This time the operation was successful, for which I thanked God. However, I still faced fifteen days of lying face down in my Stryker. During this time of recuperation, I had a bout with the flu and did a lot of reading. To balance all the negative, agnostic, and atheistic books I had read earlier, I now turned to the Bible and helpful Christian literature.
Mom patiently held the books for me for hours as I read. Mere Christianity by C. S. Lewis was a refreshing change and gave a beautiful balance to all that I’d been reading before. It helped my spiritual outlook tremendously.
On October 15, my birthday, I received a most welcome and appreciated gift—I was finally turned face up! It was a grand occasion. Diana, mom and dad, Jay, and Dick all visited me. While there had been a transition in our relationship from sweethearts to intimate friends, Dick was just as faithful as ever in coming to see me.
Back at Greenoaks, things began to look brighter for me. Because the operation was a success, I would eventually begin to use a wheelchair, and I was having an easier time in my various forms of therapy.
It was also encouraging to see people leaving Greenoaks. Some of my paraplegic friends had been rehabilitated and were free to go home and find their way back into the world. This seemed exciting to me—so much so that I plunged into my own rehab with renewed determination.
Chris Brown was eager to tap this new energy and enthusiasm. “Why not do something artistic now, since you can write pretty well using your mouth?”
“Artistic?” I asked.
“Yes. You’ve shown me drawings you did in the past. You enjoy creative things. You can paint these ceramic discs. They make nice gifts,” she explained.
I watched as another quadriplegic held a paint brush in her mouth and slopped paint on one of the clay pieces. It seemed useless—like a kindergarten game.
“I don’t know—” I said quietly.
“Oh, come on, try it,” Chris urged.
“All right.”
I tried the painting, spilling globs of color and splashing clumsy designs on the clay discs. It was discouraging and frustrating. At first, I hated every minute of it. But when the discs came out of the kiln, they looked half-way acceptable. And as I practiced—as with writing—I improved.
After a few weeks, I had created several Christmas gifts for my family and friends. I didn’t know what they’d think of the nut or candy dishes, but I thought they were pretty good—considering. And it gave me satisfaction to know that I had done them myself.
One day, Chris brought me some moist clay.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“I want you to draw a picture on it.”
“How? With a pencil in my mouth?”
“Try this stylus.”
“What should I make? Should I write something?”
“Why not do something to express yourself? Make something that you like,” she suggested.
Carefully I gauged the distance from my mouth to the soft clay, tested the consistency of it with the pointed stick, then tried to etch something.
I told Chris, “The last time I drew something was on our trip out West before my accident. All during my childhood daddy encouraged me to draw. He’s a self-taught artist.” I also recalled that I had particularly enjoyed making charcoal sketches of scenes. Out West, I had filled my sketch pad with drawings of mountains, horses, people, and animals.
I remembered these scenes now and tried to remember the unconscious process of drawing—how the mental image was communicated to my hands, which moved to transfer the scene to paper. My hands held the key to my talent as an artist. Or did they?
I looked down at the simple sketch I had just done. It was a line drawing of a cowboy and horse etched in the soft clay. It wasn’t terribly creative or impressive, but it was a beginning.
Chris seemed amazed at my first attempt. “Joni, that’s great! You’ve got real talent.” She grinned and said, “You should have done this before. You need to get back to your art.”
“But that was when I had hands,” I protested.
She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. Hands are tools. That’s all. The skill, the talent, is in the brain. Once you’ve practiced, you can do as well with your mouth as you did with your hands!”
“Wow—really?” I asked.
“Yeah! Want to try?”
“Sure! Let’s do it.”
It was an enormously satisfying day for me. For the first time in almost a year and a half, I was able to express myself in a productive, creative way. It was exciting and gave me renewed hope.
My spiritual temperature was improving too. Earlier, my anger and confusion had turned to resentment. I thought, How can a loving God—if such exists—allow this desperate situation? My search into other areas didn’t turn up a reasonable answer, so when I turned back to the Bible, my bitterness was softened.
I was angry that my life had been reduced to the basics of eating, breathing, and sleeping—day in and day out. But what I discovered was that the rest of the human race was in the same boat. Their lives revolved around the same meaningless cycle—except with them, it wasn’t as obvious. Peripheral things distracted them from the fact that they were caught on the same treadmill. Their jobs, school, families, and recreation occupied them enough so they never consciously recognized that their lives were the same as mine—eating, breathing, sleeping.
And slowly I became aware of God’s interest in me. I was some sort of “cosmic guinea pig”—a representative of the human race on whom truth could be tested. All the distractions, trappings, and things were gone. God had taken them away and had placed me here without distractions. My life was reduced to absolute basics. So now what? What am I to do with my life? I wondered. I have no body, but I am still someone. I had to find meaning, purpose, and direction, not just some measure of temporary satisfaction.
Even the clean, sterile sheets in the austere ward were symbolic. Eating, breathing, sleeping. Eating, breathing, sleeping. For what purpose? How can I glorify God? What can I do?
Yes, there has to be a personal God, I reasoned. He may choose not to reveal Himself to me in some spectacular way—but then, why should He? Why was I any more important than the next person who had to find God and purpose by faith, not sight? Why should I be different?
I told Diana of my thoughts. “Nothing is really making any sense yet, Diana. I don’t know what God is doing—but I believe He is real and that somehow He knows—and understands. There’s a positive aspect to my thoughts now. I’m still confused, but before, my confusion leaned toward doubt. Now it leans toward trust.”
“Maybe it has something to do with your prayer before the accident,” Diana suggested.
“What prayer?”
“Remember? You told me that shortly before your accident, you prayed, ‘Lord, do something in my life to change me and turn me around.’ Maybe this is God’s way of answering that prayer.”
“I’ve wondered about that myself. It could be. But it’s sure not what I expected. And He certainly has His own timetable!” I said, adding, “I don’t know His purpose in this. I probably won’t ever walk again. And I don’t see how I can ever be happy again. I guess that’s what really bothers me.”
“Not being happy?”
“Yeah. I mean, if there’s one thing I learned from those existentialist writers, it’s ‘man cannot live with despair.’ Do you think I can ever be happy, Diana?”
“I don’t know, Joni—I don’t know.”
My studies in the Scriptures began in earnest now, along with other Christian literature. Writings by Francis Schaeffer and C. S. Lewis seemed like a breath of fresh air compared with Marx, Hesse, and the non-Christian books I’d read. I began to sense a direct application of and appreciation for the Word of God in my life. For the first time, I saw meaning for me in the Bible. My own “fiery trials” were now a little easier to cope with as I saw how I fit in with God’s scheme of things, especially through reading the Psalms. “The Lord will sustain him
(me) upon his (my) sickbed” (Ps. 41:3 NAS).
Pressures seemed greatest at night. Perhaps therapy had gone badly that day. Or no one came to visit. Or maybe Mrs. Barber was being mean to me again. Whatever the problem, I’d want to cry. I felt even more frustrated because I couldn’t cry, for there was no one to wipe my eyes and help me blow my nose. The Scriptures were encouraging, and I’d apply the reality and truth of them to my own special needs. During these difficult midnight hours, I’d visualize Jesus standing beside my Stryker. I imagined
It is important to Remember that the Promise “…god cuase all things to work together for good…” only applies to those who love god, those who have been born into his family. However, due to our sin and Rebellion we are, alienated from god and subject to his judgment. Praise god though, that He sent his Son, Jesus to be judged on the cross-Paying the death penatty for my sin and your sin! If we truly trust that our punishment was borne, by Christ and obey him as our Lord, we can be assured of eternal life and the Promise of Romass 8:28
It is my hope that ion the course of Roading this book, the Holy Spirit has Enlightened your heart and mind to these Truiths, Jesus is alive and His power is available to you…He proves Him Self daily in my life, and what more couldn’t He do in your life! Are you a part of god’s heavenly family? For indeed, I hope one day we shall meet in glory
Joni
PTL
Him as a strong, comforting person with a deep, reassuring voice, saying specifically to me, “Lo, I am with you always. If I loved you enough to die for you, don’t you think I ought to know best how to run your life even if it means your being paralyzed?” The reality of this Scripture was that He was with me, now. Beside me in my own room! That was the comfort I needed.
I discovered that the Lord Jesus Christ could indeed empathize with my situation. On the cross for those agonizing, horrible hours, waiting for death, He was immobilized, helpless, paralyzed.
Jesus did know what it was like not to be able to move—not to be able to scratch your nose, shift your weight, wipe your eyes. He was paralyzed on the cross. He could not move His arms or legs. Christ knew exactly how I felt! “Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are” (Heb. 4:14, 15 NIV).
Before my accident, I didn’t “need” Christ. Now I needed Him desperately. When I had been on my feet, it never seemed important that He be part of my decision-making—what party to go to, whether to go to a friend’s house or a football game, etc. It didn’t seem that He would even be interested in such insignificant things. But, now that my life was reduced to the basic life routines, He was a part of it because He cared for me. He was, in fact, my only dependable reality.
These new and reassuring concepts had a quieting effect on my spirit, and I think they were even helpful as I shared them with Jay during her personal troubles.
My drawing, still self-expression in style and simple in approach, was more of a therapy than I had anticipated. As a reflection of my new mood, I began to sign “PTL” on my drawings—for “praise the Lord”—an expression of my belief that God cared for me. It was a simple expression, giving Him the glory for His direct help in restoring this one aspect of my individuality.
I also began to take more of an interest in my personal grooming. Before, I had avoided all mirrors. Now, Jay and Diana helped me fix my hair, brighten my face, find and wear attractive clothes, and discover ways to improve my overall appearance.
In therapy, I was able to try sitting up. I was bothered by dizziness and nausea again as they lifted me to a sitting position in my new bed, with my legs dangling over the edge. It was a slow process, but soon I was almost upright. Then I used the slant-board to get used to the vertical position again, while muscles, long unused, had to get accustomed to holding up my head. When my inner ear and neck muscles adjusted to the vertical once more, I was allowed to sit in a wheelchair. My legs were wrapped in elastic bandages to avoid circulation problems caused by blood settling in the arteries of my legs and thighs, and I was fitted with a tight corset that supported my upper torso. This enabled me to sit up and breathe comfortably.
I was excited about my progress and looked forward to going home for the Christmas holidays again. Christmas, 1968—a whole year had passed since I was last home! But this time I could go home for several days.
Just before Christmas, dad and mom brought me some interesting news.
“Joni, we’ve heard about a new hospital in California,” said dad. “It’s called Rancho Los Amigos, it’s in Los Angeles, and they are making some pretty remarkable advancements in therapy.”
“Their approach to rehabilitation is very progressive,” mom added. “They’ve been able to teach people to regain the use of their arms and legs. Even so-called impossible cases.”
“Oh, wow!” I exclaimed. “Yeah! Let’s go there. Can we?”
“We’re checking now. We expect to hear soon. But I think it looks good,” said dad. “We can’t go with you, but we’ve talked with Jay, and she wants to go. She could fly out and rent an apartment nearby to be with you.”
“That sounds marvelous!” I shrieked. “Let’s pray that God will make it possible. Wow—wouldn’t that be some Christmas present?”
It was an exciting Christmas. I was strong enough to stay at home for several days, and it was good to be in normal surroundings once more. And when Dick asked me to go with him to a movie, I was really thrilled.
But as much as I dearly wanted to be normal again, it was impossible. Dick put his arm around me, and I didn’t even know it. He squeezed me affectionately, lovingly—but I couldn’t feel a thing. I kept watching the movie. Finally he asked, “Don’t you feel that?”
“What?”
“This.” He squeezed me again.
“No,” I said softly, embarrassed. “I—I’m sorry.” I really wanted to feel his arm, his touch.
Driving home, Dick was forced to stop the car suddenly, and I flew forward and hit my head on the dash. I couldn’t help myself—couldn’t even pick myself up. I was not hurt. Only my pride and ego were damaged.
Dick berated himself for letting this happen. “Why didn’t I remember to hold on to you?” he scolded himself.
“Dick, please don’t blame yourself. It takes getting used to. And I’m not hurt. Let’s not allow it to spoil our evening.”
We drove home without further incident. As Dick wheeled me into the house, I said, “Dickie, thank you. Oh, wow, did I have fun! It—it was almost like the exciting things we used to do. This is the first time I’ve done anything normal in a year and a half. Thank you, Dickie.”
“It was a lot of fun,” he said simply, and leaned across to kiss me on the forehead. “Glad you enjoyed yourself.” His ever-sensitive eyes smiled lovingly into mine.
It was fun. But it wasn’t really like the “old times.” We were both still uncomfortable and awkward with my chair, and I wondered, Will things ever be normal again?
I promised myself to do everything I could to make it happen, at least with my attitude. What a contrast with last Christmas! A year before, I had had only a day at home, and I had been so ashamed of my appearance and handicap that I had cringed in the background and covered my legs with the old brown blanket.
This year, I wore new hose and a bright orange sweater with a stylishly short corduroy skirt to match. My hair, although still short, was done in a casual, feminine style, and I felt like a woman again, not just a body stuffed in hospital pajamas!
This time I did not want to go back to Greenoaks.
“You won’t have to, Joni,” said dad.
“What?”
“You won’t have to go back to Greenoaks. We’ve just received word from California. Rancho Los Amigos has room for you. We’ll be leaving next week, after New Year’s.”
I began to cry. “Oh, daddy, I’m so happy. The Lord is real. He does answer prayer.”
“Mother and I will fly out there with you, and Jay will drive out and meet us there.”
“I can’t believe I’m really going.”
Rancho Los Amigos—that’s where I’ll get back my hands, I thought.
CHAPTER 7
The flight to California was a memorable experience. After all, it was my first flight, and I was flying toward hope. I’d soon regain the use of my hands—Dick and I could resume our relationship and get married. At last I could see what I thought was God’s pattern “for good” for my life.
When we arrived in Los Angeles—some 3,018 miles from the freezing cold and icy streets of Baltimore—the weather was balmy and sunny. I knew immediately that I was going to enjoy my stay.
Remembering my disappointment at my first sight of Greenoaks, I purposely avoided making a mental picture of Rancho Los Amigos. To my surprise, Rancho was beautiful and well-staffed. Many of the orderlies and staff people were college students working their way through school. Several were girls, and I was glad to have people of my own age and background to whom I could relate.
I was impressed by the order and controlled activity of this place. At Greenoaks, the staff people were always busy, but it was the kind of chaotic busyness of those who are overworked. Here, there was no lost motion. Though everyone had plenty to do, it was for the benefit of the patient, not at his expense. I’m sure that this was due to the fact that Rancho was well-staffed and the people well-paid.
Mom and dad stayed long enough to get me comfortably settled; then they returned to Baltimore, leaving Jay and Kay in a rented apartment near Rancho Los Amigos. One night, about a week later, I heard a commotion in the hall. I strained to hear the voices—there was no mistaking them. Exploding into my room were Diana, Dick, and Jackie!
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