They’re disabled like me

Hi, I'm Michael, and I'm a stroke survivor.

For the past few months, I’ve been back in rehab, working on my right hand. One thing that always strikes me is the sheer variety of circumstances that bring people to rehab. Sitting in the rehab hospital waiting room is like witnessing a smorgasbord of bad luck. Some people are there because of challenges they were born with, others have more recent and easily identifiable injuries (like the young man who lost half his leg in a motorbike accident), and some disabilities aren’t quite as obvious.

They’re disabled like me

What I appreciate most in this environment is the absence of stigma or fear when discussing our conditions. That’s a bit of a generalisation—some people prefer to keep to themselves—but, for the most part, everyone is open to talking. I find these conversations therapeutic because, at the end of the day, they’re disabled like me.

Black humour

During my time in the army and beyond, I’ve noticed that those with a defence background tend to have a warped sense of humour—one that civilians might not understand or could even find offensive. I see the same dynamic in rehab. When we get together and swap stories, there’s often dark humour in the mix. We all have a tale about what landed us in that room. We’ve all faced things we wouldn’t wish on anyone else. And we’re all just trying to process it while staying positive about the future. Having people around who truly get it makes a world of difference.

A different kind of therapy

After more than two years of rehab, I’ve realised that a big part of what helps me isn’t just the exercises—it's the conversations that happen in between. Talking with other rehab patients, the therapists, even the receptionists—it all adds up. It might not be formal therapy, and I certainly can’t claim it on my insurance, but it’s therapy nonetheless. Just in a different way.