I walked the halls of the rehabilitation facility, trying to put my finger on the emotions that flooded over me. The smells of sterility and medicine, the bed alarms and squeaking of the nurse's carts, and the open doors showcasing the elderly as they stared blankly at their t.v. screens combined to create a feeling of sadness and a slight pit in my stomach. I weaved in and out of the different hallways, walking slowly and attempting to focus equally on my outward senses and my inward feelings.
I stopped in front of room 208. The nameplate said Roderick. I knew nothing about her other than that she looked to be about 80 years old. She sat quietly in her chair, probably seeking much needed rest between therapy sessions. Or maybe she was waiting for a nurse to come and wheel her to the dining hall for lunch. I wondered what type of pie they would be serving today. That's the best thing about lunch. Though the differences between us were huge and obvious, I could see myself in her posture, her eyes, and the expression on her face. I felt connected to her. I wanted to go in and tell her a story, a story that had happened in that room.
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I watched my husband and babies walk out of my room to head home for the night. I already felt guilty for the relief that washed over me with their departure. It had been a nightmare of a day, and ending it with 4 small children cooped up in a 10x10 room and crawling all over my hypersensitive, aching body as I sat in my wheelchair was a recipe for disaster.
I was struggling to acclimate to my new home at Health South Rehabilitation facility. When I arrived on a gurney at 9:00 p.m. a couple of nights before, the on-duty nurse's assistant gave me the run down in a far too cheerful and upbeat voice. I would have an ultrasound each time I went to the bathroom to ensure I was emptying my bladder completely. Standard procedure. An alarm was set on my bed any time I was in it, day or night. If I wanted to get out without triggering a panic, I had to ring for help. Standard procedure. I would attend 6 sessions of physical and occupational therapy everyday. Standard procedure. As she attached a neon bracelet that said "fall risk" to my wrist, she told me about my schedule for the next day. Dawn, my occupational therapist, and her student Kelly would be by in the morning to observe and grade me on my showering and dressing abilities. Standard procedure. Oh good, I thought. That will be a nice opportunity for me to get to know them. Though she didn't say it, I also learned that she or the nurse would come in approximately every 30 minutes throughout each night to administer drugs, assess vitals, take out the trash, or offer me string cheese. Standard procedure. For the love!
After my family left, I only had the energy to stare at the wall for quite some time. I had pushed myself very hard during the many hours of therapy that day. I figured that was the only way I was going to get out of this place. It was amazing how much energy it required to lift 1 pound weights and pick small objects out of a mixing bowl filled with rice. On top of that, I had had 9 hours of amazing, self-less visitors that day. I was grateful to them from the bottom of my heart, but the energy required to be cheerful and converse for that long had brought me to the edge. I eventually summoned the energy to call for my nurse, but I couldn't do much more. She had to help me to the bathroom, into my pajamas, and into my bed for the night. She filled my requests for an ice pack, a yogurt, more drugs, .....and a suppository. I decided to forgive her for coming in to my room so much each night. Nurses are angels in disguise.
Once in bed, I took stock of myself and my situation. Though I was more physically tired than I had ever been in my entire life, that was just the beginning. I had looked forward to my surgery as the welcome end to a year of weakness, numbness, and excruciating neck pain. But this I had not bargained for. No one had told me. I couldn't turn my head even a few degrees in any direction. My neck and shoulders hurt so badly that I was sure the neurosurgeon had left a surgical instrument behind when he sewed me up. The entire left side of my body was just off. I have no better way to explain it. It seemed that during the surgery, they took my old left side and replaced it with something that belonged to someone far less fortunate than myself. It didn't work, and I couldn't feel it. Well, I couldn't feel it except for the intense burning that constantly plagued my hand and foot. Tasks that were once routine now took a monumental effort, or were completely impossible. This was hard. So very, very, very hard.
Each day when Ryan visited, he would ask sweetly and hopefully "So, is it feeling any better? Is your function coming back? Do you feel like you're getting back to normal?" And each day when I answered him, I felt like a small child who is sure she is falling short of her parents expectations. "No. It still feels the same. There still isn't much I can do with that side." I felt like a walking disappointment. I knew that our goal was to get me out of here, to get me healthy, and back to a functioning lifestyle. I knew that my husband was in the bishopric, working a full-time job, in school, struggling to keep a household running, and caring for 4 children while I sat and sorted beads from rice and tried to learn to put my bra on all by myself. I knew my children were being farmed out to various saints every single day. They filled my children's every need while I sat and watched HGTV at night and ate an unholy amount of peanut M&Ms. I could only come to one conclusion.
I was useless.
I felt the solid lump in my throat as I swallowed the truth I had been considering for several days, but wasn't able to digest until they took me off the morphine drip and anti-depressants. The truth hurt, like a punch to the gut. I had one job in this world, to take care of my family, and I couldn't do it. Not only couldn't I do it, but no one had any idea how many weeks, months, or maybe even years it would be until I could. My entire identity was wrapped up in this job, and at its loss I began to mourn like I would the death of a loved one. Sobs racked my body as I made my bed of mourning and pulled the blanket of self-pity over me. I paid no mind to the cracked door and the nurses outside who I was sure were audience to my tantrum.
I felt sorry for me, but mostly I felt sorry for my husband. I felt like he had been strapped to a bag of sand that he was going to have to carry around for a long time. I knew he was getting tired. I could see it in his eyes, and I knew it was only going to get worse. I wondered how much he regretted marrying me. This pathetic, messy, incapable baby was not the woman he had married. Was he sorry that I had pulled the bait and switch on him? I picked up my phone and fired off a hasty text:
I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't be there for you when you need me to be. I'm sorry this is a months long process, and not days. I'm sorry that I might never be the same. I' sorry you have such a heavy load to bear and I can't do anything about it.
I was crying so hard that I couldn't breathe when my phone rang 30 seconds later. He told me I was beautiful. He told me that I was the only woman for him. He told me I was enough. Through his own tears, he told me I was being stupid. He told me that my role right now was to sort beads and that I was killing it. He told me that sometimes 100% effort looks different from a spouse in a marriage, but that doesn't mean they aren't pulling all the weight they are capable of, and that that is all that matters. I went to bed wanting to believe him.
I woke up in the morning to sun streaming through my window and onto my bedspread. I sat still for awhile, thinking about the night before. I realized how easy it was to feel sorry for myself, and that I probably deserved to feel sorry for myself, given my circumstances. I thought about other trials I had endured in my life, some that I was sure would take me under at the time. I had learned to endure mental and emotional struggling like a champ. I came away stronger, and even proud of my accomplishments. As time passed, the struggle sifted away, and all that remained were the lessons I had learned. It was like panning for gold in sand. And the gold I always came away with was priceless. I had been taught how to deal with the mental and emotional, now was the season to learn how to overcome the physical and to develop humility.
I made a call that morning to my good friend and asked her to make several signs for me, all saying the same thing: NOW IS NOT FOREVER. She hung them up all over my room where I would see them at all times. Everyone who came in my room commented on them, with varying levels of insight and sarcasm. No one truly understood what those words meant for me. They were a life preserver, thrown to a soul who was sure she would drown. A thin rope connection between her and life. They said simply, and unassumingly "I know you're going through hell right now, but hang on, because it won't last forever. When you get to the end, you'll look back with gratitude for what you learned".
Sometimes the lesson isn't in the overcoming, or the triumph. It's in the late night tantrum, or the lack of progress. It doesn't come at the end of a long road or lesson, but right smack in the middle when it's ugly and painful and perspective is the hardest. It doesn't come from choosing the higher road, but choosing the wrong road and learning from the bumps along the way. It comes from your only achievement being that you have acknowledged that you are a mess. This space can be holy, too.
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As all of this went through my head during the short second I stared into room 208 at Ms. Roderick, I wanted to step in and tell her the power of this room. But chances were, she already knew.
