The bad news is that, although we were able to extract the sniper's bullet without complication, the damage it caused as it entered your back appears to be irrepairable.  Your third and fourth lumbar vertebra have been shattered, your spinal cord has been severed, and I'm afraid that for the rest of your life, you will be confined to a wheelchair.

The good news is that, as I'm seeing on your medical sheet, here, your last name is "Ironside." 

So....in spite of all that's been taken from you, there is at least one thing you now have which you did not have before, which is a name that makes a certain unsettling, dramatic sense. 

At times like these, it can be difficult to find the good within the bad, but try to open your eyes to this stroke of luck.  Fate gave you the last name "Ironside," and you kept it, even when it was completely athematic to your life.  Now, that restraint pays off, and without expending any effort whatsoever, you can cross "having an unnaturally appropriate name" off of your to-do list.

Whatever wheelchair you end up using, I doubt it will literally be made of iron, and as technology advances, I imagine there will be chairs composed mostly of plastic, but I assure you the physical construction of the chair itself will never magnify or diminish the applicability of the name.  When they told me you were going to be wheelchair-bound, and they told me your last name, my instant reaction was "Oof."  A man inside a cage with no front.  Metal here, metal there.  Sides of iron.  And I don't want to insult you by assuming you don't know this, but throughout history, "Old Ironsides" has been a nickname given to battleships, tanks and locomotives.  Which is sort of what you've become: a kind of "half man, half tank," or "choo-choo person."  My point being, a wheelchair is a wheelchair, and, so long as your mobility and aesthetic remain more mechanical than natural, so long as you are, in physical essence, more machine than human, the last name "Ironside" will always bear ample symbolic gravity.

I want to show you something.  I can get up right now and jump around the room.  I guess it's fun.  I'm glad I can do it.  Are you impressed?  Jealous?  Want to guess what my name is?  Toby Fitzsimmons.  Get it?  I don't get it, either.  There's nothing to get.  And what can I do about that?  Walk down to the courthouse and change my name to Toby Legwalker?  Chief Proudfoot?  Then what happens if I end up paralyzed, too?  Am I going to change my name again?  Weland Rollins?  Johnny Spokes?  There's no point when you force it like that.

You're a lucky man, Mr. Ironside.  Maybe not luckier than anyone that can walk, but certainly one of the luckiest men to ever find himself in a wheelchair.  You've been walking around your whole life with a lottery ticket you couldn't redeem.  And now, as if by magic: jackpot. 

This is nurse Johnson, she's going to show you how to empty the bags of excrement and urine that you'll be wearing under your shirt, and then I want you to get out there and start introducing yourself to people! 

Mister Ironside!