One moves forward.  It isn’t easy.  Inch by inch one inches, inching inchily to the next inch, the next inch, the next.  After an injury like this, the inch becomes one’s sole unit of measurement.  The lavatory is 180 inches from the bed.  The front door is 400 inches from the lavatory.  The fridge is 450 inches from the lavatory.  The lavatory is 310 inches from the settee.

Accompanying this reduction in scope is, obviously, the firm assignment of the lavatory as the focal point of one’s domestic existence.  Further, as one is necessarily housebound, the lavatory thus becomes the focal point of one’s entire existence.  You see, the machine’s crossbeam punctured, amongst other things, one’s bowel – a horror which one might expect to be superseded by the fresh and sudden uselessness of one’s legs – but yes, the lavatory is one’s constantly necessary, and necessarily constant, companion.

In fact, the loss of mobility one can deal with, and, frankly, one’s training prepared one for such an eventuality.  It’s the servitude to the lavatory to which one vehemently, ragingly, fruitlessly objects.