with no guarantees, enormous expectations built on sand and more distance from my SCI friends and our collective shared experience.

As I approached what seemed to be maximum function, depression and anger began to set in. As long as I was experiencing return, I could stay in denial and avoid depression. Conversely, when I was doing well, the uncertainty bred anxiety.

After a year with no significant changes, I decided to throw in the towel. I wanted a life, not more therapy; a job, not an endless series of exercise sessions. I wanted some certainty about my future.

What tempered all the negatives for me was the realization and acknowledgment of how truly lucky and blessed I was and still am. My depression and anxiety gave way to gratitude.

“What the hell do you have to be grateful for?” asked incredulous friends and family.

I often responded with a laundry list of blessings and luck: walking short distances with crutches, doing stairs, having some trunk muscles for balance, getting through narrow doorways, standing up to get dressed.

I’m not alone. Following are the stories of some others who live with incomplete injuries that sometimes let them stand and take some steps — and tease them with the possibility of more.

Kyle Pearson: It’s OK to be Different

Kyle Pearson, a 60-year-old engineer with Pearson Adair & Co. from Dallas, Texas, sustained a T10-11 injury skiing in Colorado in early 2013. Before he even got to rehab, he was visited by Craig Rehab’s research physician, who suggested that walking might be possible.

“That was all the incentive I needed to begin my obsession with walking,” says Pearson.

After two and half months of rehab at Craig, during which he experienced a good deal of functional return, he went home to Dallas somewhat adept at using a walker. Later that year, he returned to participate in the NeuroRecovery Network treadmill walking program pioneered by  The Christopher & Dana Reeve Foundation. Pearson spent time on the treadmill five days a week for four months. As he saw his function increase, he says, “I began to think I would be ‘normal’ again.”

Over time, Pearson’s seemingly-positive mindset proved to be problematic. “Back home, the onset of cold weather was accompanied by high levels of spasticity. In addition, I had never properly grieved my accident. Nevertheless, I left Denver beginning to walk with a cane and feeling a profound sense of gratitude.”

He wasn’t prepared for what came next.

“I wasn’t as active that fall. The weather was colder, and I began experiencing high levels of spasticity, which at first I didn’t understand,” he says. “One day I could walk, but the next day I couldn’t. I began to realize how emotionally challenging the unpredictability of all this is. It can drive you nuts if you let it.”

Soon, Pearson had to accept that walking wasn’t always worth it. “Early on, using crutches was a point of pride with me — trying to appear ‘normal,’” he says. “But that just set me up for a big fall when the pain came on. I’m finally learning that I’m not defined by whether I can walk or make it to the second floor. I’m a work in progress, learning to manage my emotions.” He does squats throughout the day to stretch and work his quads, hamstrings and glutes to try to manage his debilitating neuropathic pain.

His chair use has varied over the years, generally in a downward direction. “In 2015, I vacationed in Ireland and worked in London for two weeks without a chair. More recently, I’ve used my wheelchair for longer distances and whenever I need to get somewhere fast. This stems from four back surgeries in late 2019 and early 2020 that left me extremely weak.” He’s spent the past year regaining strength and estimates he uses his chair about 80% of the time.

Rather than expressing disappointment at his increased use of his chair, he says, “I think I may have finally matured into this. I’ve had two major negative events — unexpected spasticity and neuropathic pain in 2013-14, and four surgeries in 2019-20. Each time I felt I was a failure, as I could no longer act ‘normal’. Now I understand that it’s OK to be different.”

He credits his wife of 35 years, Leann, for being his rock, saying she’s been and remains a source of incredible support. A family man, he has three grown children and recently became a grandfather.

Megan Wemmer: Still Regaining Function

Megan Wemmer, 39, sustained a T12-L1 injury six years ago when she fell from a ladder to a loft in a Colorado backcountry ski lodge.

“There were too many trees for a helicopter to land, so my boyfriend had to leave me on the floor and ski out to get a mountain rescue crew. I was in shock, alternating between shivering from the cold and burning hot. In the back of my mind, I already knew I was paralyzed but wasn’t ready to confront it.”

Rescuers sledded her out to a waiting ambulance that transported her to the hospital. Her T12 vertebrae was pushed into her spinal cord and her L1 was shattered. After 12 days in ICU, she was off to Craig Hospital where she spent two months rehabbing.

“I had enough movement for doctors to instill hope that I would recover some function, but I never had a clear picture of what that might look like. If I asked, all I got was ‘you may be able to …’ or ‘we don’t really know,’” she says.

Most rehab docs put the window for recovery of sensation and function at 18 to 24 months after injury. Wemmer says she’s been actively recovering function and muscle use for the past six years. Recently she learned how to activate muscle groups that were absent two years ago, then found ways to strengthen and integrate them into movement.

“I’ve been trying to use the muscles I have for their intended function and not compensate,” she says. “I certainly compensate for muscle groups that are still absent, but I truly think that I have had significant neuromuscular return well outside the 18-month recovery window that they tell people to expect.”

She is continually learning to activate new muscles. “To maximize return, I’ve never stopped doing physical therapy, regaining strength in these weak muscle groups and learning how to integrate them into movement. It can can be exhausting,” she says. “I used a wheelchair exclusively for about a year, before progressing to less supportive devices.” Also, she still does a bowel program, complete with a suppository, and she still caths.

Wemmer is able to walk but since she has very little sensation below her right knee and can’t feel her right foot at all, she continually looks down at her feet. “I have to stay focused, constantly monitoring my body, and it’s a lot of mental effort,” she says. “Uneven surfaces are difficult because I have no ankle stability. My balance isn’t great, so if someone bumps into me, I can’t always recover.” She relies on braces and does skin checks every day.

She remains active in outdoor sports — rafting, snow shoeing, camping — and she credits adaptive sports camps with people with a variety of other disabilities for showing the way. “I have been to a number of adaptive sports camps, and I’ve met people with all types of disabilities. I’m in awe of what people with disabilities are capable of.”

And what about the emotional journey? “That’s hard to convey, as my body is still changing. I can’t just accept and reconcile myself to the way things are and move on. I’ve been building strength, endurance and function, doing everything I can on my feet. I have hope that I’ll still be able to accomplish more physically,” she says. “I know that I will have to face the reality of a decline, regression and losing what I have been working so hard to regain. I know I’ll need a wheelchair again eventually. I’ll have to come to terms with that.”

Christy Quinn: Acceptance and Gratitude

Christy Quinn, a 61-year-old grandmother of three, joined the SCI club in 2012 following a bike accident that left her with a C6-7 injury. Following five weeks at Portland’s Legacy Rehab Institute of Oregon, she discovered Adapt Advanced Physical Therapy (formerly Project Walk). She calls the once-a-week sessions a “game changer.” A few long breaks from PT took a toll on her physical abilities and she now sees PT as essential to maintaining function.

Early on, as her progress slowed, Quinn became concerned. “I started to get discouraged and even depressed at times,” she says. “I’m super-competitive, but now I give myself grace.”

Since then she’s progressed from wheelchair, to walker, to forearm crutches, to a cane, on which she now relies. But it’s not easy as she must be hyperaware of every step she takes, which requires concentration. “I can never relax while walking,” she says. “I’m thinking about moving a certain way, not dragging a foot, being sure to lift an ankle, not recruiting muscles I shouldn’t recruit. I’m also in significant pain. It’s a lot.”

She says walking reminds her of scuba diving. “You breathe slowly so as not to use up the oxygen too quickly, you move slowly so you don’t miss something hiding under the coral and you take your time coming back up to the surface so you don’t burst your lungs,” she says. “I now walk with purpose, yet slowly so I don’t miss something or get hurt, all the while enjoying things I’ve never seen before.”

Quinn no longer needs to do a bowel program, but because of a neurogenic bladder is prone to frequent UTIs. “I recently had back surgery and watched an overnight stay become five days because everything shut down — bowel, bladder and even some function,” she says. Cold also presents a problem, as she has difficulty with temperature regulation; her body stiffens up, making movement difficult.

“I’m learning to go easy on myself. I still struggle at times with wishing this hadn’t happened. This new and different lifestyle requires a commitment to find ways to enjoy life differently,” says Quinn. Fortunately, she is learning how to navigate these activities from others with SCI and says it helps to know she’s not alone. “Finding others with similar challenges has helped me discover new activities such as kayaking, riding adaptive bikes in the summer and hiking,” she says. “Swimming is the one activity where my body doesn’t have to struggle; it’s easier to balance, and I can’t fall in the water, so I’m not afraid. Nothing I do now looks or feels the same as before, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy or benefit from those activities.”

The most difficult challenge for Quinn is the tension between not giving up hope for continued improvement and being thankful for what she has. “Accepting where I’m at doesn’t mean I’ve given up. The tension is what keeps me alive,” she says. “I’m content with where I am today regarding my physical abilities while continuing to hold out hope for continued improvement.”

That’s the essence of life with an incomplete injury: hoping for more return while practicing gratitude.

Because, let’s be honest, if my dear Mistress Incomplete came knocking on my door, I’d probably go all wobbly and starry eyed and say,  “Please come in, please.”

I’m a sucker for seduction. I suspect we all are.