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
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.
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.
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.
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 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 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment