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“The Barthel Index,” he muttered, tapping the paper. “A score of 0 means totally dependent. A 100 means you’re an independent god of the linoleum floor.”
“Bathing?”
Hiro’s eyes crinkled. “With my right hand? I can spear a meatball. But cutting the meatball? That’s a two-man job.” He gestured to his paralyzed side. “My partner here is on strike.” barthel indeks
Aris wrote Transfers = 0/15 . Mobility = 0/15 (unable to walk). Stairs = 0/10 . “The Barthel Index,” he muttered, tapping the paper
Aris opened his mouth to defend the index— it’s objective, it’s standard, it predicts outcomes —but he closed it. Because Hiro was struggling to his feet again. Not with technique. With will. “With my right hand
Hiro set his jaw. He pushed with his right arm, braced his right leg, and heaved. For a terrifying second, he hovered, a fragile pendulum of flesh and bone, then collapsed back onto the mattress.
Hiro laughed, a dry, papery sound. “I sit on a plastic stool like a toddler. A nurse washes my back. I can wash my face. Does that count for something?”