Struck

by Douglas Segal

“Do you like it?” the therapist asked.

  “A lot,” Susan said.

  “Here, let me give you some. It’s good for healing.” The therapist came over and put a little dab right below Susan’s nose. Susan deeply inhaled and seemed to relax a bit.

  Thank God.

  From there, Susan pled her case the best she could, turning on the charm, but mostly displaying her unbelievably positive attitude toward getting better. This didn’t go unnoticed by the therapist, who made a few notes and squeezed Susan’s arm warmly before exiting.

  The only question was…would this Oscar-worthy performance be enough? Lord, I hoped so.

  Susan lay there, waiting until she was sure the therapist was long gone before she finally said, “Oy, with that lavender. Can you get me a wipe so I can get that stink off of me?”

  That’s my girl.

  day 48

  As we wait for the in-house rehab decision, she continues to get stronger, both mentally and physically. And though the physical injuries are more apparent than the mental, there are still lingering cognitive issues that make it clear her brain is still healing along with the rest of her body. What’s interesting, though, is that no matter how absurd some of her delusions and hallucinations sound when she says them out loud, they still feel like such real memories to her that she doesn’t question them. It’s not like she’s remembering them like we remember dreams we’ve had. She’s remembering them as if they were actual, very real experiences. It’s as if I asked you to recount what you did today and then afterward told you that none of that had actually happened; it was all a dream.

  “We don’t really have a hospital wing attached to our garage?”

  “No, honey.”

  “What about the submarine boat trip? That happened, didn’t it?”

  “Well, did we take this boat trip before the car accident?”

  “No,” she’d answer.

  “And you’ve been here for six weeks straight, so when would it have happened?”

  “Wow, I guess it didn’t.”

  Some of it she laughs about, like when I told her she cursed out the nurse for shoving a cat up her nose, or tried to flick me away like an annoying bug, but mostly she tries to sort it out in her mind and process it, amazed by how the brain copes.

  Physically, she continues to work hard, though somewhat discouraged by her own limitations. Like her life outside the hospital, with her positive attitude, she has won many fans inside as well. That’s despite her inability to retain any of her nurses’ names, referring to them with whatever name pops into her head. One of her nurses is Lourdes, and she’ll call out to her, “Luealla, can you get me a blanket?” “Lawenga, can I have an ice chip?” I’ll say, “Sweetheart, her name is Lourdes.” And she’ll say, “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry,” and then two minutes later, “Magdalena, can I get some Tylenol?”

  None of them take offense; in fact, they often leave the room with tears in their eyes from laughing. “She’s funny, your wife.” They’re right, she is.

  The nurses have found and appreciate Susan’s unflinching honesty. And some can handle it better than others. Take the completely green, newbie volunteer who ventured into her room the other day and said, “Hello, I’m a volunteer with the hospital, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your stay here?”

  “Sure,” Susan said.

  He studied his clipboard questionnaire and began.

  “Okay, first…when people come into your room, do you notice them applying hand sanitizer?”

  Susan paused for a moment and then responded, “Um, you may have noticed that I have this thing screwed into my head, which kind of keeps me from moving my head at all, so I really don’t notice too much of what anyone is doing.”

  Embarrassed, the volunteer stood there for a moment, his pencil poised over paper, then excused himself, and slunk out of the room. That concluded the survey.

  During physical therapy today, she was lifted by a kind of harness device before being placed in a wheelchair. We then took a nice stroll around the entire floor. We rolled along, Susan and I on our little date, stopping occasionally to appreciate the impressive art collection that lines the hospital walls, as well as for nurses and hospital staff to admire her progress, which she humbly dismissed.

  Toward the end of the hall, we reached a large window and I turned her toward the sun. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth on her face. This was the real world, the one she hadn’t experienced for the past six weeks.

  We eventually returned to her room, and as we stopped, I didn’t realize I had parked her in front of her large bathroom mirror, where she saw her reflection for the first time. Up until now, I hadn’t wanted to show her a picture or reflection for fear she might get freaked out by the halo. But she didn’t. She just studied her image and said, “Wow.” She wasn’t horrified, just a little surprised.

  She then stayed in the chair for about an hour until her physical therapist returned and told us they’re thinking of moving her to the rehab floor as early as tomorrow. And while we’re thrilled that it looks like we are going to be placed there, Susan immediately became fearful, concerned she wasn’t going to be able to do it, that it would be too painful, that she would fail.

  The therapist assured her that she was going to be fine. She was making great progress, and yes, it was going to be difficult and painful, but she knew without a doubt that Susan was up for it. Susan remains less convinced but understands that it’s the next, inevitable, step.

  So as we reach the end of this chapter and move into the next, I just watched her in that chair, clearly scared, and thought back to all she’s battled to get to this point, the miraculous progress she makes every single day. And seeing her there, parked in front of that mirror, the insecurity on her face, I couldn’t help but think…

  Isn’t it remarkable how someone can look at her own reflection but not actually see the person she truly is?

  THE THIRD PART: REHAB

  days 49–51

  I remember weeks ago, when it came time to leave the ICU. That morning, the doctors had mentioned that she’d probably be moving soon and then, bam, three hours later we were rolling down the hospital corridor to our new destination.

  Such was the case this morning when the final word came that we’d be moving to the rehab wing and entering that program! We had been anticipating the change, knowing it had been approved by the hospital, but just needed insurance to sign off. That came late last night, and this morning we were packing up and once again rolling down the corridors.

  It wasn’t long before she was settled into her new room and the assessments began, and by my account, it was a day of immense progress, exhausting, emotionally draining, but so, so positive. For Susan, it just reinforced what I’ve had seven weeks to mentally prepare myself for, what she now has to come to terms with as well: this long, bumpy road we’re on.

  Earlier in the day, she was asked what her goals are.

  “To go home, to be with my husband, my babies, my friends. I want to go to parties again. I want to walk on the beach. I want what my life was.” By the time she had finished, she was crying.

  No one in the program said her goals were unrealistic, but no one said she’d be doing all that and more. They simply said, “Good.”

  When they had all finished for the day and it was just us alone, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “This is so not my thing. I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “But I do,” I told her. “Listen, it’s great to have the goals that you have, and those are my goals, too. We’re going to get there, but focusing on that right now can seem so far away and impossible to reach. Instead, focus on what you did. You stood up, right? That’s great, and maybe tomorrow or the next day, you’ll take a step. And that’s what we’re going to do, take it one step at a time.”

  Earlier in the day, when talking about her rehab now and for the future, Dr. Allison had told her that it was all going to take time, remin
ding her, “Susan, your injuries were very…severe.”

  It was said in that same tone I’ve heard from some of her other doctors, again making me wonder what conversations they might have had about Susan in private, and for that matter, what they might still be having, conversations I don’t really want to know about. Even my dear friend, the anesthesiologist at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York, was surprised by how long it took her to snap out of her delusions. At the time, he never told me that it was going on longer than he thought it would or should, or that he was getting concerned. But now that she was out of it, he felt like he could tell me—just one example of those conversations that others were having about the severity of her condition.

  “Okay, one step at a time.” Susan breathed deeply, went silent for a moment, and then asked, “Do you think there’s some reason why I’m still here?”

  Another one of those questions that I’ve considered.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  Even though I’ve considered the question, I hardly knew the answer. “Maybe we don’t know yet.”

  She then looked at herself, her floppy right wrist, her left leg that can barely move on its own, again giving in to the enormity of the work ahead of her. “So, is this what my life is going to be?”

  “No. This is what your life is now. But it’s not what it’s going to be.”

  And that was the end of the first day of the next chapter of this story.

  the unposted: part 10

  During the course of these first two months, there were so many days when the kids missed their mom, but few as much as this one.

  Alyce came home from school and seemed unusually quiet. When I asked her if she was okay, she broke down in tears, again uttering those now familiar words, “I miss Mommy.” Unlike the early days when Susan was unconscious, hooked to machines and unable to communicate, today I was able to ask Alyce if she wanted to call her.

  With tears preventing speech, she nodded her head.

  I dialed Susan’s cell, which she picked up.

  “Hi. Al’s upset and wants to talk to you.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s just missing you.”

  I handed the phone off, and Al managed to choke out the words “Hi, Mommy” before wandering away from me for privacy. She spoke quietly for a few minutes in the other room before returning and handing me the phone.

  “Is she okay?” I asked Susan.

  “Yeah…” and then the emotional bombshell, “but she just got her first period. You’re going to need to help her.”

  My heart ached—for both of them, really. It was an event they were meant to share, one of life’s mother/daughter milestones. But the accident had broken that promise. They both had been robbed; and neither would get this one back.

  I took Alyce upstairs to the bathroom, reassuring her that everything was okay and that she could have told me. She said that she didn’t think I’d know what to do. We walked to the bathroom cabinet where she brought out a box of pads she and Susan had bought together on one of their girl outings. “Mommy never showed me how to put it on.”

  Susan had prepared Alyce for the big event, and though Alyce was pretty developed for her age, being just twelve, Susan thought she still had a little more time and hadn’t gotten around to showing her how to actually use the things. Naturally it was a bit foreign to me, but I took out one of the pads, removed the backing, and showed her how to place it on her underwear.

  Alyce looked at me, puzzled, and asked, “How do you know how to do that?”

  “I don’t. Just pretending.”

  We smiled and I hugged her, both of us holding on tightly, silently reminded of how close we had come to this “single dad” moment becoming the norm. I was sad for Susan missing out on this experience, yet I couldn’t help but feel grateful for simply having both Alyce and Susan here, and for this special moment in time with my daughter, even if it differed wildly from what we all had expected it to be.

  There wasn’t much these days that was how we had envisioned it, but I know that not many of us are able to accurately see our own futures. We can imagine, and we can even prepare, but ultimately, only time will tell exactly how it will play out.

  As the expression goes…man plans and God laughs.

  days 52–56

  While she still doesn’t see it as she completes her first week of rehab, the distance Susan has traveled is momentous. She just doesn’t have perspective. She only recently woke up, and in her mind she should just be able to get out of bed and walk or eat or go to the bathroom or any one of the myriad activities most of us take for granted. Her ongoing inability to do these everyday things, as well as the pain she’s experiencing, has naturally caused her to feel demoralized, depressed, and helpless.

  “I can’t do it. I can’t do it.”

  “Stop! Breathe!”

  “Okay, okay, don’t yell at me.”

  “I’m not yelling, but you need to stop talking. Just breathe.”

  “Okay. I’ll breathe. I’m breathing.”

  “You’re still talking.”

  My God, the stream of words and sounds that continuously comes out of her. The “ohs” and “ahs” and “oh, boys” and “oys” and “ah, ah ahs.” It’s a constant and pretty hilarious. She hasn’t even been in the program a week and already has an endearing reputation with the therapists, who find it all very amusing.

  “What? You’re laughing at me?” she playfully accuses them.

  “No, you’re doing great,” they say, smiling.

  She is doing great, and part of her knows it, beaming to the doctors on their rounds like a bragging toddler. “I did five transfers today” (from the bed to the wheelchair). “I stood for five minutes.” “I did some yoga and relaxation exercises.” And then, on a turn, so emotional and vulnerable, quickly dissolving into tears and confessing, “I’m trying. I want to do a good job so you won’t kick me out.”

  And then there’s that affectionate smile from them again. “We’re not going to kick you out.”

  So day after day, Susan continues to face her fears and push herself, now visualizing just the positive, repeating to herself like a mantra, “Okay, I can do this. I can do this.” And she can, and she does.

  This was our week of Hanukkah, and as it concluded its eight days of miracles, I know I’ve experienced my own—Susan and Alyce surviving the accident, Susan beating the odds and making it through the numerous complications that could have done her in, and seeing how far she’s come in these few short days of rehab.

  To celebrate, on Sunday I brought Michael and Alyce in for our own little holiday party. The kids and I walked through the hospital halls carrying several boxes of wrapped presents and brought them into Susan’s room. There, amid the smell of sanitizer and stuffy hospital blankets, the three of us crowded onto her bed while she sat in her wheelchair, and we opened presents. The kids forgot where they were or just didn’t care, and seeing Susan watching their excited, smiling faces, neither did we.

  We were together, our little family, and that’s all that mattered.

  days 57–61

  The other morning Alyce came down to the kitchen and said, “I had a really good dream last night.”

  “What was it?”

  “Well, Mama came home from the hospital and she was walking and drove us to school and then we cuddled at night…and it felt good.”

  Besides being a beautiful dream, in truth, we are getting closer to that dream becoming a reality—ironically, in some ways alarmingly sooner than we thought…the coming home part anyway.

  Not that any one of us, including Susan, doesn’t want her to be back home. It’s been her driving force since the day she was first brought into the ER, but the discharge date from the hospital, currently scheduled for eleven short days from now, feels frighteningly close.

  The other day her physical therapist gave her a list of what she’ll need at home—a wheelchair,
walker, shower seat, and possibly hospital bed. It became devastatingly clear to her that the notion she held of just getting up and walking out of the hospital was just a fantasy. “I just didn’t have those expectations that that would be my life at home.”

  Dr. Allison responded gently but soberly, “You’d have to be superhuman to expect that you’d just shake all this off and walk out of here.”

  I stayed silent, but I was thinking, She has been superhuman. Why should that change now? As one of her therapists pointed out while working with her, “In all my time here, I’ve never seen someone with as many broken bones as you.”

  When I consider the imminent discharge date, I confess it feels extremely unnerving. Maybe I’ll be surprised by how quickly some things start to click and come together, but right now I’m standing in a remodel that’s been gutted to the studs with a move-in date less than two weeks away. Perhaps that date will change, but we have to be ready if it doesn’t, and we’ll have the equivalent of sleeping bags, space heaters, and flashlights if that’s what we have to do.

  As part of that planning, Susan’s neurosurgeon, Dr. Baron, called for another CT scan of her neck. When he came with the results, he took me out into the hall and was very excited to show me how the bone is growing in. The “pictures” looked like ancient hieroglyphics—he lined up the original scan of her injury to one post-surgery, and then to the one from this morning, pointing at light areas of bone, dark areas of fractures, and bright areas of metal plates. He kept looking at me and saying, “See this? And look at this! And now look at this!”

  I nodded and smiled like I do when anyone is speaking a foreign language, but I did understand the gist: He was very pleased, and that’s all I really cared about. No paralysis and very promising for a complete recovery.

  Though the progress was extremely positive, unfortunately the halo has to stay on for another four weeks, and that’s a bummer. We had hoped that when Dr. Baron saw the scan, he’d feel comfortable removing it, but he’s being conservative. So the albatross known as the “crown of thorns,” as Susan refers to the screwed-in headpiece, will still be in place when she comes home. She took the news of its additional four weeks much better than simply in stride, and I still am amazed at her inconceivable ability to tolerate the confinement of the halo as well as she does.