“We don’t really have a yacht submarine?”
“No, sweetheart, I think you just dreamt that.”
Along with the fifty marines I saved by driving them from Boca Raton to Los Angeles, and the monkeys running wild at one of the nearby private schools, and the Thanksgiving dinner she went to where she was forced to sit in the corner the entire time. (I didn’t bring up the fish she saved. She’s been a hero in so many ways, I didn’t want to take that one away just yet.)
“Wow,” she said. “That’s crazy.”
I nodded. And then she wanted to know about the accident and what exactly had happened. I told her some of it, about the truck whose brakes didn’t hold and about the bus that swerved and smashed into her. And I also told her about how she managed to turn the wheel just enough to protect Alyce.
“I saved my baby doll.”
I nodded that she had, and her eyes welled, proud of her actions but also understanding how close we were to the unimaginable tragedy of losing our daughter.
By the end of the day, there were many more milestones. She had a good session with PT; she was able to successfully swallow with the speech therapist and will be starting on soft food tomorrow, bringing her closer and closer to that first and hotly anticipated sip of Diet Coke. And she had her trach removed! I also believe that very shortly, the PICC line will be coming out as well as her Foley catheter (to drain urine), leaving my girl with a great deal of physical rehab ahead but, hopefully, the major medical concerns behind us.
Still, as I write these words, I can’t help but think about traffic, nagged that I’m speaking too soon. It’s that thing about hope, such a close relative to expectation, that can so easily lead to disappointment.
But as another friend wrote to me…what’s the alternative?
days 43–45
Susan’s team of doctors entered her room like every other day, and in those too-loud voices said, “Good morning, Susan. How are you today?”
Susan looked at them and, with a scrunched-up face, answered…“I got hit by a bus.”
She wasn’t being sarcastic or snarky. It was the simple fact that she now clearly understood. And because they’re doctors and they’re not supposed to, but because she’s Susan, they couldn’t help but smile a little.
“Yes, you did. And do you know about your injuries?”
“Yeah, I got smashed.”
They went into a little more detail with her, and for the first time, they were also able have a conversation with her that she could both understand and retain. They discussed where she was medically, how they hoped that in a week’s time they could remove her catheter, that they were pleased with her swallowing, and that now the focus was on her rehabilitation.
Rehab. The flip side of Susan’s newfound clarity is the harsh realization of the enormous task that lies ahead, and the fear and apprehension that go along with it—not to mention, the pain. Earlier, the physical therapist had worked on her so hard that, in agony afterward, Susan feared that her hip was broken again. For me, I was comforted by the fact that she was actually able to feel pain. Her brain was really working again. (Plus, I had the comfort of knowing that they would be taking X-rays later in the day in case they really did mess something up.)
When the doctors left the room, feeling overwhelmed by it all, she said to me, “I’m scared I won’t be able to do it.”
She’s heard from so many people that it’s going to be a long road and to be patient. “Don’t measure your progress in days, but in weeks,” they’ve said. She understands that intellectually but, emotionally, looks at herself lying immobile in bed, exhausted by the mere task of sitting up, mentally ticking off her multiple injuries, and can’t help but feel daunted and dejected.
“Maybe it would have been better if it had just offed me.”
This wasn’t said to elicit sympathy or for me to bolster her ego. It was the simple truth of what she was feeling. The thing is, as heartbreaking as it was to hear her say that, I wasn’t discouraged. In fact, I felt the opposite. To have her back with me now being so rational was completely affirming. And I had the benefit of witnessing what she wasn’t yet aware of.
“Sweetheart, you have to understand something. I’ve watched you for the past five weeks battling and fighting a fight that many didn’t expect you to win. It was pure survival instinct, something you did unconsciously. It was really hard, but you did it. So now you’re going to have to choose to fight that hard through this next part, and because it’s not just instinct, it’s going to feel harder. But I don’t doubt for a second that you have it in you. Because I’ve seen it in you.”
She smiled and said I was sweet. But I wasn’t being sweet. I was being as truthful about this as she was about her fear. She had lost five weeks of her life; however, during that time, my conviction about her strength and determination was just one of the many things I’ve gained.
I feel good about where we are and where we’re heading. That’s not to say that I think for a second it’s going to be easy. I felt the same when we left the ICU and entered into this chapter. I was thrilled to have the life-and-death anxiety behind me, but I never imagined the difficulty dealing with the delusions, the anger, and the helplessness I faced as she was coming out of it. I suspect as we move into this next chapter, there will be the same kind of unanticipated, really difficult challenges on the road ahead.
But it’s a road that from the beginning I had hoped we’d have the luck and privilege of traveling.
the unposted: part 9
I finally heard back from the network on my pilot…
They weren’t into it.
I can’t say I was surprised. Too much time had gone by, and pilots had already been ordered into production while I hadn’t even received any notes on mine. While not surprised, I was still disappointed. This was a big opportunity, but even more than the career opportunity, there was the financial opportunity, especially in light of not having had any income for some time and bills continuing to flood in.
Fortunately, my insurance was covering the bulk of the medical, but there were still co-pays, bills from out-of-network doctors I never even knew treated Susan, ambulance bills, ER bills, mortgage and credit card payments, and on and on. Christmas break was coming soon, and I didn’t want the kids to have to hang out at home doing nothing, so I booked them a trip Back East to Vermont to stay with my mother and sister. At least they’d have some semblance of a holiday and be able to get away from all of this for a little bit. Of course, that was an expense, too. The takeaway from all of this was that I really needed to think about going back to work soon. I just didn’t see it as a reality, though, for at least another month. What I was doing now was more than a full-time job.
In ways, my work as a producer had prepared me fairly well for this new “job” I had taken on, or rather, plunged into. In my career, I’ve had to manage large staffs, keeping informed and on top of multiple departments, regardless of their diverse functions. The hours were long and the stakes were high, as was the pressure.
Here I was in a very similar environment, yet with stakes that made production on a movie or TV show seem absolutely trivial in comparison. Also like when working in production, you’re not thinking about the energy expended while you’re in the weeds of it. You just feel it at the end of the day when you finally stop.
In this new world, I was learning that, as good as some of the doctors and nurses were, they were also human and fallible. And just as I had heard it so many times before the accident, it is true that you have to advocate, advocate, advocate. It’s critical to ask, to question, to double-check, to be a pain in the ass, to be meticulous, to be on top of absolutely everything. It’s their job, but it’s our lives.
So while my other show didn’t go, this was the series I was in production on now, and it had every element of a great drama—a roller-coaster story, humor, heartbreak…and a truly remarkable lead.
day 46
I held the spoon in front of
her mouth.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Pureed sausages.”
She tried a bite. “Okay, weird…and kind of disgusting.”
They were. “Want to give the pureed French toast a try?”
Welcome to breakfast. But it was food! Delivered from a spoon rather than through a tube. She still can’t have thin liquids, so all the fruit juices are thickened, even the water, giving them the consistency of unset gelatin. We’ll definitely have to find some foods that are tolerable for human consumption, because even if she could swallow the grainy pureed chicken with vegetables, I don’t blame her for not wanting to. I looked down the menu at future meal choices: “Pureed pot roast with carrots, pureed turkey, pureed chicken enchiladas, pureed lasagna.” Even after not eating for six weeks, it’s hard to get excited by any of the choices.
I gave her a spoonful of diced pears.
“Oh, my God, I’m chewing. It feels so weird to be chewing.”
I watched with glee, the same feeling I had when feeding my babies for the first time, unconsciously chewing along, desperately worried she might choke at any second from too big of a bite. But she was eating! Another big milestone and closer to getting one more tube removed from her body.
Her spirits have generally been good, still daunted by the physical therapy ahead of her but gearing up for the long, hard road, and intellectually embracing it. I hear her saying to the doctors again and again…“I want to do it for my kids and my husband. I want to get home, but I’m just scared.”
The response is always the same: “You’re gonna get there. You’re strong. It’ll take time, so be patient.”
Strength is absolutely Susan. Patience, not so much.
She nodded, wanting to believe it, but I could see the doubt in her eyes. Later in the day, when she heard that her physical therapist was going to try to stand her up, her anxiety mounted.
“We’ll just try, sweetheart. That’s all we can do. Maybe you’ll be able to and maybe you won’t, but either way, don’t worry. We’ll just take it one day at time.”
A couple of hours passed before the team finally arrived, first wheeling in an elaborate walker-type contraption and then disappearing again, leaving the walker just sitting there as a foreboding hint of what was to come. Fortunately, because she was locked in the halo, it wasn’t something that stared her in the face. But it did to me.
Eventually, three therapists arrived with the nurse and prepared for the standing attempt. It took a while. The “walker” was adjusted and tested for strength, her feeding tube was flushed and capped, the bed was lowered, her walking boot was strapped on, strategies were formed, then dismissed and reformed again. Susan became more and more nervous. “What are we going to do?” she asked.
“We’re just going to try to stand up, okay?”
“Okay. I was worried you were going to make me run on the treadmill or something.”
They smiled. “No, we’re just going to stand.”
Just going to stand, I thought.
It was time to try.
They sat Susan up on the edge of the bed and she looked great, sitting straighter, breathing easier, not dizzy or nauseated, just terrified. And then she started to cry.
“Are you okay?” the therapist asked.
Through tears she said, “I just want to do a good job for you.”
“Don’t worry about us. You just do a good job for you.”
She swallowed back her tears and readied herself. They brought the walker closer and locked the wheels.
“Are you ready to try?”
“I don’t know. I think so. I’m scared.”
She sat there, looking so vulnerable. They positioned themselves, but then instead of proceeding, they stepped back and quietly conferred among themselves some more. And then they pulled the walker away from the bed, putting it aside.
Susan asked, “What’s going on? We’re not going to do it?”
“We think it’ll be better if we support you with our hands rather than the walker. That way one of us will be on either side of you so you won’t fall.”
Again, they moved into position and turned to Susan. “Ready?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
They turned behind them to the nurse who was positioned on the other side of the bed. “Okay, slowly raise the bed.”
They told Susan to lean forward onto her legs. They grasped both of her arms and told her to stand.
“On both legs?” she asked.
“On both legs,” they replied. “And if you feel like you can’t do it, just sit right back down on the bed.”
Susan steeled herself, and again the nurse started to raise the bed.
“Okay, lean forward and stand.”
Susan breathed, then let her weight press against the floor. And with both therapists lifting her from the side, she pushed herself off the bed…
And she stood!
Yes, she was clutching for dear life to the therapists and looked about as straight and steady as a ninety-five-year-old bubbe, but she was standing! And it was remarkable, considering that her shattered pelvis, broken femur, and broken knee were only six weeks into healing.
She held it there for about ten seconds before the team lowered her back to the bed. She sat, rested for a few minutes, and then she did it again, and again…a total of four times, and it wasn’t even the therapists who had suggested she try it a fourth time. It was Susan.
It’s that determination that tells me that she will win this fight, that she will eventually get her wish and desire…
To return to her children, to her husband, to her home.
day 47
We really need to get into the Cedars rehab program.
This is an in-hospital program that is really fantastic, but with the extent of Susan’s injuries, they’re not sure she’s ready for it yet. The problem is, she no longer needs the medical care and attention that she’s currently getting, so staying where she is is no longer warranted. She’s in injury limbo: too well to stay in the hospital and not functional enough to go into rehab.
Everyone’s pulling for her to stay in the hospital a little longer, but it’s also an insurance issue. Insurance won’t cover the additional stay if it’s not medically necessary, but if the hospital doesn’t approve her for rehab, we have to find a sort of rehab halfway house where she can continue to recover until she’s ready for the Cedars program.
In anticipation of her not getting approved, I met with a counselor who gave me a few options to check out. The best facility for her, though, is about forty miles away, which is not very attractive for me or anyone else. However, the counselor did say that this facility deals specifically with spinal injuries and has semiprivate rooms. The other options were closer, but she didn’t think I’d find them as “attractive.” She said that I should look at them, though, to be prepared, because once this goes down, it’s going to go down quickly. Reviewing the list of possible facilities, I chose one that was close to Cedars, located in Beverly Hills. Supposedly, this was the nicest of the geographically desirable possibilities, so I made an appointment for Susan’s mother and me to visit it.
The lobby was nice enough, but once we began touring the facility, I could immediately tell that it was more of a “senior” home than a rehab facility. For most of these residents, there was not going to be any recovery and return home. This was a final destination.
I asked to see a sleeping area, having seen up to this point only common rooms. The patient rooms were long, military-style barracks, about eight cot-like beds to a room with flimsy curtains dividing them. TVs blaring from each individual space competed with the varied, loud moans and cries for help. That’s just what it looked and sounded like; the smell was equally horrific. It was an absolute nightmare. This is what the Cedars staff thought would be appropriate for Susan’s next step of recovery? The truth is, I think Cedars really did know how horrible it was, but there just weren’t many options.
How could
I possibly put Susan in a place like this? This is the woman who had to keep the door in our private hospital room closed because of the volume of the televisions from some of the adjacent rooms. This is the woman who would kick nurses out if they entered wearing any kind of perfume, or even if they were chewing gum. I’m not saying that she’s particularly picky or sensitive…okay, yes, I am saying exactly that, and the reality is she wouldn’t last a day here.
We left, and after checking out another facility, which was equally dreadful, I came to the conclusion that if she didn’t get into the hospital’s rehab program, I’d have to bring her home, set up a hospital bed in the living room, and take care of her there.
She really had to get into the hospital’s rehab program.
I began coaching her like I had for her swallowing tests, telling her that when she was interviewed for the program, she needed to say that she was ready to do this and was going to work extremely hard at it. Every patient is required to reach certain milestones every week in order to stay on longer (again, driven by insurance), and if she doesn’t reach that milestone, whether that means walking twenty feet or sitting up for a certain amount of time, she’ll be kicked out.
“You do not want to go to one of these other facilities,” I told her.
By now, the days of being furious at Dr. McSegal were behind us, and she nodded, understanding the severity of the situation. But when the rehab doctor came to evaluate her, the first thing I noticed was that she was wearing a strong scent. Naturally, Susan noticed it as well. “Are you wearing perfume?” Susan asked her.
Oh, shit, I thought. Susan’s going to kick her out of the room for wearing an offensive scent and that’s gonna be the end of our rehab chances.
“It’s lavender,” the doctor responded.
My heart raced, anticipating the complaint. Then…“It’s nice,” Susan said.
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