“Well, if we do, it’ll be because you taught me everything I know about riding,” I reminded dad.
By the time dad and I returned to the barn, unsaddled the horses, and slapped them toward the corral, it was 4:30. “We’d better head for home. We don’t want to be late for dinner,” I said.
I recalled the pleasure of the previous perfect day, riding on my horse Tumbleweed under a beautiful summer sky. But inwardly I knew it was an elaborate form of escape. I didn’t want to face the real issues. I wondered—Lord, what am I going to do? I’m happy and content, grateful for the good things You supply—but deep down, I know something is wrong. I think I’m at the place where I need You to really work in my life.
As I traced my spiritual progress over the last couple years, I realized I had not come far. Jason and I had broken up, true; and Dick was better for me in that regard. But I was still enslaved. Instead of “sins of the flesh,” I was trapped by my “sins of the emotions”—anger, jealousy, resentment, and possessiveness. I had drifted through my last years of school. My grades had dropped and, as a result, I began to fight with my parents. I lacked goals or the motivation to do well. It was obvious to me that I had not made much spiritual progress in the two years I’d been a Christian. It seemed no matter how hard I tried to improve, I was always a slave of my desires.
Now I was insistent with God. “Lord, if You’re really there, do something in my life that will change me and turn me around. You know how weak I was with Jason. You know how possessive and jealous I am with Dick. I’m sick of the hypocrisy! I want You to work in my life for real. I don’t know how—I don’t even know, at this point, if You can. But I’m begging You—please do something in my life to turn it around!”
I had prayed that prayer just a short time before my accident. Now, lying encased in my Stryker frame, I wondered if somehow God was answering my prayer.
CHAPTER 3
The Bible says, ‘Everything works together for good,’ even your accident, Joni.” Dick was trying to comfort me, but I wasn’t listening too intently.
“I’ve already been in this stupid hospital a month,” I complained, “and I haven’t seen very much good!
“I can’t sleep at night because of nightmares and hallucinations caused by the drugs. I can’t move—I’m stuck in this dumb Stryker frame! What’s good? Tell me, Dickie, what’s good about that?”
“I—I don’t know, Joni. But I think we should claim God’s promise. Let’s trust Him that it will work out for good,” Dick said quietly, patiently. “Want me to read something else?”
“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump on you like that. I guess I’m not really trusting the Lord, am I?”
“It’s all right—” Dick was on the floor beneath my Stryker frame looking up into my eyes. Incredible sadness and pity made his expressive eyes well with tears. He blinked and looked away. “Well,” he said finally, “I gotta go now. See ya later, okay?”
Dick’s faithfulness in visiting was one thing I clung to during those first grim weeks, along with mom, dad, Jackie, and Jay. Others, like Jason, came when they could too. The hospital personnel joked about all my “cousins,” and the “five minutes per hour for family members” regulation was bent many times.
When mom and dad came, I always asked to be flipped if I was facing the floor. While they joked and got down on the floor if I was facedown, I was deeply hurt that they had to go through the indignity of crawling around on the floor in order to visit with me.
I tried hard to kindle their hope and faith too. As I thought about my problems, it was easy to find others around me in the hospital who were worse off than I. With that in mind, I tried to cheer my folks and others who came to visit. I even began to be pleasant to the hospital staff.
It wasn’t that my personality had become sweeter. Rather, I was afraid people would stop coming to see me if I got bitter and complained, so I worked at cheerfulness.
“My, you’re in a good mood today,” observed Anita, one of the nurses from the day shift.
“Sure, why not? It’s a gorgeous day.”
“It’s raining!”
“Not on me. I’m snug as a bug,” I teased.
“Want me to come by later?”
“Would you? Yes—I’d like that, Anita.” Although she was assigned to duty elsewhere in the hospital, Anita took a special interest in me. She often spent her lunch hour with me, reading Robert Frost’s poetry or just chatting. Since I’d already spent so much time in the intensive care ward, many of the nurses were becoming my friends. By now I was more accustomed to the routine and regulations. And just as they sometimes bent some of the rules when visitors came, so I began to overlook the hospital’s shortcomings as well.
Anita patted my shoulder and waved. “I’ll see you later, Joni.” I heard her light footsteps click away down the tiled hallway.
When she left, Jason came to visit. “Hi, kid,” he grinned, “you look terrible. When do you get to leave here?”
“Not for awhile, I guess. I think I’m supposed to be learning something through all this,” I answered. “Dickie says God is working in my life.”
“God doesn’t have anything to do with it! You got a busted neck, that’s all. You can’t lay back and say ‘it’s God’s will’ and let it go at that! You gotta fight it, Joni. And get better,” Jason said sharply.
He looked at me, not knowing what else to say. Our relationship had been sort of “tabled” when we agreed to a cooling-off period. Now he was suggesting—if not by words, by the expression in his eyes and squeeze of his hand on my shoulder—that he still cared deeply.
“We gotta fight this thing, Joni. You gotta get better, y’hear?” His voice broke and he began to cry. “Forget the business about it being God’s will that you’re hurt. Fight it! Y’hear?”
He swore softly for added emphasis and said, “It doesn’t make any sense. How could God—if there is a God—let it happen?”
“I know it seems that way, Jason. But Dickie says God must have some kind of reason for it.”
“I dunno. Maybe I’m just bitter—cynical. But I don’t feel God is interested any more. I don’t think He’s there.”
This admission by Jason was the first step in his drifting away from trust in a loving God—his resignation that what happened was the result of blind, random forces.
I stared at the ceiling after he left. It had been a month, and I was still here. What’s wrong with me? I wondered.
“Hello, lassie. How’s m’ favorite lass today?” I couldn’t see him yet, but the voice was that of Dr. Harris. As his tall, redheaded frame came into my field of vision, I smiled and greeted him. Dr. Harris had been in the shock trauma unit of the hospital the night of my accident. He had taken a personal interest in me and followed my case. I was charmed by his Scottish brogue and the fact that he always referred to me as “lassie.”
He picked up my charts and looked them over. “Hm-m. You’re lookin’ good, lassie. Feeling better?”
“I—I don’t know. What’s wrong with me, Dr. Harris? The nurses won’t tell me, and Dr. Sherrill just gives me a lot of medical jargon. Please. Won’t you tell me—when can I go home? How much longer do I have to be in here?”
“Well, hon, I can’t say. That is, I’m not really on top of your case like Dr. Sherrill. I’m just—”
“Dr. Harris,” I interrupted, “you’re lying. You know. Tell me.”
He replaced the charts, looked serious for a moment, then concentrated on bringing forth his best bedside cheerfulness. “Tell y’ what, lass. I’ll talk with Dr. Sherrill. I’ll have him give y’ the whole story in plain English. How’s that?”
I smiled. “Better. I mean, I have a right to know, don’t I?”
Dr. Harris nodded and pursed his lips as if to say something; then, as if thinking better of it, he merely smiled.
Dick came bursting into the ward later that day. He was wearing a jacket, which was unusual for August.
“I—I’ve
just run up all nine floors!” he gasped.
“Why?” I laughed. “Why didn’t you use the elevator?”
“This is why,” he replied, opening his jacket. He pulled out a small, lively puppy. It began to climb all over Dick, lying on the floor under my Stryker frame, licking his face, and barking quietly with a yip—yip—yip we thought would alert the entire hospital.
“Sh-h! Quiet, pooch—you want us to get kicked out?” Dick begged.
He put the puppy up by my face. I felt its fuzzy warmth and the wetness of his tongue licking my cheek.
“Oh, Dickie—he’s beautiful. I’m glad you brought him.”
“I thought I heard something!” a nurse exclaimed in mock seriousness. “How did you get him past the Gestapo in the lobby?” she grinned.
“I came up the back stairs. You aren’t going to turn us in, are you?”
“Who, me?” She bent down and cuddled the puppy, then put him down. “I don’t see anything,” she said simply and left for other duties.
Dick and I played with the puppy for nearly an hour before being discovered again. He picked up the small dog. “I’ll take the stairs again,” he said as he got up to leave. “Otherwise they may frisk me every time I come up here!”
We laughed, and Dick left with the puppy hidden beneath his jacket.
The next day I was taken down to the laboratory for a bone scan and myelogram. The bone scan was done quickly and smoothly, for it consisted basically of “taking a picture” of my spine. However, the myelogram was not so simple or painless. It meant tapping my spinal cord of its fluid and replacing it with a special dye, using two giant six-inch hypodermic needles. My spinal fluid was drained, pushed out by the dye going in. When the transfer was complete, I was turned upside down and placed in various positions under the fluoroscope while the medics ran their tests. When done, the dye was removed by injecting the spinal fluid back. One side effect of this treatment was a severe headache if some of the fluid was lost or nerve endings (which need the fluid as a lubricant) dried out. There was no medication for this, so I was sedated for several days.
When Dr. Sherrill, the physician in charge of my case, came by later, I accosted him. “Dr. Sherrill, what’s wrong with me?”
His reply was even, without inflection, so I had no way of measuring the seriousness of what he said. “Don’t you remember, Joni? You have a lesion of the spinal cord at the fourth and fifth cervical levels caused by a fracture-dislocation.”
“I broke my neck?”
“Yes.”
“But that means I’ll die.”
“No. Not necessarily,” Dr. Sherrill replied. “It means only that it is a very serious accident. The fact that you’ve survived about four weeks now means you’ve more than likely passed that crisis.”
“You mean you thought I was going to die? Before?”
“You were a badly injured girl. Many people don’t survive accidents of this nature.”
I thought of Tom and the other man who had died undergoing the same treatment as I was. “I guess I’m lucky,” I offered.
“Lucky, indeed. And strong. You have a tremendous will. Now that we’ve passed this crisis, I want you to concentrate all your willpower on getting better. You see, when you’re strong enough, I want to perform fusion surgery on you.”
“What’s that? In plain English, please, Dr. Sherrill.”
“Well, it’s sort of a repair process. Your spinal cord is severed. We have to fuse the bones back together.”
Back together? My mind grabbed at the simple statement and raced with it. That means I’ll get my arms and legs back! That’s what Romans 8:28 meant. Dickie was right—things do work together for good. Before long I’ll be back on my feet!
“When do you want to do the surgery?” I asked.
“As soon as possible.”
“Great. Let’s do it!”
I didn’t know all that was involved in fusion surgery. I thought that by fusing the bones back together and having the spinal cord healed everything would be the same as before—no more paralysis. But I wasn’t really listening carefully.
Following surgery, I was elated to leave the ICU ward and be wheeled into a regular room. It’s a sign I’m getting better, I thought. If I wasn’t, they’d keep me in ICU.
Mom and dad, smiling and happy to see me return from the surgery, were in my room, and Dr. Sherrill came by.
“Everything went fine,” he said, anticipating our question. “The surgery was a complete success.”
There was a collective sigh of relief.
“Now I want you all to concentrate on the next steps of recovery. There is much progress to be made yet. There will be difficult days ahead, Joni. I want you to know it and brace yourself for them. The toughest part of the battle is the psychological aspect. You’re fine now. You’ve been angry, frustrated, afraid. However, you haven’t really been depressed. But wait until your friends go off to college. Wait until the novelty of all this wears off. Wait until your friends get other interests and stop coming. Are you ready for that, Joni? If not, better get ready. Because it’ll come. Believe me, it’ll come.”
“I know it’ll take time, but I’ll get better,” I gamely replied. “These things take time—you said so yourself, Doctor.”
“Yes,” dad said. “How much time are we talking about, Dr. Sherrill?”
Mother added her concern too. “You’re talking about Joni’s friends going off to college this fall. But I sense you’re saying Joni won’t be able to. We made a deposit on her tuition for the fall term at Western Maryland University. Should we postpone her entrance until next semester?”
“Uh—at least.”
“Really?”
“Mrs. Eareckson, you might as well have them return your deposit. I’m afraid college will be out of the question for Joni.”
“Y-you mean—that you don’t know how soon Joni will walk again?”
“Walk? I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mrs. Eareckson. Joni’s injury is permanent. The fusion surgery didn’t change that.”
The word permanent slammed into my consciousness like a bullet.
I could tell that this was also the first time mom and dad had been confronted with the fact of a permanent injury. Either we had all been too naive or the medical people had been too vague in their explanations. Perhaps both.
Silence hung over the room for a few moments. None of us dared react for fear of upsetting and worrying the others.
Dr. Sherrill tried to be encouraging, however. “Joni will never walk again, but we’re hoping she’ll regain the use of her hands one day. Many people lead useful and constructive lives without being able to walk. Why, they can drive, work, clean house—it’s really not a hopeless thing, you know. We’re confident she’ll be able to get her hands back in time.”
Mom had turned her face away, but I knew she was crying.
“Don’t worry, mom—dad. There have been lots of times people with broken necks have recovered and walked again. I’ve heard lots of success stories while I’ve been here. I’m going to walk again! I know it. I believe God wants me to walk again. He’ll help me. Really! I’m going to walk out of here!”
Dr. Sherrill didn’t say anything. He put his hand on mom’s shoulder, shook hands with daddy, and left. For a long while none of us said anything. Then we began to chat about inconsequential things. Finally my parents left.
I lay in the dim light of the room. I should have been happy—the surgery was successful, I was getting better, and I was now in my own room. But I wasn’t happy. Grief, remorse, and depression swept over me like a thick, choking blanket. For the first time since the accident, I wished and prayed I might die.
After nearly an hour, a nurse, Alice, came by. She emptied my catheter bag and rearranged things in my room. Then she went over to the window to adjust the drapes.
“Looks like you’ll be getting some visitors,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. I see your mom and dad sit
ting together down in the courtyard outside. They’ll probably be up here in a minute.”
“No—they’ve already been here,” I replied. I felt tears, hot and salty, spill out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. My nose became stuffy. I couldn’t even cry because I couldn’t blow my own nose. I began to sob anyway.
“Hey, what’s wrong, Joni?” Alice wiped my face with a tissue. She pulled another from the box. “Here. Blow. Feel better now?”
I smiled. “I’m sorry. Guess I was just thinking of mom and dad down there. Dr. Sherrill just told us that my injury is permanent—that I’ll never walk again. I know they’re down there talking about it. And crying. And I’m up here crying. It’s just too much to handle, I guess.”
Alice ran the back of her hand along the side of my face. Her concern, her gesture, felt good. It was reassuring and comforting to feel something.
“I’m going to walk out of here, Alice. God will help me. You’ll see.”
Alice nodded and smiled.
During the weeks following surgery, I didn’t get stronger as I had vowed. Still fed intravenously or by liquids, my weight began to drop. The thought of solid food made me nauseous, and I just couldn’t eat food brought on trays to my room. I could only drink grape juice. The nurses stocked up on it and brought me glasses to sip.
One day a stranger in a hospital uniform came into my room. “I’m Willie, the chef,” he explained. “I came to see why you don’t like my food,” he added.
“Oh, it’s not your food. I just get sick thinking about food in general,” I apologized.
“What did you like best? Before the accident, I mean?”
“Before? Well, my favorite foods were steak—baked potatoes—”
“Vegetable?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Corn, I guess.”
“Salad?”
“I liked Caesar salads.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do.” Then he left.
That evening a nurses’ aide brought my tray as usual. As she lifted the cover, I saw a big steak, a huge baked potato with butter and sour cream, sweet corn, and a magnificent Caesar salad. But when she put the tray down in front of me, somehow the smell made me nauseous again.
Joni Page 4
