Dr. Baron didn’t even crack a smile.
“You don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you, Dr. Baron?”
“Trust me, you don’t want a neurosurgeon who’s not serious,” he said.
Probably true. And if good meant we couldn’t get funny, I think we all know which we’d prefer.
That was it, so we bid goodbye to another one of our miracle workers until our next follow-up appointment. I whisked Susan out of there, zipped over to Max’s office to pick up the waterproof shower collar, and rushed home.
I wheeled her back up the ramp and into the house, where we grabbed her PVC walking sticks and began the journey upstairs, the huge incentive of a hot shower waiting for her at the top of the twenty-two steps. She managed the first three okay, then looked up at the next fourteen and deeply exhaled. I asked if she was okay and she nodded. As she stood there holding onto the handrail and the long stick, I quickly ran up and placed her shower chair on the next landing to create a makeshift resting station.
One by one, she began again, slow and steady, lifting her right leg and then bringing her left to meet it. I could tell she was getting tired, though. She’d never made it past the second landing before, but I knew that if we could get her up there, she could then get into our bed and wouldn’t need to come back downstairs again until after she was able to rest and have a nap.
She finally reached the second landing, tired and breathless, and I carefully helped her into the waiting shower chair. She had only five remaining steps to get to the top, but these were like the final ascent to the peak of Everest. We’ve seen our share of mountain climbing documentaries in which hikers just couldn’t take another step and lowered themselves onto the mountaintop only to perish in the cold. Here we were, on our own Everest, worried that if we waited much longer, she’d get too tired to stand back up, and then we’d really be screwed, stuck in that same kind of limbo.
While Susan was catching her breath, I returned downstairs, effortlessly sprinting down the entire flight of stairs without even thinking about it, in contrast to her struggle with each and every one of them. At the bottom, I grabbed her wheelchair and brought that up, placing it at the very top. If she could just make it there, I could wheel her into the bedroom and bathroom, where she’d only have to make the transfer from the wheelchair into the shower chair.
I returned to the second landing and asked if she was ready to continue. She nodded that she was. I helped her up, and we began the final five; I reminded her what awaited at the top. She didn’t speak, just remained intensely focused on the first step, then the next and the next, until she finally summited and we placed her in the chair. There was no celebration, no flag-planting, just pure exhaustion.
I wheeled her into the bedroom, where she needed a few minutes to recover before even attempting the shower. In the meantime, I got her ready. I took off her shoes, her pants, and shirt and then carefully removed the hard collar, exposing her bare neck. While I attached the shower collar, I supported her head like an infant’s, fearing its weight might just flop it over. I then ran the water until it flowed constant and hot, raining down in the empty stall.
Wet relief was just inches away. We got her to her feet, pulled off the rest of her clothes, and she carefully entered the shower. We have a stall with a separate bath, so fortunately she was able to walk right in. She stood for a moment, letting the hot water hit her back, bracing herself with her hands against the walls, an occasional moan or “Oh, my God” escaping her mouth. Then she lowered herself into the chair and asked for the shampoo. She lathered herself up, rinsed, and then immediately went at it again, working to rid herself of all that blood and dirt, washing off the event of three months ago.
After that second rinse, she was ready to come out. I wrapped her in a robe and got her seated again in front of the mirror. When I asked her how it felt, looking at her expectantly, she simply said, “Good.”
Just good, I wondered? It wasn’t the ecstatic response I was expecting. Maybe the climb to get here, the effort to do this simple act, was just physically and emotionally exhausting, even a little demoralizing, and that was the reason for the muted reaction. She explained that she was nervous and had a hard time really enjoying it. She was afraid of slipping and falling, and so, for both of us, I have to admit, it was a bit anticlimactic. (It would actually be the following day, her second shower, a little more settled down, that would be that “ahhhh” experience.)
As she sat there, I examined her head holes and could see that they were kind of oozing, so I took out the Q-tips and tried to coax out some of the goo. We had been warned that the holes in the back of her head were particularly prone to infection because the hair held more dirt, so I sifted through her hair to gain access to those.
Once those were cleaned, it was time to deal with her tangled hair. As I began trying to work my way through the knots and crud that even two washings couldn’t remove, once again handfuls of her hair began coming out in my hands.
Susan’s hair is one of her loveliest features, but now I could see patches of her scalp under what is normally such a thick mane. I don’t know if this was because she had been laying on it for so long or because of the trauma of the accident or the amount of X-rays she’s had to endure or a combination of all of the above, but stroke after stroke released more and more of it. There was no hiding it this time, and when we were finished, she had lost two softball-size clumps.
“My beautiful hair…” she said, weeping.
“I know… but it’ll come back.”
“Do you think?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation, not based on any real knowledge, just hope.
I continued to work on her, but whereas in the past weeks I had run the comb through with complete disregard as to how much hair became a casualty of the tangles, I now found myself gingerly manipulating, trying to preserve as many of the precious locks as possible.
We replaced her waterproof collar with the hard one, and I again put her hair in a braid. Instead of her formerly thick, long cable, this one was thin and barely went over the top of her collar. The hair tie that previously was twisted and turned two or three times, now required four or five turns to hold the strands in place. Standing there, it occurred to me that her hair was symbolic of her recovery as a whole. She had lost so much of it, and it would take time to come back, millimeter by millimeter, mirroring the little steps she was physically taking until, who knows when, it would return to its thick, long luster.
After getting her dried off and lotioned up, I helped her into some pajamas and prepared to get her into our bed. She took the few steps to its side and lowered herself down. I lifted her legs up, she stretched out, and that’s when I finally saw true satisfaction on her face. She lay back on the pillows with a blissful smile, and it wasn’t long before she dropped off into a deep sleep.
It had been, when all was said and done, quite a day.
Generally, Susan’s spirits remain extremely positive, she does have bouts when she still can’t believe this happened to her and that this is her life right now. She knows it won’t always be like this, but she wants it to be over already, the recovery part, that is. I have to agree.
We’ve been at this for close to one hundred days; it’s a long time. She’s also very conscious of her meds and wanting to wean off of them as soon as possible. Even though she’s on such low doses, given the warnings she received while in the hospital, she is hyper-aware and slightly terrified of coming out of this whole thing with a drug dependency.
Meanwhile, just as Susan’s energy hasn’t waned, neither has that of our friends. The house remains full of flowers and other treats, and visitors remain a constant. Those who hadn’t seen her in the hospital are amazed at how she looks and acts, and those who did visit her there are impressed by her progress. It’s so incredible that just a few months ago, she was such a mess and that here she is now, still with no loss of any generosity of spirit. As one friend, who was going throug
h some troubles of his own, was leaving from his visit, Susan said to him as only Susan can, “Let me know if you need anything!” The friend just shook his head and laughed at the irony.
One day, a friend came by bearing a hilarious gift—two six-packs of Diet Coke tied with a little bow. Susan still hasn’t had a sip of this, the coveted drink (even though all her restrictions have been removed). To top off a really good week, I brought her a glass, a couple of ice cubes, and popped open the top to celebrate. She poured it into the glass where it foamed and fizzed, and then she took a long anticipated sip. I watched as she tasted, swallowed, and then uttered…“Ugh, this sucks.”
“Really?” I asked, completely surprised by her reaction.
“Yes. I can’t believe I wanted one of these so badly. It’s terrible.”
Sorry, Diet Coke. Guess you just lost your biggest endorser.
days 99–102
Life seems to be returning to normalcy…a little bit, anyway.
On Thursday, we had a follow-up appointment with our wonderful orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Allison. He, too, was extremely happy to see how well Susan was doing and told us that he had just been in a team meeting where Susan came up in conversation.
“Really, you all talk about me?” Susan asked.
He made an expression like, Are you kidding? “Of course we do. You’re what we call a ‘trauma victory,’ ” he said. “And we don’t see many that reach the level you are, so yes, we talk about you often.”
This made Susan smile—“trauma victory”—a little bit of notoriety, even if it comes from being hit by a bus.
For me, “trauma victory” is a title that inherently carries with it the flip side, the numerous and likely complications that could have easily turned victory into failure. Nevertheless, Susan’s spirits were lifted hearing that she has been given this label. In the past, I’ve joked with her about some of the positive aspects about the accident. “You were on every major network; you were the talk of the town…and you lost a lot of weight! Your every dream come true!”
Now, coming from Dr. Allison, it was like he had just given her an award, one that we’ve known from the beginning she very much deserves and one she was also proud to receive. He confessed that at the time of the accident, he wasn’t so sure she was going to make it; he added that many in her condition wouldn’t have, crediting her strong survival instincts and positive attitude. I had heard that when trauma patients are initially admitted, they are given a mortality number by the hospital that indicates the likelihood of their survival. The higher the number, the lower the chance of living. I asked Dr. Allison if this was true, and he responded that it was. When I asked what Susan’s number was, he paused and simply said, “It was high.”
Susan then discussed some of the physical issues she’s been experiencing. Despite working on trying to rotate her left arm, she still can’t turn it past a vertical position. In addition, her hip feels locked in place, and she’s been unable to straighten herself while standing. Then there’s the swollen knee, swollen ankle, and ongoing numbness in her arm and leg, not to mention her Achilles heel and so on. Dr. Allison addressed all of the issues, half-speculating/half-hoping that the swelling would continue to reduce and that some of the nerve damage would heal, though he couldn’t guarantee that the feeling in her leg and arm would return completely.
He did offer that her bones are “sticking” very well. He showed us the X-rays he had most recently taken, numerous plates, rods, and screws brightly lighting up the film in contrast to the dull white of bone. He then gave us the reason why Susan can’t rotate her arm or stand up straight; both are due to heterotopic ossification, or HO. He explained that this is bone (or callous) growth that can develop around fractures. Strangely, for reasons doctors and scientists have yet to understand, HO, or this hyper-bone growth, is very common with people who have sustained a traumatic brain injury. They’re trying to discover the reason for this so that they can artificially stimulate victims whose bones aren’t healing as well and don’t have the “benefit” of a brain injury for that extra boost. In Susan’s case, she’s sort of healed too well, creating excessive HO, which has caused her forearm bones to fuse, thus her inability to rotate her arm. The HO is also heavily surrounding her hip, which might be why she can’t extend to a straight, upright position. However, he’s hoping that with continued physical therapy, the mobility in both her arm and hip will get better. If it doesn’t, especially in her hip, she’ll need additional surgery. Great.
Armed with this latest information, we set a follow-up appointment for a month down the road and bid farewell for now. From the doctor’s office, instead of heading directly home, we decided to make a stop at one of Susan’s favorite places, Bloomingdale’s! Even though she was confined to her wheelchair and didn’t intend to try anything on, just being there, and the promise of returning in the future or visiting her many other favorite shopping haunts, put a smile on her face.
Life returning to normal.
For me, the return to normal has so much good to it, but as I settle back into the daily routine, ironically I’m experiencing a bit of loss as well. Like waking from a deep sleep and trying to hold on to a pleasant dream, I can feel any bit of spiritual epiphany I may have experienced slipping away. I’ve begun getting annoyed by traffic and lousy drivers again, frustrated by long lines, slow-moving people—all the small stuff I had learned to stop sweating. My state of “enlightenment” is quickly fading, like desperately trying to hold on to that relaxed feeling one has when returning from a wonderful vacation. I suppose it’s unrealistic to never be bothered by life’s little annoyances, and whenever my clarity seems to float just beyond memory’s reach, the sight of a bus or the sound of a siren instantly reminds me of what could have been.
Throughout Susan’s time in the hospital, we always pushed through, willing ourselves to get to the “light” on the other side. Yet it’s so easy to bring myself to tears by allowing my mind to imagine the worst, for either Susan or Alyce, and wonder how one ever finds the light again after being plunged into that kind of dark loss.
I always marvel at the resilience of my grandmother, who in the course of her lifetime lost her parents, then her husband, then her son, and finally a grandson. She was still able to find joy in life. Susan continues to say that, even with feeling all the love, support, and prayers that surely guided her healing, if something had happened to Alyce, she doesn’t know if she would have had the will to survive. I, too, wrestle with that one. My heart breaks for those who have experienced that kind of loss—who have to rely on hope and faith that that light will someday reappear, maybe never quite as brightly but enough to at least offer a glimmer in the otherwise tragic darkness.
And when I think about that, and what could have been, my normal is a pretty good place to be.
the unposted: part 14
I finally took another job.
I was apprehensive about accepting it, but since Susan was doing pretty well and it had been about four months since my last paycheck, I needed to work, certainly more than I wanted to. The show itself wasn’t that great, but given our financial situation, I wasn’t in the position to be particular.
I said my goodbyes to Susan, leaving her as many instructions as when I left the sitter with our babies. It was probably unnecessary, as she had a stream of friends who were game to help in whatever way they could.
So off I went, very nervous. It felt completely strange that I was just going to pick up and return to work like the past months had never happened. Would I be able to stay focused? Would I be motivated enough? Even with shows I didn’t particularly love, I always strived to make them the best I possibly could, putting my all into them.
When I arrived, I was faced with a different and completely unexpected situation. I hadn’t worked for this production company before, and I quickly discovered that the guy I was working for was a complete jerk. When I interviewed for the job, I didn’t have a great feeling about him, and within the
first minutes of being there, I knew it was going to be a serious problem.
I struggled through the next few days, his attitude and personality not improving one iota. Every night I’d come home to what really mattered, and Susan could see the misery on my face. I’d had other tough jobs in the past, but in those cases, they were either physically demanding, or I was working extremely long hours because we were short-staffed, or I was dealing with constantly shifting creative. Nothing like what she was seeing now. I was demoralized, and it showed.
Over the weekend, I had lunch with a friend and confessed, “I’m not sure I can do it.”
His response, knowing that I needed the work, “Tough it out.”
It wasn’t a matter if I could tough it out. Throughout my career I’ve worked for bosses who are considered some of the most challenging in the business. I respected them, however, and that made the difference. I’ve dealt with difficult writers, egotistical directors, and prima donna talent, so ultimately it wasn’t a matter of if I could tough it out but why tough it out? What was I getting from this experience other than a much-needed paycheck, and while it might seem spoiled and entitled to even consider walking away from that, was it really worth trading in not just my happiness but also a bit of my soul? What I painfully learned firsthand from my father and brother and from the randomness of Susan’s accident is that life is short—potentially, very easily and very suddenly, way too short. This was definitely falling into that category. If I hadn’t just passed through this period of really examining what’s important in life, maybe I would have had a different outlook. Maybe I wouldn’t have reacted so strongly. I’m not sure that’s better: getting stuck and numbed in a dissatisfying, crappy rut but not realizing you’re even in one because you’re never jolted out of it.
Meanwhile, by the end of the week I kissed the job goodbye and never looked back. Putting on my best Zen face, body, and spirit, I trusted that the universe would continue to take care of us.
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