Chapter Eleven: Panic

RUNNING

Into the morning light I run

Searching for the rising sun

Looking for a place of peace

Waiting for the pain to cease.

However far and fast I speed

I cannot quench my fearful need.

I run until the sun is high;

If I stop, I fear I’ll die.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

JUNE 25, 2000. 9 AM.

            Despite the fact that I have been out of school for two weeks now, I am still dreaming of my classroom and waking up tense and tired. Last night alone I taught Geometry to a group of eight-graders, English to my sixth-grade home room, and Science to a bunch of toads who had hopped into my room from the lake down the road. Despite their jumpiness, the toads were by far the most attentive audience, having a true interest in biology and a vested stake in animal rights.

            What would a dream interpreter make of my nighttime pedagogy? A fear of eighth-graders? A secret desire to become a zoologist? Or a teacher who has found herself completely fried by a long year at a new school compounded by her husband’s car accident and long hospitalization?

            I have determined this summer to relax, but I attach it with the same ferocity I attack everything, laying up books I want to read and sketching out stories I want to write. Ron is doing well now. Probably better than I am since he has had four months of sitting still. I, on the other hand, am a whirlwind of motion. I have a list posted on the refrigerator of summer projects and another written in my journal of all the new things I have tackled this year. They both exhaust me. In the last ten months I have learned to:

1. Teach four different subjects to four different sections of students
2. Work through the atmosphere and pace of Westtown
3. Head up student council
4. Drive in the dark
5. Install light fixtures
6. Fix leaky pipes and water heaters
7. Learn to speak “Quaker”
8. Change the oil in my car
9. Stretch my paycheck
10. Use paper plates for meals
11. Take care of a cat
12. Start the lawn mower (that one was tricky!)
13. Pace hospital waiting rooms
14. Come to a working knowledge of the spleen and the pancreas
15. Deal with lawyers
16. Fill out medical forms

            The list goes on and on. What I have not learned is that the world can probably manage to limp along without me. At the moment, it seems that I am still needed everywhere. I do not know how to just lay it all down and walk away.

JUNE 30, 2000. 7PM.

            Today, Ron drove for the first time in over twenty weeks, maneuvering my ancient Celebrity down Naaman’s Creek Road and into a parking lot at Target where we purchased a 26 inch tube for Allen’s bike tire. A momentous journey. I sat in the unaccustomed passenger seat, an almost unwilling accomplice to my husband’s maiden voyage.

            I sat with my hands in my lap, my feet firmly planted on the floor, my stomach in knots, and my eyes darting everywhere. Front window. Rear window. Side window. Ron’s face. Dr. Huffman had said to be prepared for a panic attack during the first drive. I was prepared, ready to offer reassurance, ready to grab the wheel, ready to dial 911 on my cell phone. I willed the trucks to stop at all the red lights, focused all my energy on keeping the car centered in the middle of the lane by my amazing kinetic powers. Due to my superior concentration alone, we made it to Target in one piece. Ron got out of the car—he still moves slowly—tossed me the keys, and sauntered into the store. I took a moment to breathe a prayer of thanks for journey’s mercies and followed him, grateful for the cold blast of air-conditioning the struck me at the door, cooling my fevered brow.

            Our errand took only a few short minutes but my erratic heartbeat returned to normal. We made our purchase, exited the store, and approached my car. I was breathing normally again.

            Two steps to go. I approached the driver’s side.

            “I’ll drive,” said Ron, sidling neatly in front of me.

            Dr. Huffman had warned us about panic attacks. She hadn’t said they would be mine.

JULY 4, 2000. 9 PM.

            June has too quickly given way to July and now we find it to be Independence Day. Or, as my grandmother called it, Declaration Day. In my carefree childhood, these holidays were always spent on the sands of Rehoboth Beach, cavorting with my cousins and my brother in the ocean’s surf, cooking hot dogs and hamburger’s on Nanny’s back porch and playing horseshoes in front of Uncle Fred’s cabin. Homemade ice-cream was the highlight, using Nanny’s ancient wood freezer. We would take turns during the hot July day sitting on its lid to hold it down while someone else cranked.

            Most of my memories of the Fourth of July are happy ones. Some are not. Nanny died one sad Fourth. Last year, Ron was at Friends’ and the kids and I went to Marsh Creek for the day rather than face an empty house and a hollow celebration. Still, July Fourth makes me think of the beach and ocean breezes and silver sparklers.

            Today, we are barbecuing chicken and packing to go away to Rehoboth tomorrow, avoiding the worst part of the holiday rush. I expect to do most of the driving. We will spend five days laying on the beaches of my childhood and visiting with my parents. It will be good to get away and feel the soft, warm sand between my toes, to let the summer sun wash some of the winter pallor from my face.

            Winter has been exceedingly long. Just when the last snows had melted away and spring seemed a certain promise, our lives were changed by the driver of a pick-up truck on Paoli Pike. Spring became a long marathon of endurance through the valley of shadows. Most days there was little light.

            But now the brilliant colors of summer have replaced the beige tones of the hospital corridors. Blue skies, turquoise oceans, and the soaring majesty of fireworks are causes for rejoicing.

            I tell myself this as I sit on the back deck with Ron, watching the display shot off at Hewes Avenue Park. The kids have ventured up into the crowds with friends, but I have preferred to sit here with my husband, exclaiming over the high ones. We hear the faint sounds of the explosions, then see a burst of color, silver and blue and gold lighting up the night. Slowly, the flickers of light fall back to earth like tired fireflies. Ron takes my hand in his and gives it a squeeze. His grip is not yet very strong. I squeeze back, just a little.

            It is true that summer is here and, from all appearances, things seem to be going well. But in my heart I am truthful: I have not yet shaken the winter from my soul.

JULY 11, 2000. 7 AM.

            It is Bonnie’s second day at her new job and I get out of bed when she does, wanting to share this golden morning with my daughter. We have shared many that began with far less hope. I have coffee and fresh bagels ready when she comes downstairs. She is so beautiful, this chubby baby who struggled to breathe when she was born six weeks early. Her unscheduled arrival surprised me then, but in the last two years she has surprised me in other ways as well. Her hair is red—this week, anyway—her eyes a sky blue, and her face dotted with freckles she pretends to hate. We are similar in many ways. We share a face, a walk, a voice. Like me, she wants to be a teacher and loves to write stories and thinks in terms of metaphors and similes. She laughs a lot, in my timber, and my dimples play around the corners of her mouth.

            Unlike me, she is messy, forgetful, and doesn’t always apply herself to her schoolwork and can carry a tune without the prerequisite bucket I would need. Her voice—my voice—trills over high notes and octaves I can only dream of. She sings the way I would if I could.

            But I cannot.

            “It’s just about the only thing you don’t do well,” she will often say to me. She has been my champion for years, her belief in me unshakable. She and her younger brother firmly believe that I can save the world. It is sometimes exhausting to live up to.

            She is twenty-one—just—but looks seventeen, a gift from my gene pool. It is a gift she does not really appreciate right now but will when she reaches her forties. In many ways, she seems younger than her age. I have always attributed it to her early and difficult birth, but this young woman before me bears no scars from it. She is 5’7” and tops me by an inch. She sings and dances through life seemingly without a care in the world.

            But I have spent countless hours with this dream child. Despite her fragile appearance, she is tough. We clung to each other the night of Ron’s accident, waiting out the long hours together. We have clung to each other since then, propping one another up. She has filled in the gaps when my own strength has badly sagged. Last year, when Ron’s issues with bi-polar disorder brought him to Friends’ Hospital, it was she who helped me make the decision to leave The Christian Academy for Westtown, she who helped me pack up my classroom and install light fixtures in the bathroom and take the car to have the oil changed.

            Allen sometimes complains that he has two mothers. It is almost true. It has not, as far as I can see, hurt either of them.

            So we sit this morning, sharing coffee and bagels and conversation. She loves her small charges at the daycare center and plans for the time when she will have her own classroom. It is good to be looking forward with her. She is, like me, a survivor.

            Our minister’s wife told me last week that I have been an excellent example to my daughter of what a Christian wife should be. I pray that it is true. Between Ron’s accident and mental issues, there has been a lot to endure. I have not always known if I have made the right decisions. Despite it all, we have survived.

            Looking at her bright face this morning, listening to her happy chatter, I realize that we have done more than survive. We have, as the Bible says, come through the fire. That which is gold and silver has become brighter for the refining, as bright as her cheery face.

            I watch her leave this morning, my daughter, my right arm, my confidante, knowing that whatever else may transpire in her life, she is silver.

            She will shine.

July 12, 2000. 2PM.

            There should be scars here. Or the markings of skidding tires across the road. Or, at the very least, a remnant of twisted, distorted metal, something to mark the intersection of Five Points Road and Paoli Pike where the truck crashed into Ron’s Taurus. The Taurus, poor thing, did not survive. Ron did, albeit with injuries that would have felled a lesser man and which will haunt him for years to come. Today, miracle of miracles, he is driving his new Caravan past the very spot where, four months ago, he became the non-person referred to in accident reports and court litigation as “the victim.” It has been a long road. We have almost recovered. This dry run up to Ron’s plant today is in preparation for his return to work next week, where he will once again become a man who earns a paycheck, carries a wallet, and jingles car keys in his pocket. Ron’s scars are numerous. They will, in time, heal. But it seems impossible to me that the road where our lives took such a drastic turn is unchanged.

            It must be, then, the only thing that has remained exactly the same, bearing no imprint of March 1. Paoli Pike, I note, has learned no lessons. Trucks still speed as if all humanity depended upon their prompt arrival. It is hard for me to pass this spot. My stomach twists into knots. My husband’s blood was spilled her, but people are passing by as if nothing untoward ever took place at this intersection, going on with their lives unaware. Maybe that is the greatest tragedy.

            We all bear scars. Ron’s are visible. The accident left none of us unscathed. I am glad. Those of us who lived this nightmare, who lurked in the corners of hospitals, who prayed and wept and questioned God’s wisdom, have learned from this. We treasure each day. We treasure each other. We walk a little slower. We breathe more deeply. We live each day with more compassion and faith, never knowing what the next turn in the road may bring.

            And I wonder, as we drive past this spot where Ron’s body was so badly damaged, at the people who pass by here blithely. Perhaps they are the same ones who pass the Cross of Calvary, unaware of the blood shed there and the eternal life its shedding offers. They move past it daily. Maybe they acknowledge it as history, nothing more. Their lack of understanding does not change the lesson or the gift.

            So Paoli Pike remains as it was before the accident.

            But we do not. It will haunt me forever.

Chapter Ten : Engine Lights

FRAGMENTS

Pressed between the pages

Of the pandemonium

Bits of dried posies

Shattered and scattered

Still retain a sweet

Fragrance.

Clutched by the clutter of

The chaos

Pieces of color

Broken and blended

Still gleam a clear

Clarity.

I am not yet obscured by

The obligations of

My family

Just pared into pilfered pieces

And dispersed among

The tumult.

CHAPTER TEN.

MAY 30, 2000. 3 PM.

            Ron’s birthday. Today we gather to celebrate his 49^th year, and all of us present think about how close he came to not reaching this milestone. Just weeks ago, he hovered closer to the other side than to us. But, by God’s grace, he is home again and if not yet completely well, at least on the road back. It will be, we are painfully aware, a long and difficult road.

            His homecoming has made changes both large and small in our home. We have rearranged to furniture to accommodate his physical needs and arranged for care while I finish out the school year. I jump out of bed at all hours of the night if he needs something, if he is in pain or cannot breathe. My exhaustion continues, but at least I am no longer spending time in hospital rooms. The kids and I all hover closer to home these days, reluctant to put distance between ourselves and Ron. Even our grown son Dennis contrives errands that bring him home.

            Our celebration today is simple: just burgers on the grill and ice cream cake. Ron’s parents and our children are the only guests, but many cards continue to arrive in the mail and I write almost daily e-mail updates to an extended list of well-wishers. While Ron napped one afternoon, I sent out the following:

 

Dear Friends,

            The lives of our family were forever altered on March 1, 2000. Even as we gathered in the ICU family room at Crozer Hospital, praying for Ron and waiting out the long hours while he underwent emergency surgery on his diaphragm, pancreas, and spleen, we knew God’s arms were around us and we were at peace, trusting the life of our loved one to our Heavenly Father. We could not have known then that the long hours of evening would stretch into months spent pacing the floors and bowing our heads. Nor did we know that Ron’s accident would come to affect so many outside our family circle.

            God works all things together for good to them that love the lord. We clung to that promise as complication after complication arose. Phone call to phone call, heads bowed and knees bent as God’s people offered their prayers for Ron. Dr. Joan Huffman continually worked to restore Ron’s body, guided—we believe—by the Great Physician.

            The faithful prayers of so many have uplifted Ron’s family as well. Many, many times I received a phone call or a simple note reassuring me of prayers and support. Often, it was the encouragement I needed to keep on going. Every card, every visit, every phone call, every prayer, every meal given to us demonstrated God’s abiding love through the obedient hands of His servants.

            This has been what has guided us. The children and I have learned to lean heavily on God. Even when Ron’s fever climbed and the poison of septic shock coursed through his veins, we knew our loved one was safe. Some tears flowed as we were, time and again, forced to acknowledge the possibility that Ron might be called Home.

            God has chosen, instead, to being a new work, in Ron, in me, and in our children. We treasure each moment on earth as a gift from God and an opportunity to give glory to our Creator. These last three months we have had the opportunity to share our faith with many who crossed our path at Crozer Hospital: doctors, nurses, patients, visitors, and personnel. One dear man said to me one night as I sat praying outside the ICU, “Your God must be very big.”

            Our God IS big, but He is also the God of details. As Ron’s body continues to heal, the ducts and the tubes and the organs that make up our earthly beings must begin to work together again. We trust that in God’s own time Ron’s healing will be complete.

            We covet your continued prayers. We know that we still have many battles ahead. But we also know that God is in control. To say “thank you” to all of you is not enough. Our hearts are filled to overflowing with gratitude to all of you. We pray, in turn, for each of you. Rejoice in the part that you have played in our own miracle. Treasure, as we do, each moment as a precious gift.

In His Name,

Ron, Linda, Dennis, Bonnie, and Allen

           

            Our party is soon ended. Ron’s stamina fades quickly. He insists that he will go to church with us tomorrow, so I shoo everyone home at an early hour and settle Ron into bed. Dishes are piled in the sink, but I stand on the back deck, breathing deeply for the first time in months. Hours spent in too many waiting rooms have wrought changes in all of us. We need to focus now on what is really important.

            It is not our bank accounts or job titles or clean kitchen floors. It is each other.

            And yet, despite my upbeat attitude, despite the smile that is continually on my face, despite my belief that God really is in control, I do not really feel what I wrote in my cheerful letter. I do not feel elated or grateful or excited that Ron is home. I do not feel hopeful, although I will continue to spout the words I believe others want to hear from me. As I turn into the kitchen to attack the pile of dishes, I acknowledge to myself what I really feel.

            I feel empty.

MAY 31, 2000. 10 AM.

            Ron is carefully dressed in gray sweat pants and a blue Phillies jacket when we herd into the elevator at church the next morning. We arrived purposely during Sunday School so Ron will not be jostled in the hallway. His three-footed cane has inadvertently been left at the hospital. I will retrieve in on Monday. For now, Ron leans on Allen’s shillelagh. It is ironic that it now lends support to another member of our family.

            Ron’s progression up the aisle is painfully slow, but we are in no hurry. Bonnie, Allen, and I stand ready to assist him if needed, but he manages to maneuver himself to a seat without our help. He is very thin now and his skin has a waxy pallor to it. His hair needs trimming. He does not look around until he is seated in a pew about halfway up the aisle.

            “So here we are,” he says and grins. “I missed this place.” He comments on the flowers on the altar and I go the vestibule to get a bulletin for him. When I return, several deacons have spotted him and are busy pumping his hand and patting him—gently—on the back.

            “It is a miracle,” they are all saying. “To see you here, in one piece! God is good!” And I nod my head in agreement. God is good. My water heater still leaks and I have a final on Tuesday and I cannot sleep at night because Ron always needs something but God is good.

            Other people are entering the sanctuary and most want to speak to Ron. But the organist begins and we take up our hymnals, rising for the first song. Ron sits, too wobbly to risk standing up.

            Pastor Lou has spotted Ron and smiled in our direction. “Before we begin today,” he says from the pulpit, “I would like us to give special thanks for God’s graciousness in bringing our brother Ron home to us.” Lou beams. “When I saw you, Ron, I knew that here was our own miracle. To see you here, in God’s house, surrounded by your family, is proof once again of God’s faithfulness.”

            I barely hear the rest of the service. After the final chorus, Ron is once again surrounded by well-wishers. Two deacons volunteer to see Ron down on the elevator while I pull the car around to the handicap entrance. I am hurrying down the hallway when a hand taps me lightly on the arm.

            “Linda,” says Pastor Lou, “ as wonderful as it is that Ron is home, I worry about you. Is this all too much for you?”

            I am frightened for a moment that Lou has read my thoughts and seen into my soul. Then I realize he has simply seen the dark circles under my eyes and noticed my fatigue. Nothing more. He cannot know that I do not really feel thankful right now, that my water heater still leaks and I have a final on Tuesday and I cannot sleep at night because Ron always needs something.

            “I’m a little tired,” I admit.” But I’ll be fine. Soon, school will be out and I will have a chance to catch up on some rest.” I give him a bright smile. “The important thing is that Ron is home.”

            I can do this, I think as I pull the car up and Ron is helped in. I can keep on saying the words until I can feel them.

JUNE 7, 2000. 7:15 AM.

            I drop Allen off at school at 7:15, but just as I am pulling out of the parking lot, my engine light glows amber. Generally, I ignore this sort of thing. I am usually in too big a hurry to stop and check and this morning is no exception. The last week of school is a hectic run through the chaotic gauntlet of middle school madness. But I am trying to let Ron’s accident teach me something about slowing down. I drive a mile out of my way and pull into a service station There is not attendant there, of course. Mechanics do not keep teacher hours. But there are a few truck drivers refueling their rigs. I unlatch the hood of my car and peer into the engine, trying to look like I know what I am doing. I must be pulling it off, because I am offered no assistance. Story of my life.

            No smoke billows from the engine. I check my oil. Seems okay. I puzzle for a moment and sit with my engine turned off. The morning is clear and bright and despite the fumes from the diesel fuel I breathe deeply. Being late for school on the second to the last day might not be the worst thing in the world.

            Slowly, I turn the key in the ignition again. The light does not go on. I wait. Still, no warning glow. I pull away from the service station, marginally less harried than I was when I left the house and determined to keep an eye glued to the dashboard. I leave the radio off and turn my thoughts to people I know who are in need of prayer. Kim, dying of leukemia with two small sons to raise. Angel, about to give birth to her first child far away from the comfort of her mother. Before I realize it, I am at school and there are still a few minutes before homeroom begins.

            I walk from the parking lot to my classroom, thinking about engine lights. I have been hurrying these last months, little realizing how fast I am moving. With teaching, graduate school, Ron’s hospitalization, and a family to care for there has been little time for self-reflection. Since Ron’s first bouts with depression, burdens he once shared are mine alone.

            I have been guilty of rushing on, my own timetable paramount in my mind. Seldom have I taken the time to smell the proverbial roses. My own body’s engine lights have been flickering for weeks now and I have been ignoring headaches and dizziness and the syndrome my grandmother called “bone-tiredness.”

            The macadam pathway curves before me. In just a few more steps I will be at the end of my road. I have canceled my usual flurry of summer activity this year, determined to spend my time helping Ron in his recovery. I will not be teaching classes at the Pennsylvania Writing Project. I will not be going to graduate school, postponing my Master’s by a semester.

            I have not come to this conclusion easily. I have been the irresistible force, determinedly plowing my way through all obstacles in quest of my goal. Neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night…My purposes have been noble, I remind myself. Trying to provide for the well-being of my family is not a fault.

            I descend the few short steps into my classroom, unlocking the door and flicking on the lights. I wonder why I have tried to continue on my impossible path. I love my classroom and my students. I love teaching. But I need the freedom of summer. I need time for my body and spirit to recover.

            In three minutes my sixth graders will descend upon me, their high energy propelling me into this day. I will smile and nod, listening to their bright voices and cheerful summer plans. I will miss their chatter, but their voices will echo over the summer months.

            For the last time this year I lay my lesson plans on my desk. The next three months are not laid out nearly as neatly. I have no idea what Ron’s therapy and recovery will be like, nor what my role will be. The lack of a definitive plan scares me, but life has no carefully arranged outcome.

            I can no longer ignore my own glowing amber lights, flashing at me incessantly. Somehow, I need to find a place of rest.

            Yet even as the door to my room slams open and my students fill the void, I wonder. Will my life ever be calm again?

 

Chapter Nine: The Cost

COUNTING THE COST

The medical bills are insurmountable! No sense worrying about them!

There are far more important things that the careless act of a thoughtless driver has cost Ron, such as

Bonnie’s B+ on a math test, a subject she struggles with

Allen’s new moves on his skateboard

The way our new kitten presses his nose against mine in the morning

Family Monopoly Night

Our daughter in her new Easter hat

The daffodils blooming in the backyard

Lighting candles the night the power goes out

Sunday comics spread over the living room rug

Dennis’ new hair cut

Watching the sunset from the back deck

Allen standing up to Mike—finally!

Pizza on Tuesdays and Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Doing the dishes and blowing soap bubbles

Life is made up of countless insignificant moments that will never come again.

For countless days, in countless ways, Ron has missed them.

They are gone forever.

 

CHAPTER NINE

MAY 12, 2000. 3 PM.

            My friend’s husband is going on a pilgrimage to Chakra, where he intends to walk the labyrinth. Before he leaves, he asks people to write down the burdens that are carrying onto slips of paper. He collects them all solemnly, puts them in his backpack, and promises he will stop at each turn of the labyrinth to pray for those whose burdens he now carries with him.

            A lot of the burdens he carries are mine.

            Ron is still in the hospital, back in intensive care as be fights off the latest infection. Each day brings new tubes and new problems. Seeing him is painful and I am beginning to wonder how one human being can ever recover from so much physical damage. I am worn out and tired, dragging myself through each day. It has occurred to me that these burdens may be mine to carry for a long, long time. Bonnie is having a difficult semester at school, her mind always on her father. Some of Allen’s old fears have returned and he sees “bad guys and monsters” in the shadows.

            So I wrote all of these things down and put them in Denis’ back pack.

            Denis will be at Chakra for six days. And during those six days, whenever I am tempted to fret about the course of events that have overtaken our lives, I will remind myself that Denis now carries my burdens around the labyrinth. Someone else is doing the fretting and the praying and the worrying. I can cast my cars upon Denis for these six days and in the maelstrom that has become my existence, I can find a place of calm.

            I think of the symbolism here. Just as Denis carries my burdens to Chakra, Jesus bore my sins to the cross. But His promise goes far beyond that. Jesus wants to carry our burdens every day. Even now, when my weariness is overwhelming, Jesus wants my burdens. So why do I fret and worry?

            Because I am human. God knows this about me. Jesus warned his disciples in Luke 21:34 that they “take heed to yourselves, lest at anytime you be overcharged with…the cares of this life.” Just as I so easily added my slips of paper to Denis’ pack, so I should easily give them over to the Savior.

            Yet I seem to hold onto them, unable to let go.

MAY 25, 2000. 1 PM.

            I can hear the sounds of my students on the playground, shouting in the clear spring sunshine. Winter has finally given way to some crisp, clear days. I lean my head against the cool metal frame of the stall in the Ladies’ Room, seeking some comfort for my aching right eye. Two days ago I was forced to admit that the pain—manageable with ibuprofen for the last week—was out of control. My ophthalmologist berated me for waiting so long to come in and I did not explain that I have been living inside the walls of a hospital for three months. Three of the remaining ten sutures in my eye had come lose and needed to be removed. What a blessed, twenty-four hour release from the throbbing pain when Dr. Morris anesthetized the eye to remove the stitches! But the ache was back now, complicated by the infection I had inadvertently caused by waiting too long. I avoid light whenever I can and keep my classroom in semi-darkness.

            I am reluctant to leave the peaceful quiet of the restroom, but the bell will ring soon to signal the end of recess. A stack of books sits on my desk and taunts me; I have a final next week. My professor has offered me the opportunity to take an incomplete for this semester and finish over the summer, but I cannot even imagine what challenges the next season may hold. So I plow ahead, determined to finish what I began before the world collapsed around me. I have opted out of the summer term. I simply have no energy left.

            Talk in class last night turned to stress. Are teachers more prone to stress than other professionals? And I sat behind my dark glasses, my right eye throbbing, wondering if anyone in the room could possibly comprehend the amount of stress in my life. Yet I try to remain calm, putting one foot in front of the other and moving on.

            We are all moving on. Bonnie has finished her first year at Delaware County Community College and while it has been an exceedingly difficult year, she has scraped by. About a month ago it looked as if she would not make it so—against her wishes—I called her professors and told them what had been going on in her life. They were all sympathetic and gave her chances to make up work she had missed during long night hospital vigils. She was seeing a young man from work for a while, but that fizzled out in April. She seems none the worse for it. I admit I hardly noticed the changes in her social status, so erratic are my own hours these days.

            And Allen is once again the man of the house. In church on Sunday, the pastor asked us to join hands in prayer and when mine was gripped by a firm, strong grasp to my right, I almost gasped. Was this the hand of my youngest son? It felt like a man’s hand, certain and sure. I found my own hand enveloped in that of a fourteen year old. I was not totally unaware of the changes that time has wrought upon this child. He is eye-level with me now and certain mannerisms reflect his father and his brother. The way he reaches for his wallet, squares his shoulders, answers the phone with a masculine, “Hello.” These are reminders to me that my youngest child is striving towards adulthood. As the long, strong fingers closed over mine and applied pressure to my palm, I recalled the small hand that held mine on his first day of school. Then, he was the one to cling to me.

            Mommy, don’t let go.

            Sometimes, now, I find myself clinging onto him and I remind myself that I cannot completely fill the void left by their father. My children have their own lives to lead. But the longer Ron remains hospitalized, the more accustomed I become to our family unit numbering three. When I think of the future, making sketchy plans as to where we might be in a year or so, I see Bonnie and Allen and me. Ron is added as a hasty afterthought.

            I hear the recess bell ring. Time to leave my sanctuary. I check myself in the mirror to see if I can in any way resemble a sane person for the rest of the afternoon. I am emerging from the Ladies’, on my way back to my own classroom, when I see the principal walking down the hall towards me, carrying a pink phone message slip. There are tears in Phyllis’ eyes.

            A cold hand grips my heart. I collapse against the wall. Can I pretend not to see her? If I just on into English class, won’t it all just go away?

            But Phyllis grabs my arm before I can reach my own classroom. “I’ll cover for you,” she says. “You need to go.”

            I wonder what organ has broken now, what complication has set in that the doctors had not foreseen. I wonder, nonsensically, if there will be any supper tonight. Then I notice that, despite the tears, Phyllis is smiling.

            She offers me the pink message slip and I glance at Dr. Huffman’s name scrawled across the bottom. Phyllis puts her arms around me. “He’s coming home,” she says. “They’re releasing him now. He’s finally coming home.”

Chapter Eight: Not Yet

PEOPLE SAY

People say that

They know how I feel

And they compare this last season

That Ron has been hospitalized to

“the time my mother had pneumonia”

Or

“the two weeks I was on bed rest before the baby was born.”

Trust me.

It is not the same.

Just as I don’t know what those times were like for you

You cannot possibly know what this has been like for me.

I have been, for all this time,

Without my partner, my soul mate, my sounding board.

I have coped with the world

Alone.

I feel as if an arm has been severed from my body

As if my heart has stopped beating

And I have been holding my breath for

A long, long, time.

I kept putting one foot in front of the other because

The world has not stopped

But kept its turning. And I have faced it

Alone.

So, to those of you who offer comfort,

I give you my thanks, but know that

Despite your compassion

You don’t really understand.

Only God does.

Lord, help me to remember this lesson,

To offer compassion

Not comparisons.

To have the courage to say,

“I don’t really know what this has been like for you,

But God does.”

In Him

I am never

Alone.

           

                                                            CHAPTER EIGHT.

APRIL 30, 2000. 1 AM.

            Early on Easter Sunday, I sit at my laptop and write a letter I will never send:

Dear Other Driver,

            I’ve thought about you a lot this week as we approached the holiest of Christian holidays and Ron underwent yet another operation to repair the damage your truck did to his body. This was a second thoroscopy. Do you know what that is? Neither did I until recently. Surgeons needed to make an incision in Ron’s back between his third and fourth ribs, spread the ribs apart, and insert a tube to drain the fluid that has collected around his left lung. They made another incision into his chest to re-inflate the lung. This Easter Sunday, while his family attended church services, Ron remained in the hospital, a pleuravac pumping out the fluid, a tube still draining his pancreas, and IV still giving him antibiotics and morphine, another tube feeding him.

            And I thought about you and wondered what you, the other driver, would do this Easter Sunday. Attend the church of your choosing? Sleep late? Enjoy dinner with family and friends? It’s nice to have options, isn’t it? We wish Ron had them.

           I could, if I wanted, get your name from the police report. It is in my files. And, in this day of the world-wide web, it would be easy to find you. But I prefer to think of you as nameless and faceless. It’s easier that way. Allowing you to have an identity would make you too real. There is a chance—however slim—that I could feel sympathy for you. Or hate. I am not a vindictive person, but the longer Ron remains in intensive care, the more surgeries and complications that arise, the more time our children miss with their father, the angrier I get.

            In the fifty-one days since the accident, have you ever thought of Ron? Does the blur of the accident plague your dreams? Do you still speed down Paoli Pike and run red lights? Or does the memory of March 1 cause you to slow down—maybe a little—as you pass Five Points Road?

            Ron’s accident has changed our lives. There is no going back. I hope it has changed yours as well. It is the only way I can find any reconciliation with this whole, awful event. It is the only way I can sleep.

            Easter Sunday. The day Jesus rose from the ground, the penalty for our sins fully paid. It is a day of rejoicing and hope for those who believe in Him. Despite the fact that Ron remains hospitalized, and the children and I will attend church without him and dine without him, it is a blessed day for us. Christ lives. Ron lives. We have hope. We have peace.

            Do you?

May 2, 2000. 7AM

            This morning we awakened to a light coating of snow! This crystal surprise—so late in the spring—reminded me of the enchantment of childhood, when a snowstorm on Sunday was guarantee of a Monday free from school, frolicking in the soft, white powder.

            Ah, snow! Despite the damage and the hazards a snowstorm can cause, who does not delight in watching the gently falling flakes, pressing our noses against the windowpane? Snow brings magic.

            It is magic reminiscent of Frosty and his enchanted hat, reindeer that can fly, and ice queens whose hearts can be melted by love. Snow makes us children once again, inspiring us with wonder. It makes us believe, if only briefly, in magic.

            It demonstrates to us once again God’s power and control over the world.

            Ron is still in the hospital.

            My water heater still leaks.

            My bank account holds a negative balance.

            There are a thousand questions to which I have no answers.

            But tiny crystalline structures, no two alike, each a unique and beautiful creation, fall from the sky and astound me once again with their beauty.

            God is still in control. It’s all I really need to know.

MAY 8, 2000. 4PM.

            Life on One North is predictable. Now settled in a room near the nursing station, free from the pancreatic drain, Ron is starting to look more like a human being. Slowly, his pancreas is digesting food and while the central line will remain in for a while longer, lime gelatin and chicken broth now work their way into his system. He is pale. Like legendary vampires, he has not seen the sun. We make his room as cheerful as we can. A poster saying, “Get Well Soon!” and signed by every student at Westtown Middle School decorates an entire wall. Each day, I tack up new cards sent by my students, oblivious to the marks I am making on the wall. Doctors and nurses come in daily to read the new arrivals.

            There are flowers and books and treats he cannot yet eat but shares with frequent visitors. Balloons are tied to his bed rail. The infection is gone, his lungs are clear, and the pleuravac has been moved to the aid of someone else. Dr. Huffman talks about him going back to rehab.

            But I cannot let that happen. The guilt that surrounded me from the pneumonia incident still grips me. Despite the care he will need, I will bring him home when he is ready. I will rearrange my life. I will give up sleeping. But I will not send him back to Harlee Manor.

            Dr. Huffman comes in for her daily chat, admiring the cards on the wall and the fresh bouquet of flowers from the church. Kelvin from Ron’s plant has just been here and given me an envelope of money collected from the guys on Ron’s floor. It will pay the mortgage this month. I make a mental note to send an e-mail thanking them all. At least twenty people from Heinz have asked me to add them to my weekly updates. Most will e-mail me back.

            I continue to pray for you and your family.

            I admire your strength and faith.

            Please let me know if there is anything I can do.

            You should be a writer; I love reading your reports on Ron!

            Joan smiles at me. “Yes, I think…I really think…we can talk about releasing Ron. I want to keep an eye on his lungs, do another X-ray tomorrow to make sure we won’t have a relapse of pneumonia. But everything else looks good.” She looks over the chart. “Is Friday afternoon good for you?” It is like Joan to always be concerned with my schedule and not expect me to bend to hers.

            I nod. “I can be here by 4. Will the visiting nurse be able to come on Saturday? Or will we will be on our own until Monday?”

            Joan pauses to think. “I’ll talk to them myself, tell them that someone needs to come Friday night and Saturday. Can you get someone to be with Ron while you are at work? His parents, maybe?”

            I nod with more optimism than I feel. “We’ll work it out.”

            “I have a few suggestions,” she says. “Get a little refrigerator in his bedroom or at least an ice chest. Keep water and juice in it so he doesn’t get dehydrated. And put some extra cushions on your chairs. Ron’s going to have trouble getting up and down. You have steps?” I nod. “He shouldn’t use them alone. And I don’t think you’re the candidate to help him up and down. His dad, maybe?”

            “Maybe,” I say. “We’ll work it out.” My mind has gone into overdrive. This is Wednesday and I have a conference with Allen’s teacher tonight. Tomorrow is graduate school. When, exactly, will I pull all of this together? I remind myself that this is about Ron, not me. He’s coming home. He needs to be home.

MAY 8, 2000. 8PM.

            Cris has been Allen’s caseworker for two years now. As the mother of a special education student, I assist with the writing of Allen’s Individualized Educational Program (IEP) each year. Cris has been sympathetic to Allen’s feelings these last few months. She is jubilant that Ron is coming home.

            “Allen worries, you know,” she confides to me. “At first, after Mr. Cobourn’s accident, he seemed really withdrawn and scared. I thought about referring him to Dr. Purcell.” I nod, knowing Cris would have called me had it remained a concern. “But then it seemed as if he grew up. It was kind of amazing to see.” I smile and tell her the story of the shillelagh. She presses a hand to her pregnant belly. “I can’t wait to be a mom,” she says. “So many wonderful things happen!”

            Allen will be mainstreamed into a regular science class next year and I am concerned about the textbook he will be expected to use. Cris says she will give me a copy of the book and put me in touch with the science teacher he’ll have. I make some notes on ways to adapt the book to Allen’s needs: go over the vocabulary with him ahead of time, make outlines, read ahead. Cris and I talk about the adjustments Allen will need to make with his dad back him again. “Good ones,” she says. “But we’ll all be understanding if his attention in class wanders. There are bound to be challenges.”

            It is 9:00 when I leave the middle school and I thank Cris exuberantly for her time. She has been a mainstay to Allen this year. “Good luck,” she says and gives me a hug. She has sent me several notes during this interim, assuring me that she is praying for our family. I tell her I will pray for her and the new baby.

            I remember this clearly: looking up at the stars as I come out of the school and cross the parking lot to my car. I remember marveling at the distance to the stars, the miracle of light reaching us millions of years after it has left its own planet. I remember breathing deeply and holding the air in my lungs, letting it out slowly. I remember thanking God that Ron was on his way home and praying for the strength to handle it. I remember thinking, “We made it.”

            When I arrive home there is a message, carefully written out and left by the phone. Call Dr. Azer at the hospital. Very important. There is a beeper number beside the message.

            My heart sinks.

MAY 8, 2000. 10 PM.

            “I tried to reach Dr. Huffman,” says the very young Dr. Azer. She is blonde and pretty, dressed in green scrubs and the same type of surgical clogs Joan wears. “And when I couldn’t, I called Dr. Thumble. He said to do a CT scan and reinsert the pic line. We’ve also got him hooked up to the telemetry machine because of the heart arrhythmia.” She pauses at the door to the cardiac unit. “I don’t want you to be alarmed by the machines,” she says.

            I want to laugh. I have seen more machines on my husband than she can possibly imagine. “I’ll be okay,” I assure her.

            “I was doing rounds and I knew Mr. Cobourn was scheduled to be released on Friday. So when I noticed the fever and chest sounds, I was a little worried.”

            “So it’s his lungs?” I ask.

            She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. There are decreased breath sounds, but I really think it’s an infection.”

            “We’ve been through several.”

            She nods sympathetically. “I’ve read over his chart. It’s pretty thick. You guys have been through a lot.”

            “We thought it was over. Hoped it was over.” I almost laugh.

            Her blue eyes fasten on mine. “I wasn’t really sure what to do, you know. It could have just been an elevation of temperature. Sometimes that happens at night.” She is preaching to the choir. “But I wanted to be cautious. I know he’s lost a lot of weight. We don’t want him going home and coming right back.”

            I thank her for her thoroughness. I am relieved that the infection was caught before he came home. She leaves me at the door to Ron’s room. “Just for a few minutes,” she says. “Visiting hours are over, but the nurses will ignore you for a while.” She promises to run some more tests in the morning and call me at school.

            Ron is still awake when I enter his room, staring out the window. “Hey,” I say. “I know you’re disappointed. So are we.”

            He shrugs. “I thought I was ready to come home. I guess the time’s not right yet.” I hold his hand and we talk for a few minutes, trying to accept that we need to wait a while longer. We are both disappointed.

            But I am lying to both Ron and myself. I am not so much disappointed as relieved. For a while longer, my critically ill husband will remain in someone else’s charge.