Okay, I don't own anything to do with the perfection that is CM or any of its affiliations. I do, however, have the pleasure of owning my OC, Charlotte. Hope you enjoy the story - and have a great day!
Charlotte POV
I had spent the following month in that same hospital room, alone and bored out of my mind as Rossi had to eventually get back to the BAU in Virginia. He had a job to do, I knew that, and as much as it pained me to say goodbye, I was glad for the fact that he kept in touch through e-mails and the odd Skype chat, if only for a few minutes or so, as he was on the busy side.. Me? Not so much. I spent most of my days playing 'Guess-The-Reason' with every patient that flittered past my door - it was basically a game that my bored psyche had came up with, to keep me somewhat occupied, otherwise I would have went insane with boredom. Rossi had his murder-y stuff and me with my physiotherapy. Schmitt had declared me fit for physio 48 days into my stay at NYPH and I was over the moon with glee when she told me I would most likely be up and running in 4 weeks time. Okay, so she didn't say running, per se, but she might as well have.
Don't judge me.
Step one to the healing of my calves and thighs was my first visit to my physiotherapist, Dr Mortimer Bird. He was a balding man, in his late 50s for sure, with a reserved smile and a relaxed, aura, in a buttoned-down business shirt, a pair of smart slacks and shiny black shoes. I didn't know why I was but he gave me the distinct impression that I was being interviewed or something. He was reserved, and quiet, for majority of the 'meeting', only speaking when he was asking me questions, and scribbling a bunch of scrawl onto his notepad. I answered all the questions as honestly and as quickly as I was able, especially in my eager state. I mean, its not everyday that a girl gets to learn how to walk again, now is it?
The office that he had was on the floor above my hospital, specifically designated to the psychoanalysis of patients, and it took more time than I would have liked to actually get up there. It was fucking annoying, to say the least. I had to be wheeled up there, and it was embarrassing, but a necessary evil. I wouldn't be able to use my legs for a while, so I had to buck up and get used to it. Thankfully, the ankle and knee braces Dr Schmitt had strapped onto my legs had really helped me when it came to light stretching and tenses which is all I was really capable of doing on my own before this meeting. By the end of the hour session, Bird had charted up his over evaluation of me, and what it expected of me whilst I am here 'under his care'.
He handed me two slips of paper, one was a legal matter, pertaining to the possibility of me never regaining feeling in my legs and/or any injuries I may inflict on myself during the time within these four walls. I signed it quickly and handed it back to him, with scorn in my eyes. I really didn't like this man, although there was no real grounds for my distaste. The other paper he handed me was thicker, more card-like, and sturdier that normal paper.
It was a treatment plan, full of exercises and small stretched I could do every night before I slept and when I woke up to get my body used to moving around again. I had to be honest, whilst being in this wheelchair, my upper body strength had almost doubled, my arms were tense and more toned, but not beefy or muscular as they would have been if I were any bigger in size. Bird recommended a compilation of a heat and cooling treatment, as well as electrotherapy, to work on the electrical nerve stimulation that was lost in my legs as a result of the paddling.
If I were being honest, the temperature therapy wasn't at all the most dreadful or trying part of this treatment plan, it was the mild leg weights and stretches that I was required to do that got to me the most. Every night for about 3 week straight I cried myself to sleep because of how much agony I was going through, although I would never tell anyone of that. Dr Schmitt seemed to have a vague idea that I wasn't entirely content with the situation, but I would do nothing but grin and bear it. There was no way I was losing my only chance at being able to walk over something so stupid as aches and pains. As the weeks pressed on, the weights gradually got heavier and the work load I took on was increased, in relation to how much I had improved against the week before.
The electrotherapy was tunnelling things along much faster had he not chosen it alongside the others. It induced blood flow to and from my legs, allowing newly oxygenated blood into my limbs, improved the strength and motor control inside my thighs, allowed the repeated stretching of the soft tissue in my legs and repaired the broken tissue in my calves and thighs, and eventually the ugly, protruding black and purple veins and blood clots faded away, leaving behind yellow blotches of damaged tissue, and eventually those disappeared, my legs returning to their original size, colour and shape, if not a bit more toned.
Once I had been able to walk completely on my own, a little unsteadily at first, but becoming more and more confident with each time I attempted it, I had immediately taken up visiting the local swimming baths and taking a dive and going to and from the resident gym during my hour breaks from the hospital care - always returning with enough time for me to get to Bird's physio sessions. We had become close friends in the time I had been attending his classes, and I knew that by the end of the week, I was leaving the hospital a better, different woman. I mean, for Gods sake, I spent my 24th birthday with the nurses, doctors and patients here. They were each etched into my memory, representing another life I had lived and old friends I will leave behind.
The days leading up to my departure were sad ones - I had spoken to Stephenson a few times during my stay and he had expressed his 'sincerest apologies' over what had happened to me while I had been held captive by that psycho-nut Adams, and every time I would tell him to stick it where the sun stopped shining. He was trying to cover his ass, it was fucking annoying, and a complete falsehood. He was simply doing this out of curtsey; he was such an asshole. I was done being his scratching post, I was through being the middle man - I was finally becoming the woman I was meant to be, and at 24 years old, I was ready for it.
All it had taken was being held captive by a loon to make me aware of it. What a strange world we live it, aye?
When I say I am no doctor, I mean it. If any info is wrong, or exaggerated, then I'm sorry, but it just fits in my story, so I'm keeping it that way. Plus, its all from Madam Google, and she is my queen.
Okay, so here's the timeline, for anyone who's confused:
December 16th - The day the BAU came
December 20th - The day Charlotte is kidnapped *le shock*
December 23rd - The day Charlotte is rescued
December 26th - The day she wakes up
January 29th - When she starts physiotherapy
February 20th - Her birthday
February 28th - She's released from the hospital completely.
Her life changes in such a small amount of time, don't you think? 26 chapters for just over two months, well hello.