Monday, July 21, 2014

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.



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