Give it a year to laugh a little

I ambulated a fair bit in the hospital the last few days. As I strolled up and down the perpendicular hallways one day, stooped over, carrying my box of blood connected to my left lung by a tube (what my doctor referred to as my "tail"), and grinning at all the docs, nurses, fellow patients and visitors beneath my halo of unwashed, stringy hair like some benevolent bayou witch, my male nurse kindly fetched me a second hospital gown.

"A robe" he offered. But not for my comfort.

Apparently, it's not polite to smile, then turn and flash your backside at others while ambulating.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Speaking to my eldest boy Berto on the phone the day of the car accident, he said, "You broke all your ribs? And you didn't pass out? Wow, Mama..."

I couldn't laugh outright at the time, but I chuckled inwardly.  The only thing the trauma doc wrote of my supreme be-in-the-moment spirit was patient denied loss of consciousness. Not all my ribs were broken, actually, but most on my left were fractured. (The doctors wouldn't give us a precise number, simply repeating dismissively, "almost all your ribs", as if to say, what's the difference?) No matter how many exactly, the fact that I didn't lose consciousness won me major points in my son's book.

I probably lost those points, though, when I came home from the hospital, regressed emotionally, and began sleeping with a teddy bear I named Michael nestled against those cracked ribs. I forfeited more, no doubt, when that teddy bear got lost, and, desperate to find my missing friend, I offered five dollars to any kid who could find him for me. The kids tore apart the house in their quest, and Berto found him and demanded his reward, having no mercy for his mother's childish sensibilities.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The head trauma surgeon came in with a whole gaggle of student surgeons. I gazed around at all the new faces crowding my bed.

"Sorry," the jovial, gray-haired doctor said, waving his hand toward his circle of protégés. "Learning experience."

"That's alright," I replied. "I've given birth when it was a learning experience."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My husband has watched Dual Survival on Netflix the past few nights. Ah, the memories! After returning home from the hospital last year, when the recliner was my bed and the bed was impossible, I often fell asleep to Dual Survival. One night after my glorious-and-long-awaited shower, I distinctly remember fiddling with my left ear. A large ball of wax was stuck in it. It caused me some embarrassment, because I was sure others could see it residing there. This particular evening, I finally dislodged the nuisance and extracted, not a buildup of wax as I thought it to be, but a shard of car window that had been lodged in my ear since the wreck. I was vindicated - racoonish eye circles, crooked nose and large, unladylike pours I may have, but waxy ears? Never!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Six weeks post-hospital I called the trauma line, wanting answers to nagging questions before our family ventured on a long road trip through higher altitudes.

I had a lingering fear that my lung could re-collapse at any moment, suddenly saying as we climbed through some mountainous terrain, I've had enough of this carp! and going phhhhuut!

A wonderful physician's assistant assured me that the lung repairs itself quickly, and once repaired, is good as new. Relieved, I had one more question out of curiosity.

I knew which naughty rib had punctured my lung, so I asked, "How did you guys get that sixth rib out of there anyway?"

There was a pause and the beginnings of laughter, hastily repressed.

"We don't do anything," she assured me. "The lung pushes it back as it heals."

Ah....I was picturing a whistling trauma surgeon wielding a tiny crane, carefully looping string and a hook, using a hand crank to haul out the rib, pasting it back into place with super glue - all while working through the tiny chest-tube incision in my side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I never again worried about my lovely miraculous lungs, but those ribs! For nearly a year I've slept on my back to humor them, and I also have a chronic condition called Pre-Menstrual-Aching-Rib Syndrome. I'd call the trauma line to ask why my ribs have joined forces with my manipulative hormones, but I'm guessing it's a phenomenon no trauma doc, or physician's assistant, could ever explain.

Give it a year to...

I'm in a slump. My vertigo returned last week. The house is a perpetual disaster. I'm exhausted, and I've been wanting to tackle a subject that's hard enough to write about and makes me vulnerable.

The anniversary of our car accident had been in my thoughts even before it arrived Saturday, sitting on my consciousness, playing with threads of memory and skeins of emotions - difficult to untangle into words. Some might scoff at my use of the term "anniversary", but I'm reminded of those events most days and especially these. I'm reminded when I sit at a red light behind the ghost of a hulking black motorcycle, when I see a white and gray Kia van like our old one at a medical building, when I see someone drive recklessly or feel I've made a mistake and been unsafe myself.

It's a very selfish topic, but I trust my dad when he told me, Sometimes you have to write for you and not care about anybody else.

For a long time before that late September day, I had felt that I was extremely blessed and sheltered, that I had no conception of the sadness, trauma, distress others go through routinely in life. I didn't ask God for our experience, but when it happened, it simply felt like my turn for some adversity and challenge. There was no, Why me? That's folly to some, and I'm explaining it poorly, but it felt like something God could and did use to instruct me. And still the trauma has never seemed as if it could compare with what others live through on a weekly, monthly, daily basis, but it helped me learn compassion, empathy in a radical way for people I would not normally meet at church or a sports practice or within a mom's group.

It taught me about the human kaleidoscope of circumstances, especially while in the county hospital with rotating roommates, across the hall from a room with a sentry to guard the prisoner of the county jail who reclined in its bed, his ankles secured to it by chains.

Nevertheless, I did act like a baby when I got home from the hospital. I felt, particularly, that my husband couldn't comprehend the minefield of my emotions and recollections. The day after I returned home was my birthday. While we were eating an apple pie our friend Vivien had brought me at the hospital (with paper plates and plastic forks, God bless her), Daniel slid off his seat and got his leg momentarily caught between the chair and a bench. He started crying, fearful more than anything. Ella became frightened, and I quickly descended into hysterics. Ella and Daniel, still fragile as well, joined me immediately.

"He's fine," Matthew said, holding our little son and staring in disbelief at my sobs and convulsions.

It was the sound of Daniel crying, that's what Matthew didn't understand. I heard again the sound of his and Ella's terrified cries after the accident, and it made me come apart. Matthew was angry that I upset the children. I tried to explain why I was falling apart, that I had control over nothing. I failed.

I didn't respond to my children in the first several dazed moments after the wreck, you see. I don't ever remember asking if they were okay. They were crying, and Ella was screaming for me to respond, to tell her if I had something stuck in me. I finally forced myself to speak and raise my right hand, but my voice was so faint, they couldn't hear me well....or maybe I sounded so strange, it was no comfort. Later, I tortured myself with what if - what if they had been hurt, too? Would I have forced myself to move, to climb to them regardless of pain? I comforted myself that I knew they were okay by their strong voices, by the point of impact, but it wasn't surprising that I had nightmares for a long time after, bad, bad dreams in which I failed to keep my children safe in one way or another.

I know this is part of the reason why I'm so grateful to the firemen, my friends, and my husband for taking such complete, beautiful care of my children for me.

It was because of Ella and Daniel being in the van with me, unharmed physically by events but very frightened, that my family and friends were baffled by my sadness over the death of the motorcyclist who hit us. But I found the way in which he died horrific, and I was distraught that I was part of the circumstances.

I wanted him to have a second chance, a wake-up call. I knew a tiny bit about his situation - that he hit the rear of a truck two intersections before he hit me, that he fled that scene, that he had suspicious substances on his bike. My dad told me simply that I could not know how many second chances he'd been given. A friend told me that I couldn't know; perhaps God used me to keep him from hurting someone else, that sometimes God chooses us for these experiences. But I cannot discern between time and chance and will and meaning.

But still I was sad. I struggled right into this past summer when I had a breakdown at my sister's house in which I yelled at my husband to pray for those he loves, and I confessed that it bothered me, scared me that I didn't know where this man's soul was who died in our accident.

My sis Vinca calmed me down, talked to me and held me as I sobbed.

At 2 am as I finally got ready for bed and looked sheepishly at my swollen, weary face in the mirror, I felt God's displeasure just as clearly as I felt his approbation months earlier in the hospital when I had no anger against the motorcyclist. This time, though, I knew I had to lay my emotions to rest. It was God telling me, It's none of your business where this man's soul is. It's My business. Let it go. Now.

And apologize to your husband.

And I have, really - apologized and let it go. I'm still sad for a man I know nothing about, but who I will always feel connected to because of the events of a late September day. So I pray for his wife, and I pray for one of my hospital roommates, and I pray that God will shine his light on the path of the doctors and nurses who treated me those five days.

And I hold and rock my littlest ones when something reminds them of our accident, and I pray that God will guide me to be the best mother that I can be and a very safe driver, and I take a deep breath nearly every day and let it go.

Give It a Year

It wasn't all that long ago, while driving the kids home from school, that I said a prayer I've said often since our car wreck last year.

Thank you, Father....thank you for keeping Daniel and Gabriella safe.

It was a great blessing, the greatest blessing that Daniel and Gabriella weren't harmed in any way. Though at the time of the accident I recoiled for several moments in disbelief at the noise, the sight and the pain, God knows I'm grateful. I took the brunt of it. Let me always take the brunt of it. Sometimes my thoughts stray into the territory of what could have happened, and I pray my gratitude silently, passionately.

Then cries my soul, my Lord God unto to thee, How great Thou art. How great Thou art.

I think of all the ways in which you provided for us through our fellow human beings.

The firemen took care of our youngest children when I could barely speak or move and was in a very selfish place of pain. My husband came from work instantly and ran across a grassy field toward the intersection at a speed only panic can induce. He barely got to take my hand before I was transported, but he was there to take our littlest two into his arms; they didn't need to go with strangers on the strangest, scariest day of their lives.

Our friends from our little Mom's Group stepped in to help immediately. Kim drove all the way out to the county hospital to take Ella and Danny home with her where she fed them and distracted them with toys, games and TV and made them feel safe. Geraldine picked up Ana and Berto, our eldest, from school, and the two groups united at her house. Dana and her kids showed up, too, and can you believe the miracle of love and friendship? They had a pizza party. My kids had a pizza party with friends on what could have been a disordered, gloomy, really bad day.

My husband called his mom from the hospital when he was a "mess", barely coherent. She drove from Albuquerque early the following morning. Dana watched our kids until she arrived, so that Matthew could spend the morning with me at the hospital, bearing gifts of chocolate and magazines that Dana sent with him.

I don't think I ever thanked my mother-in-law on this blog for taking care of her son and grandkids for five days - the second time she's been there for us in a huge way - or for listening to me talk and cry the evening I came home from the hospital. I thank her now, just as I thank the cheerful firemen, our beautiful, steadfast friends, and my diligent, strong husband for all they did for our children that I could not do for them myself during those early fall days a year ago.



Time and Chance and Gratitude

Short, mostly unedited: Morbid Thoughts

I used my horn this morning. I had to blast it, palm flattened in panic. It was the only way to prevent a large blue truck from impelling me off the road like a scene from some spy movie.

My husband has no problem laying on the horn. I wish I were more like him. I wish I didn't hesitate in so many things.

Because I see a dozen wrecks every day. I gasp. I take deep shuddering breaths that rake my ribs, reminding me of the injuries from my own accident.

The accidents happen only in my mind's eye; by some miracle they don't transpire in reality. This doesn't change the fact that drivers routinely take ridiculous chances.

I know I'm more skittish since our accident. Driving at night I am tense the whole way to my destination. During the day I am distrustful of other drivers, my eyes darting back and forth. I speed up; I go too slow - always in an attempt to avoid a collision. My husband has warned me I'm going to cause one by being overly defensive.

I've had two close ones since that bad day in September. Once a driver whipped out of nowhere in front of me in a parking lot, inches were all that left before the grind of auto on auto. I pulled into a parking space; my legs trembled.

"What happened? What happened?" I asked my son. "Did you see where he came from?"

I had looked, honestly. Really.

And then this morning on the way to school as I cried out to that big intimidating truck that tried to zip across two lanes from the merge lane, "Dear God, don't hit me! Don't hit me..." and the blare of horn. He was crossing my line, and I was going into the shoulder when he righted himself. The trembling didn't subside until I'd sat a while in the parking lot of my daughter's preschool.

It's a strange side effect of the car wreck that I'm now terrified of large trucks. I can picture one t-boning us, the grill impacting my window at eye level, looking annihilation in the face. Monstrous trucks with high cabs and enormous wheels are popular in this country; they're everywhere, and I don't see one without contemplating the damage they could do to smaller, lower vehicles. It terrifies me.

Someone could ask me why I'm not scared of motorcycles? I'm not. I confess the noise of them does bring flashbacks sometimes, but usually when I see motorcycles I just feel very sad. I mourn the death of the man who hit me in late September, still troubled by the circumstances. And when I see a rider that has no helmet, I steam over the foolishness. I read a November interview with a police officer in which he stated that when head meets pavement, pavement wins - every   single   time. Please wear helmets, for the love of yourself. Increase your odds.

Yes, I'm a big baby, but I suppose it's natural to contemplate your mortality after a close call. And shall I share one of my biggest new worries? I worry that if something suddenly happens to me, my kids will read this blog as a way to remain connected to their mother and that they will think I had favorites, speculate that I did not love them equally. That thought is truly terrifying, the idea that my kids would be saddled forever with an impression of my love based on the whim of my words, the chance of my topic choices, the coincidence that I mentioned one of my children by name more than another.

So I'll say it, punching out the words in desperate sincerity: I love my children equally. I adore them. I have no favorites.

Consequences

I am saddened by the death of Jerry Brown. I am discouraged that his death is the result of poor decisions made by his close friend who now faces manslaughter charges.

In talking about this tragedy, former Indianapolis Colts coach Tony Dungy spoke about the need to discuss life choices with players, and with one's own children. He related how he had met a young man years earlier who had gone to prison for nine years on vehicular homicide charges. This man told Coach Dungy that those nine years were nothing compared to waking up every morning knowing that he had been responsible for the death of three people. Coach had to have him speak to the team - an ultimate lesson from horrible experience.

When I learned of Brown's death, I spoke to my ten-year-old son. These moments are not ones to let slip by without having a discussion, a preventative good that can come from something so senseless.

"Can you imagine carrying around that guilt for the rest of your life?" I said to my son. "Knowing that you had killed someone by your stupid decisions?"

My husband also pointed out that now the man responsible, Josh Brent, would go to prison for his mistake.

This is not a new topic, though we speak of different lives being affected. After our car accident this fall, I asked my husband to speak to our two eldest, who had not been in the van, about the motorcyclist who hit us and the circumstances that led up to his death. The conversation was a lengthy one, but my children will not forget it. They know the impact.

He had been in a minor accident just minutes before ours and had fled that scene before he made the decision to run the red light at the intersection where I was preparing to turn left. When his motorcycle hit the front of our van at such a high speed, he and his bike were thrown. He was not wearing a helmet.

It devastates me that he died. It devastates me that I was involved in an accident that ended a life when I wish to do harm to no one. And, as I recently told my closest friends, I feel that I now have a responsibility to mourn that man all my life, though my sorrow must be far less than what his family and friends feel.

Lives are forever altered by split-second decisions which is why we must give our children the tools to be circumspect in the face of temptation. Sometimes, no matter how badly we wish it for someone, there are no second (or third or fourth) chances. I do not see a motorcycle now without thinking about a bulky black bike lying on the pavement. Certainly I will never gaze at some tough motorcyclist wearing no helmet without righteous anger that the state of Arizona has no law requiring him to wear one. And when, as happened just this week, traffic becomes congested at an odd time and someone mentions that it's because of a bad motorcycle accident, I will be reminded and grieve all over again for the man who hit me and for all the people affected by a fresh tragedy.

I am sad now about something very particular. But I cannot imagine the sadness Josh Brent will carry, because he chose to drive impaired.

A Bare Compliment

Have you ever been told you look young while lying nude on a backboard, wearing a neck brace and stretched out on a gurney?

No?

Well, I have.

Neener. Neener. Neener.

When you first arrive in the Emergency Department, they ask you the usual questions.

"Ma'am, what happened to your clothes?"

Haha! No, they knew my apparel had been cut off in the ambulance, or they guessed I was headed to the grocery store naked that Friday morning. Either way, it was irrelevant.

So first they asked, "What's you name?"

"Hillary...."

"How old are you, Hillary?"

"33. No, 32. I have a birthday...coming up...this week..."

And that's when I heard it, as from an angelic male voice drawing me toward a bright light down a rose-scented tunnel.

"Wow, she looks young!"

Right then and there I wanted to spring off that backboard with a cry of, "I'm cured! Peace, ya'll!", and take myself off for a victory jog around the hospital corridors, but

a. I had multiple rib fractures which wouldn't allow me to roll off the table, much less spring from it

b. I figured once that doctor or nurse got a flash of my full, jiggling thighs and cellulite, he might not think I looked so young anymore, and

c. I was pretty sure I could be arrested for indecent exposure, even while in the hospital. Of course, my defense would have been perfect: temporary insanity brought on by a crazy good compliment after a traumatic injury.

But failing this I lay there with an asinine smile on my face, waiting for someone to tell me I also had a brilliant mind and a winning personality.

Instead they took me for a Cat-Scan.

Later my euphoria was dampened by a nurse saying she thought I was older and then gloating over her own youthful appearance, overhearing a couple of nurses comment to each other that I smelled worse than expected (I couldn't shower for six days, people!), and by my doctor asking me how much I weighed and then hazarding a guess - 70kg.

"I don't know how much that is," I told him. (There goes the brilliant mind theory.)

I'm surprised he didn't cry, "Damn!", claim he forgot something in another room, and shuttle out of there never to be seen again. Instead, he bravely said, "140."

"Last time I checked, I was 134," I responded. I magnanimously added, "But you could be right; I haven't weighed myself in a long time."

After all, 140 isn't bad at all, and I hadn't weighed myself in a while.

And, obviously, I'm not one for being vain.

I'm Thankful for Big Bird

This morning I was mesmerized - by Sesame Street. Listen, friends, PBS is quality programming; it's far better than letting your kids watch the rot on other networks where most of the "kids" shows are vulgar, semi-violent, too mature and bizarre.

Anyway, give me a moment to climb off this beloved soapbox...ah, there I am. Soooo, I was talking Big Bird.

This morning on Sesame Street, Big Bird's friends, Gordon, Gabby, Elmo, Maria, Telly, etc., were helping Big Bird rebuild his nest after a hurricane, and I was touched by the gentle and expert way in which this scary topic was being addressed. I got misty-eyed, because I was sure that this show, with its abundance of love, friendship and determination surrounding the fear and uncertainty, could really help children cope with the sometimes humongous curve balls that life can throw at you.

Hey, Big Bird helped me recebtly when I was feeling scared, and I'm an adult.

When I woke up suddenly my first night in the hospital in September, I saw the motorcycle that t-boned our van speeding at me again. It replayed in the darkness with sound effects provided by some loud banging in the Surgical Care corridor. I had to silence the ghost, so I turned on the TV. As I flipped the channels through cheesy and violent programming at 2 am, I finally landed on Sesame Street. I sighed and settled in like a child with an old lovey. I felt safe again.

I saw some commercials a few years ago where adults talked about how Sesame Street changed their lives as children, took them out of their dismal circumstances to a happier place, helped them learn English when their family first immigrated to the US, or even set them on the right path to realize their dream job. I believe them.

I feel guilty that my kids watch too much TV at times, especially lately as I've recuperated, but I do not feel guilty that they watch PBS. Mr. Rogers, Big Bird, Ruff Ruffman, these are giants - lovable, gentle, teaching giants - in the world of technology. I hope we can always keep our kids grounded in their educational and compassionate programming.

A letter to you, "post"marked today

I have written so many thank you notes this past month, letters on cards or decorative paper. It has been an important part of my healing process. If you can't escape your emotions, shower them on other people, I say! Of course, if I could I would line everyone up in a room, friend, family, stranger, and pass down the line shaking hands, embracing, clapping people on the back and handing them chocolate pumpkins or turkeys (I don't believe in hearts) for their extreme kindness after the automobile accident. Thank you notes are the next best thing, certainly, and last somewhat longer than candy.

During my convalescence I have also been reading a book my friend Holly gave me for a b-day gift, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. It is a charming and thought-provoking book full of fictional letters between characters whose lives were altered by the circumstances of WWII. If you are feeling slightly ill-used by life, it will remind you of the horror that others have had to muster through. It will also make you laugh. Inspired as I am by it, I'm writing you a digital letter in this strange new era when the USPS is going bankrupt. Humor me in honor of a bygone era of more meaningful communication.

NPPKS Reader
WWW Street
Anywhere in the world (though most likely in the US, Russia, UK or Ukraine)

Dear Kind Reader,

I am finally stabilizing emotionally. Whew! When I came home from the hospital and was blindsided by my emotions, I wondered why I felt so turbulent when other people go through much worse. Now, however, as I knock on wood to remain steady, I reflect that a month is not so long to be emotionally out of whack after a traumatic event - not that I wish to go back to those strange feelings! I have spoken to people lately about everything and have not broken down in sobs. My friends have said I seem my old self, and I feel it. You can't imagine how relieved I am! I couldn't see the end of that tunnel, what with my eyes being all swollen from weeping.

Nevertheless, I am sadder now. I find it hard to contend with the fact that I was involved in an accident where someone died. I wanted that man to have a wake-up call, a second chance. I think everyone has wondered at those emotions. The man made his decision and could have hurt my children when he ran that red light on a suspended license. I am supremely thankful I hesitated on the green so that he hit just where he did. I'm also grateful that I forgave him quickly in the hospital before I knew he had died. It gave me peace. A friend told me not to be surprised if the anger comes later, but I sincerely hope it doesn't. Heaven knows I don't need the force of anger behind my confusion, sadness and new fears.

And guilt.

I have some guilt that I didn't do more for my children in those first several minutes after the collision, guilt that I didn't try to reach them despite my collapsed lung and broken ribs.That is what my recent nightmares are about, though thankfully I haven't had one in a few nights. In them I fail my youngest children in some serious way. That's why they terrify me. When the collision happened I was stunned and in pain, and I could hear Danny and Ella, hear what was behind their strong cries (or so I comfort myself). If they had been silent, I would have forced that lung to expand and called for them to tell me they were okay. Instead, they were calling for me to tell them that I was, and I tried to tell them...

The what-ifs are like a handicap in my driving now. I see a big truck, and I think, What if that had hit us? It wouldn't have been just me. I've had people tell me, "The What-ifs didn't happen. Let it go. Don't even think about it." But I think the real danger of what-ifs isn't, What if that had happened? but, What if that does happen? That is why you can't entertain them. The world has to be faced and bravely, with faith.

At any rate, the lack of anger or resentment - toward man or God - has been one blessing. I don't ask why it happened. Stuff happens; time and chance find us. I felt I lived a sort of charmed life before this, but I also felt my metal had never been tested - that I had not been challenged as others have been. As strange as it may sound, I felt my time had come for a little misery. I will be more empathetic now and stronger, I hope. And good will come from this. Many have told me this, and I believe it. God and I will work together to bring the good.

Danny and Ella do talk about the crash, about safety glass, about red lights, but I think I should stop talking about it in front of them. Danny thinks a "soccer ball" hit mama. Matthew tried to tell him differently at first, but I want to let him think that. If I keep going over it with other people he'll catch on, and I don't want him to be afraid in the car. They have both done so well processing it, and it's really in large part due to the firemen, their papa, and our friends. I'll tell you more about the amazing kindness of our friends another time.

I'm back to feeling more like a writer. Discouragement is the death of all ambition, so I hope it doesn't find me again anytime soon.

I hope all is well with you. Don't forget to write back soon! Thank you for letting me get this out.

In friendship,

Hillary


PS  Danny will not allow me to drive with the windows down in the van. Maybe it's because Papa told him about safety glass after the accident, or maybe it's because after the collision his window and my own were gone.

Clingy and Depressed...and Moving On

How changeable we humans are!

I have gone from counting my blessings to feeling glum about almost everything since the wreck. Yesterday was the second day I felt utterly exhausted, and I can only guess that my body is sucking up calories, growing new bone to repair my rib fractures.

My follow-up appointment to see my ED/trauma docs was yesterday morning, and I was sad that I wouldn't see them again, that they were cutting me loose to face the world. These skilled people made me feel safe when my sense of safety had been severely compromised. I want to invite them to Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas brunch  - something - but they are near strangers who doubtless wish me the best but have other people, other traumas to heal.

I feel similarly about the nurses, the firefighters, the police, the EMTs. I am one more face in the crowd of traumatic human experiences, but they are more to me. They preserved my health. They took care of my children. They deserve a parade. Or a banquet.


In those first hours at the hospital post-accident, the nurses showered my kids with attention, toys and treats - a new football, a toy car, a Betty Boop doll, popsicles, chocolate milk and crackers. Oh, and a small teddy bear with a red bow that I happen to be sleeping with at the moment. I found him when I came home and christened him Michael. At night when I'm lying in the recliner (the one place where I can sleep comfortably with these ribs), he is tucked under my left arm providing cushion to the sensitive ribs. He helps me not to feel so alone when all my family is down the hall in their beds. I would like to say that this is unusual behavior for me, clinging to a teddy bear, but I have never lost touch with the child within, probably because I'm the youngest of four children.

And maybe this is why I miss our van, our poor totaled van that I used to say had a terrible engine, mediocre brakes and an awful turn radius. Still, I don't believe it deserved what happened to it at all, poor thing. I remember lolling my head side to side in the middle of the intersection, marveling at how horrible it looked with its shattered glass, exposed wires and displaced air vents. I told my husband in the hospital that I didn't want to see it ever again, even if the insurance said it wasn't a total loss. I didn't want the reminder of an unfortunate day.

But now that the insurance has declared it a total loss, I wish I had it back. It was mine, and it was reliable. And I do verily believe there is nothing more depressing than shopping for a new vehicle, nothing to make you feel so desperately mired in commercialism as dealing with salespeople. All our hopes for a good family vehicle seem to be deflated at every turn. There is so much consumer information to struggle through.

But, anyhow, I don't want to drive again as soon as I must. We were out a couple evenings ago looking at minivans and picking up supper, and I was nervous; I despised the traffic. I could not wait to run inside my home when we pulled in our driveway. But starting on Monday, I must drive again come hell or high water. I must attempt not to think about what can happen at any moment, things absolutely beyond my control. I must stop telling my husband repeatedly, "Drive safe! Please be safe. Watch out, I mean it," when he leaves me.

Well, well. I am a normal, changeable human being. The more I drive the less jumpy I'll be. The more time that passes the less clingy I'll be to this teddy bear or to the people who guarded our family's well-being at a crucial time.

Perhaps by writing the dozen and more thank you notes I need to write to family, friends, firemen, police, doctors, nurses, I will learn to let go and move on.

But tell me: what are your best ideas to say thank you to near strangers whose efforts mean so much? I would bake them each a pile of cookies, but I don't know if that's acceptable. Let me have your opinion, please.

Time and Chance...and Gratitude

I had a healing conversation with my parents recently, one in which they let me cry abundantly until my cellphone and ear both felt permanently moistened.

 

It's been almost two weeks since the accident, the first five of those spent in the hospital. I thought I was a trooper while in that cozy, safe hospital bed. I knew my blessings quickly, and I had no anger (unless you count yelling at the officer who told me I actually needed to talk instead of nodding, and I replied, "I...don't...want...to!", or when I scolded the ED nurses and docs for leaving me on a backboard and in a neck brace for what felt like 20 stiff hours). Nevertheless, my rattled emotions have blindsided me since I've come home. Yesterday, I heard a neighbor's motorcycle while my kids and I were in the front yard, and it upset me badly. My children crying, especially my youngest two, has the power to discombobulate me completely.

Ella, my youngest daughter, and Danny Sam, my littlest boy, were with me when a black motorcycle, entering my left line of vision like a torpedo, blew a red light and T-boned our van where the driver's side door hinges September 28th. Suddenly I was looking through a splintered windshield and an emptiness where my driver's side window had been. My sideview mirror was gone, wires dangling like mangled limbs, and my door was bent into my intimate space. Blood warmly dripped down my arm and hand.

The horror of knowing you are where you are in that moment and that there will be consequences to that fabled time and chance that happens to us all is indescribable.

And it was nearly unbearable. I was in physical pain immediately from a collapsed, bruised lung and broken ribs, and I selfishly closed in on myself those first several minutes. But the pain of hearing my children scream and wail for me until the first responders came was more terrible and haunting. I couldn't reassure them; I could barely speak, though I tried to wave my right hand in a calming signal and eventually tried to lift my voice above the cacophony of noise to breath, "I'm okay..."

I knew by their strong voices, their undulating cries, and their confused questions that they were okay and had no idea what had just happened. They were both sitting on the same side of the van as myself, but I don't believe they glimpsed the same black hulk I did before the crash.

They were not hurt, praise God. That would have been unbearable. They were not hurt at all, except for a tiny scrape on my son's thigh that I think he got as the fireman accidentally knocked glass from the window.

There is a part in the book The Walking Flame where the main character Aram must face horrendous environmental conditions. Beings called Astra wrap their enormous wings and strange bodies around him, shield him. I really don't care how it sounds: that is the image that sprang to my mind in the hospital regarding how my kids were protected from harm. Their guardian angels enveloped them.

I suppose people could ask: Well, what about you? You were seriously hurt.

You must have faith to understand. God never left me. He never left us.

He was present in the two kind, sober-faced men who stopped to ask if I was okay, who when I shook my head, responded, "Hang in there. We're going to get someone to help you."

He was present in the firemen who finally comforted and calmed my children, who were cheerful in speaking to them, who gave me a great, extraordinary gift when they got my children to speak back to them, who told my babies their mama was going to be okay, who asked about the teddy bear and doll buckled into the seats of our van. My respect for what those men and women do in traumatic situations is multiplied tremendously. They were sooo calm, so miraculously cheerful, that it comforted me and let me wholeheartedly trust them with my children when I was unable to take care of them myself.

God was present in the policemen who kept me lucid and engaged and speaking, who bent my driver's side door all the way back, so I could be placed on the stretcher. He was present in the EMTs who tended me all the way to the hospital, who were kind despite my extreme grumpiness, who told the ambulance driver to step on it already and put on the lights.

And He was present in my husband who rushed to be with us after I weakly told him on the cellphone that we'd been in an accident - to just come. My Man dashed like Flash Gordon across a long field to get to the scene, was stopped by a female officer, and had to wait in agony for the "all clear" to come see us. He barely got to me in time to grasp my hand and say, "Baby, I'm here...I'm here," before the ambulance took me away. But because he was there so quickly, he was able to take Ella and Daniel into his arms and familiar papa care. They weren't removed from the scene by strangers from Social Services, and I am so glad.

Good things come. I understand now what Job meant when he said of God to his misguided friends, If He kills me, I still trust him.

I've now witnessed the light of God shining brightly through people. And I know what it is, the Peace of Christ, to forgive someone when they have injured you badly and could have hurt your beloved children.

Renewal Work

Today I took a shower for the first time in a week. What an amazing, liberating feeling - to be released from your Wicked Witch of the Bayou hair, soon to become shaved-it-cause-couldn't-take-it-scalp, and to be freed from your blood-soaked bandages.

Alright, I'll give it to you; they weren't exactly blood-soaked. Still, the little rectangle of gauze over my chest tube incision was moist and red and icky. The hospital did not think I needed stitches or sutures.

Of course, it is precisely due to that indecent incision that I was unable to bathe properly. Since two Fridays ago when I was involved in a serious automobile accident, I have had to wash my body while in a chair each day, and my hair could only be dampened and rubbed with a no-rinse shampoo. I think this is why the nurses who checked on me my last morning in the Surgical Care Unit were appalled by my Natural Woman scent and said as much to each other when not quite out of my earshot. My feelings were hurt, and, anyhow, there was little I could do about my circumstances which were made dramatically worse by the nurses pumping me full of stool softeners and milk-of-epic-discomfort-magnesia.

It just stinks that all the doctors and nurses smelled like strong-and-fruity-female scents, the males included. I was never sure why they smelled so damned sweet. They would wake me up early, early in the morning to put a board behind my back for X-rays or to level my pain with oxy-codine, and their perfume would waft around me, practically sending me into hallucinations of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Were they trying to stick it to those of us who could not cleanse and moisturize? Or were they trying to carry around with them their own odor to block out that of the malodorous, unshowered patients?

Yet, despite the unguarded words of those nurses, most of the surgical staff were understanding and nonjudgmental, and my ED doc was uniformly kind no matter my state. He always had a smile for me and always encouraged me and didn't even act offended at my 4am lung check-up when I was all sweaty from the bedclothes and the Circulation-Straight-Jackets they put on my legs to prevent blood clots. Kindness goes a long way toward making people feel better about things.

And today I am finally a new woman, albeit with some painful memories. I have shed the greasy, stringy hair and the tacky bandage borders left on my skin where the chest tube was glued in place until this last Wednesday. For three days after its removal, I was not allowed to shower. Today is the day. I am clean, sweet-smelling and feeling better than I have felt for over a week.

And last night I dislodged the last piece of glass from my person. It was stuck in my ear canal. I thought it was an unseemly glob of ear wax for a whole week as I tried to carefully extract it. It caused me some discomfort, but not for one minute did I imagine it could be a splinter of my driver's side window that got blown into my ear and stuck there.

All things must pass - the scrapes fade, flake and heal, the bruises turn pale green and sickly yellow, the lung grows stronger, the ribs slowly, surely mend, and the last of the fractured glass is shed as evidence. Yet I am still a work in progress. My mind is still sensitive to all recollections of the trauma.