CHAPTER SEVEN: Still Good

OUTWARD CHANGES

(Inspired by Fiona during Meeting for Worship)

Six weeks ago, he was like a thousand other men—

Maybe taller—

Going to work every day at a job he didn’t really like

And coming home to his family each night.

A good man.

Not a rich man.

Not famous.

But good.

Now he is fed through a tube

Has a drain in his pancreas

Walks with a limp

And does not always remember what you say to him.

But on the inside, where it counts,

He is still the same good man.

Not rich.

Not famous.

But good.

And I hate to think that sometime, somewhere

Someone will look at him and only see

That he is fed through a tube

Has a drain in his pancreas

Walks with a limp and doesn’t always remember what you say to him

And not see that, inside, where it counts

He is still the same good man.

           

CHAPTER SEVEN.

APRIL 12, 2000. 4PM.

            Wild violets have grown up in the backyard. I discovered them—tiny stars of purple against green crabgrass—as Allen and I raked and trimmed. I wonder how they have survived the harsh winter, the ice and frost of neglect. Yet they have grown, struggling to push themselves out of the hard earth towards the pale spring sunshine. Despite last summer’s drought and the sub-zero temperatures of winter, they have survived and now grace my backyard with their beauty.

            They remind me of the past seven weeks, spent on hold in waiting rooms and hospital lounges. Just this morning on our way to visit their father, I said to the two offspring that were with me, “We’re a tough family. It takes a lot to knock us down.”

            “We take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’”, my youngest quipped and we laughed.

            But there is a lot of truth in Allen’s words. We have taken a beating. No one could argue that. Ron’s ongoing hospitalization has thrown obstacles and burdens our way that we could never have imagined. Long and complicated surgeries. Mounting medical bills. A leaky water heater. Car repairs. Yet, we have not been beaten. We have struggled to survive, pushing our heads above our circumstances and seeking out the sun.

            I pause in my raking, marveling at the beauty of these wildflowers. The Book of Matthew tells us to “Behold the fields in all their glory; even King Solomon was not arrayed as one of these.” The purple majesty of these small flowers is a gift from God, a miracle of the cycle of the seasons and a reminder of Christ’s resurrection. That these violets have survived against all odds is a testimony to God’s grace.

            Our family has survived. Allen is bagging up brown, winter-torn leaves at the end of the yard. His back is straight, his form tall. The shillelagh remains inside most days, propped beside his bed. The backyard no longer holds monsters and there are no more terrors of the evening.  In the dark, dankness of tragedy and despair, the children and I have continued to feel the warm love of God.

            We are peeking our own heads out now, allowing our bruised spirits to be warmed by the sun. We are secure. We are safe. We do not know what tomorrow may bring. We do not know when Ron may come home. We are not yet sure if he will recover from his wounds. The predicted two weeks have lengthened into time not measured by human calendars.

            The medical chart at the end of Ron’s bed read like this on our morning visit: Patient moved to step-down unit. Morphine infuser out. Dressing off arm and chest. Ultra sound on lung and chest X-ray. PT walked patient down the hall. Still on O2 but seems to be breathing better.

            The phone rings constantly and people leave messages. I send e-mails in the evenings, saving myself hours of phone calls and spending time with my kids. We are in a calm period now, a few days with no emergency phone calls and no surgeries.

            But we have no guarantees that this will last. Our battle is far from over.

            Allen and I have finished our chores now. I point out the wild violets to him. He bends his lanky form down, touching them with his hand. Like these violets, he is starting to turn his head towards the sun.

            Maybe, just maybe, we will yet come into the light of summer.

APRIL 14, 2000. 1PM

            Her name-tag identifies her as Karen and she is an RN. But she is not dressed in scrubs or wearing a white uniform. Instead, she has on a black skirt and a stylish pink jacket. I rub at the sleeve of my own green sweater, aware of the chalk board I brushed up against before I left my classroom an hour ago.

            “What we need to do,” she says, “is to figure out what will be the best course for Ronald now that he is ready to be released from the hospital.” It is still incredible to me that Ron is leaving, being booted out of One North—our home away from home—and sent out into the world with his central line and his feeding tube and his pancreatic and lung drains. Maneuvering him down the hallway to therapy requires two orderlies. Yet they expect that I will be able to manage him at home? “Of course,” says Karen brightly, “there will be a hospice nurse coming in three times a day. So,” she continues, “what hours are you home during the day?”

            I shake my head. We have had this conversation on the phone already, but perky Karen has refused to believe that I am “never home” and has insisted that I review my schedule before meeting her at the hospital today. I take my calendar out of my ever-present book bag. Never know when an extra-long surgery might give me time to grade a few papers or read a few chapters. “Well,” I say, “I am out of the house by 6:30. I drop Allen off at school around 6:45 and then drive to my school.”

            “Every day?” she asks, as if this daily routine is somehow abnormal.

            I nod. “Yes. Then I am at school until 3:30. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor students after school, so it’s more like 4:30. And on Monday there is a faculty meeting until 5:00. On Wednesday I have class at West Chester until 7:00. So the earliest I am ever home from school is 4:30, but most evenings it’s more like 6:00. And on Wednesdays it’s 8:00.”

            “So that leaves Fridays and the weekends,” she says brightly. “You’re home then, aren’t you?

            “Sort of,” I answer. I know I am disappointing her. “I usually spend time at the library doing research on my master’s thesis. So I’m not really home a great deal of the time.”

            “Ummm,” she says. How can the sound be accusatory? What kind of wife am I, it seems to imply, not to rearrange my schedule to bring my invalid husband home? “What about your children?” she asks. “Who takes care of them when you’re at work?”

            “They take care of them,” I say. “They don’t need someone all the time. But apparently Ron will.” The kids and I have had this discussion last night. Yes, we want Ron home, but only if there is full-time nursing care. To think of me adding his daily care to my already over-packed schedule is ludicrous.

            “Ummmm.” That sound again. “Suppose you cut out the graduate class this semester? That would work, wouldn’t it?”

            I shake my head. “No, that would not work. I’m already halfway into the semester. Too late to bale out.” Not that I would anyway. Too much depends on my getting my master’s degree. There are several more moments of silence. She taps her pencil against Ron’s medical chart, looks over the information she has written down, and sighs. Disappointed.

            “Well,” she drawls, “perhaps Ronald coming home just now isn’t the best idea. Let me see. Your insurance”—and she refers to the chart—“would provide for a rehabilitation center. Maybe that would be best until he’s a bit more stable.”

            I heave a sigh of relief. Yes. Much better. The thought of being responsible for Ron’s various gadgets and wires has terrified me for twenty-four hours. I would rather tell Reese Ron is not coming home and let him heap the blame on me than risk doing something wrong or misreading some vital monitor.

            “Alright,” says Karen. “Let me see where there are beds available and get back to you.” She names several possibilities. Two of them are relatively close to our house and might make my life marginally easier.

            I drop in at Ron’s room briefly to tell him what we’ve decided. He is disappointed he is not coming home, but I breezily reassure him that it won’t be long now. I take a peek at the medical chart Karen has handed to me to hang at the end of his bed.

            Speech pathologist will contact wife regarding short term memory loss. Some blood may be collecting in left lung. Patient walked three hundred feet with assistance. Running slight fever, spikes at night. Will be released home when home care can be set up.

            Karen has crossed out the last line and written, to rehab center when an available bed is found. Wife feels incapable of handling the demands.

            Darn right, I think. Wife is incapable of handling anything else at the moment. Let Wife figure it all out first.

            Karen calls Westtown that afternoon and leaves a message. She has found a bed at Harlee Manor, a rehabilitation center in Springfield. It is further from our house than the hospital by about twenty miles. An ambulance will transport Ron there tomorrow. Will I please come and pack up his things and sign the necessary papers? It is Friday, so luckily I can leave at 3:30 and make my way to the hospital. For the last time.

            The nurses on One North are sorry to lose Ron. He has been a good patient and our family has been a frequent and cheerful presence on the floor. In fact, the nurses early on allowed me to assume some of Ron’s care, helping him to wash and shave, and changing his hospital gown. I know where the clean sheets and towels are kept. Still, his possessions are meager and there is not much to pack. He will need to wear street clothes at Harlee, Karen has told me. I have brought several outfits for Ron, but I will pack a suitcase and bring more to the rehab center tomorrow. We will need to do his laundry while he is there. My mother-in-law, sweet woman, has volunteered for this duty.

APRIL 15, 2000. 9AM.

            Saturday. All of the nurses on One North come to say good-bye and wish us luck. Dr. Huffman arrives to sign the release papers. She hugs me and asks if perhaps we can meet for coffee sometime. “You are an extraordinary woman,” she says, but I don’t feel extraordinary, just depleted. Harlee Manor is a good half-hour drive from our house on the oft-congested Blue Route. I have not yet figured out a direct route there from Westtown. Bonnie and Allen are both with me today and we carry Ron’s things out to my ancient 1985 Celebrity. It, too, has taken a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’. We wait with Ron for the ambulance to arrive. Once he is safely strapped into the back, his tubes and lines now the responsibility of a new team, the kids and I head to Harlee Manor.

            It is not hard to find. On the outside, there is a large porch that winds around the front of the building. Parking is difficult but we find a spot near the entrance. Luckily, Ron’s possessions are still few. Inside, it is dark and overcast. The halls are filled with elderly people shuffling in their walkers. Ron, at forty-eight, will be the youngest person in the building. His roommate is a gentleman approaching eighty who does not talk. We find out later that he does rifle through Ron’s drawers during the night and one morning is found wearing one of my husband’s shirts. There is the usual raft of paperwork to be filled out. Television and phone are, of course, extra. I write the check and hand it over.

            And then we wait. The ambulance is taking its time getting here. We explore the recreation hall; it consists of several large round table and a TV set. “There were more things to do at Friends’”, says Allen. We are all so savvy about various hospitals now. We end up on the portico, playing a game with the cards Allen has in his pocket. The nutritionist comes to speak to me. She is concerned that Ron is not getting enough nutrition through his “banana pudding” bag. Duh. She has no solution.

            It is close to four O’clock when the ambulance finally arrives. Ron’s central line has pulled out somewhere on the Blue Route and they had to return to the hospital to have it reinserted. Wouldn’t that have been a good thing for his waiting family to know? We get Ron settled and take him on a slow tour of the facilities. There isn’t a lot to see. The staff seems kind and caring but I cannot really imagine Ron in this place for long. His feeding machine needs to be switched to one owned by the rehab. There is some difficulty finding the right size tubing. The first machine brought in does not pump and needs to be taken away. The second one works but makes a loud noise. The staff will find a new one on Monday, I am told.

            We stay until eight O’clock. There is no cafeteria where we can grab a salad or a burger so the kids and I are starving by the time we leave. We will be back after church tomorrow, we promise Ron. We would call him tonight but the phone line will not be hooked up until Monday.

            And so we leave him here, among the octogenerarians and well-meaning but harried nurses, cut off from communications with us for the time being. We go home and try to sleep, although guilt weighs me down.

APRIL 23, 2000.7AM.

            Palm Sunday. Rainy. There is a faint rumble of thunder. Raindrops tap on the roof and splatter across the windowpane and my own teardrops add to the melancholy of the day. It has been forty-five days that Ron has lain in one hospital bed or another, waiting for his damaged body to heal. Forty-five days that I have spent facing the world alone and struggling to hold our lives together.

            I am far beyond exhaustion and yet my mind cannot sleep. I awake at odd hours for no apparent reason and watch the luminescent numbers of the digital clock tick away. Tears, so carefully controlled for most of these six weeks, are never far from the surface.

            Palm Sunday. Certainly we expected him home by now, if not totally healed at least on the road to recovery, free from tubes and machines and back with us again. Instead, a high fever yesterday sent him from the rehab center back to the hospital where the doctors are still searching for the source of infection. Pancreas? Lungs? My limited knowledge of the human anatomy has grown by leaps and bounds and I can now easily talk with medical personnel of enzyme levels and pancreatic fluids. We are back on One North again. It almost seems like we have come home.

            Guilt burdens me and I ask myself why I did not rearrange my life and let him come home. Would I have noticed the signs of pneumonia sooner? Perhaps not, but I would have made sure his slippers were not stolen forcing him to walk the tiled halls barefoot. I would have talked to him and spent time holding his hand so he did not become discouraged. If he had been home, it would have been different. Or so I tell myself.

            My friends tell me it is not my fault. My father-in-law tells me that it is. Who am I to believe? For now, I can only pace the halls of the hospital again, praying for him with every ounce of energy I possess.

            But I cannot heal him. Only God can do that.

            Palm Sunday. Despite the rain, the birds still chirp and sing. Perhaps they know something we do not. Or is their faith in the Father so great that they do not question that the sunshine will eventually follow the rain? When I was a kid, Palm Sunday meant getting the palm branches at morning mass, hearing the homily of Jesus’ ride into Jerusalem, and anticipating a week off from school. Today it is a reminder to me of our Savior’s deliberate actions in going to Jerusalem, in full knowledge of what awaited Him there. But He did it anyway. For us. For me. For Ron.

It does not heal Ron’s body or bring him home. But it does redeem his soul. Whatever battering his physical being and his mental state have taken, his soul remains intact. It is a cause for rejoicing.

            The birds know what they are doing.

APRIL 24, 2000. 10 PM.

            I sleep on Ron’s side of the bed most nights. It sags a bit from his greater weight and I curl myself into the hollow, seeking the familiar. It has been a slow trek across the expanse of my queen-sized mattress.

            I began, in those first days after the accident, on my accustomed side of the bed, struggling to block out the sounds of crashing metal from my ears and the image of my husband’s battered body from my eyes. After Bonnie and Allen returned to their own rooms at night, I would toss and turn, clutching the pillows for comfort. The silence hung heavily; no sounds of sonorous breathing punctuated the night, no leg flung over mine pressed me to the mattress. No warm presence wrestled with the sheets or snatched the covers from my shoulders. My nights were quiet. Empty. Lonely. Slowly, I inched my way to the middle, gradually leaning towards Ron’s side and the pillow that still smelled faintly of his aftershave.

            The middle of the bed was awful. I felt like the spine of a book with two wide, wide margins on either side of me, great expanses of unfilled space where once, or so it seemed, there had hardly been enough room for two. I continued my progression towards the other side, creeping across the cold sheets, seeking comfort and warmth.

            And so I sleep on Ron’s side now, sniffing the male fragrance that still clings to his pillows, wrapping my own arms around my waist and waiting out the long hours until morning. There are times when I sleep soundly, then awaken suddenly, startled to find myself facing the room from a different angle, closer to the closet, further from the door.

            Perhaps this change is good for my point of view. Perhaps I was too secure, too boxed in. I awaken now, seeing what Ron used to see each morning. And praying that he will again.