Wait…aside from the masterful negotiating, was this a joke from our typically stone-faced neurosurgeon? Even the nurse seemed a little surprised by the out-of-character remark.
Susan laughed and of course said what we were all thinking, “Oh, my God, Dr. Baron, did you just make a joke?” He seemed a little embarrassed, but smiled. “I’m proud of you,” she continued. “See, you can be serious and still have a sense of humor.”
Which is exactly the attitude I hope she’ll be able to hold on to herself, and losing the neck brace was a much-needed morale boost. From Susan’s perspective, the rest of her physical progress might seem either halted or even reduced a bit, but by stripping away the collar, one more piece of the ordeal has been left behind, and that comes with tremendous satisfaction.
And that, I guess, is what a simple step forward looks like.
day 166
Well, we finally had sex again…if that’s what you can call it.
Imagine combining the awkwardness of virginal teenagers with aliens who suddenly find themselves inhabiting human bodies with absolutely no idea about what sex is or how to do it. That about sums up the experience. The desire was there, but it was like a geometry problem figuring, out how to execute it. I couldn’t really put any pressure on Susan’s body because of her aches and pains. She couldn’t get on her knees because they were broken, or lie on her stomach, or even spread her legs very far due to the restrictions in her hip. But it was the night before our wedding anniversary, and we were determined and finally found a position that worked…sort of.
The next question, while engaged in this unwieldy position, was whether the pain from the intense cramping in my calf was going to become too much to bear before I finished? Though it was nice to share that intimacy again, physically it was more uncomfortable than pleasurable and frankly a bit depressing.
Like all the other ways we were looking at Susan’s future physical limitations, we were forced to examine this one as well. I had taken home a pamphlet from the hospital that suggested sexual positions for patients with back injuries. After reviewing it, it didn’t come close to being applicable given the unique nature and scope of Susan’s injuries, and I have a feeling I’ll have trouble finding the pamphlet that pertains to our situation, the one titled “The simple guide to sex after you’ve been hit by a bus.” Page 1: Don’t bother trying. Hopefully, as she continues to get better, this, too, will follow.
Until then, that leaves us on our own, two aliens in these strange bodies, trying our best to figure out how they fit together.
day 215
On the road again…she just couldn’t wait to get back on the road again.
Remarkable as it may seem, Susan got the sign-off from her doctors to begin driving again, just seven months after the accident.
I was concerned that she’d have the physical and mental ability to do so, but in terms of the physical, she passed her eye exam, and both her rehab doctor and Dr. Allison agreed that, even with her mobility limitations, she could drive if she wanted to. She does, and doesn’t feel nervous about it at all. Fortunately, because she doesn’t remember anything from the accident, she doesn’t have any real PTSD to deal with…at least that we know of. I do worry, however, that perhaps some of that darkness lives inside her, deeply recessed in her brain and waiting to rear its ugly head as soon as she gets behind the wheel.
A month or so ago, we went to the movies, and there was a scene with a car chase that ended in a head-on collision. It was pretty disturbing, and when I glanced over to see how she was handling it, she seemed to be okay. Afterward, I asked her how she felt, and she said that the scene definitely gave her a pit in her stomach and was difficult to watch, but there were no residual images that flashed through her mind. In all this time, she’s never had a single nightmare in which she relives the accident.
Given her clean bill of health, later that afternoon, she surprised Alyce by picking her up from school. As soon as Alyce got into the car, Susan burst into tears, grateful to be able to participate in this daily activity again, one that many perceive to be a nuisance or a mindless chore at best. For Susan, to be able to be with her girl again and hear about her day as they drove home together was now one of life’s great gifts.
However, though Susan wasn’t nervous about driving, I can’t say the same for Alyce. At the time of the accident, Alyce was seated in the front seat of the car, and so for a couple of weeks after when anyone drove her, she opted to ride in the back seat. For a period of time, she also wanted to take a different route to school than she had taken that fateful morning. All understandable requests. Over time, she returned to riding in the front and was even fine with the old route, though she continues to clench at the sight of a truck or a bus. Hell, I do as well. Now with Susan driving again, Alyce has reverted to the back seat, just for that added measure of comfort and safety. But this first drive went smoothly, and I feel confident that her nerves will calm in time.
For Susan, having the independence that driving brings is huge. She’s felt like such a burden all these months, having to be lifted and pushed and transported, unable to do really anything on her own. One of her concerns is that it will all become too much for me and the weight of that load will cause me to bail. As often as I reassure her that that will never happen, it hasn’t lifted that heaviness.
Now, perhaps, as she returns to the road, in addition to the freedom that being able to drive brings, those fears will be set free as well.
day 282
I brought Susan to see the car today, or I should say, what remains of it.
Due to the ongoing investigation into the accident, it’s been kept in storage for all this time. However, we were now told it could be released, and so I wanted to retrieve any personal belongings before it was sent to the crusher. Initially, Susan wasn’t sure whether she wanted to see it, yet part of her was intrigued. By now she had seen pictures of the accident, which were met with incredulous horror. I was apprehensive about the visit, namely because I had already seen the car and knew that the pictures really didn’t do the magnitude of the miracle justice.
Driver’s seat
Alyce’s little pocket of safety — front passenger seat
Driver’s side profile
View from head-on — favoring the driver’s side
Susan at the driver’s side door
We walked into the warehouse, and seeing the car in person, her mouth dropped and she began to cry. “Wow,” was all she could utter.
She walked around it, amazed at the extent of the damage. Reaching the right side, she looked at the tiny pocket of space that used to be the front passenger seat and shook her head in disbelief. “How did Alyce ever survive that? And without even a single broken bone?!”
“I don’t know,” I answered, equally mystified.
We sifted around the remains for her favorite hat, the one so famously visible from the accident helicopter shot, but it wasn’t there. We also checked the trunk for anything of value, sentimental or monetary, but there really wasn’t much.
Susan then posed for a few pictures before we told the investigator who let us in that we were ready to go. She turned to him and said, “I was hit by a bus.”
“I know,” he said. “But finish the sentence.”
“What do you mean?” Susan asked.
“Finish the sentence. You were hit by a bus…”
Susan remained quiet, still puzzled.
…“And lived to tell about it,” he finished it for her.
Susan nodded her head, thoughtfully. “You’re right,” she responded.
He then told us that in the thirty-one years that he’s been an investigator, and the decades he was in law enforcement before that, he’s seen a lot of wrecks, but none that were this bad. “And to be sitting here, talking to you, after you were in there…” he trailed off, now barely able to finish his sentence. “That doesn’t happen. Someone was surely looking after you.”
I took in his words, w
hich I had heard from so many others before him, and taking one last look at the car, how absolutely decimated it was, I found it difficult to not come to the same conclusion.
day 365: an anniversary of sorts
One year ago tonight I went to bed and, like the rest of us, didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.
It ended up bringing the horrible beauty of life, unpredictable, flawed and fragile, ugly and painful…and, at the same time, full of love, compassion, tears, and smiles. It tested strength and reinforced relationships, united friends and family, and reminded so many to be grateful for so many different things.
Here we are one year later, a very long year later, and I’m faced with simultaneously wanting to remember and wanting to forget. I want to remember to care where I should, and to not where it’s trivial. I want to remember to appreciate, be thankful, and not take days for granted, even as challenging as those days may be. I want to remember to remember.
But I also want to forget—forget the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the smell of antiseptic gel.
So on this anniversary of sorts, this commemoration, that’s the balance I live in, this dance of trying to remember and forget. Still, as hard as one can try to forget, the scars are constant reminders, some more visible than others.
Susan is spared the scar of the memory of the accident, but her body wears the scars of the trauma. I hope that someday, if not now, she’ll be able to look at those scars with a sense of pride that she had the strength and resilience to survive against all odds. Alyce’s and Michael’s scars are less obvious, which can be more concerning because it’s difficult to know how deep they go.
Thinking about the anniversary, yesterday Alyce said to me, “Do I have to go to school tomorrow?”
“Yes, baby, you do,” I replied.
“Well, can you drive me instead of Mom?”
“Sure.”
“And can we go a different way?”
So we took a different route, even though I knew that was just a temporary cure and wouldn’t remove the lingering fear. We are all condemned to live with each of our scars, but we hope they’ll continue to fade or that, in time, we won’t look at them as flaws.
Recently, I attended the funeral of a friend, someone who had reached out to Susan at the time of the accident, who had been so very supportive and sweet…and was now gone. It wasn’t lost on me how easily I could have been the husband in the front row of the chapel, saying goodbye to his love and the mother of their children.
The service was understandably tragically sad, but right afterward something happened that brought a little light to the day. A friend I hadn’t seen in many years approached me and told me how she has been riveted by Susan’s story, and that she isn’t the only one in her family following it; her teenage daughter has read every update. The mom reminded me that her daughter is on the autism spectrum and that, throughout her life, her daughter has faced certain fears and anxieties. And then she told me, with tears in her eyes, “You have to know how Susan’s story has affected her.” She told me that her daughter, when faced with something particularly daunting in her own life will now say, “If Susan Segal can do it, so can I.” This has become her mantra of sorts, to look at someone else’s unimaginable challenge and use it to push through her own. It was deeply moving and inspiring for me to hear this, and it illustrated so clearly how something very good can come from something very bad.
Meanwhile, as we try to continue moving forward, yesterday we experienced another setback. Susan and I went to see Dr. Allison, who after reviewing her latest X-rays has sadly determined that she does indeed require more surgery. We had hoped her immobility would be worked out through rehab, but that’s not going to be the case, and so she will be going back into the hospital in the next few weeks for what will hopefully be our last operation and our final stretch of recovery. Neither of us is particularly looking forward to it, but at the same time, if it’s necessary, we want to get it over and done with.
In one sense, this surgery will be far less of an ordeal than what Susan went through before, but in other ways, it could be harder. This time, she will be forced to face it and the subsequent pain with a lucid mind versus her previous fantastical experience of submarines and sewing fish. Going into this, though, she is comforted by the thought, one you may have heard her say because she says it often (but also means it): Love is the answer. She’s felt it all along from each and every one of you, this wonderfully large community, and she feels it still. For that, I remember to be truly grateful.
So as this year comes to a close, like always, we’ll just have to see what tomorrow brings…
days 421–423: a familiar scene
Not exactly the place she thought she’d get recognized.
Here we were again on the eighth floor of Cedars, the same floor as Susan’s rehab, but roughly one year later. It was eight in the morning, and Susan’s surgery was scheduled for 9:30. While we were waiting to be brought into prep, it was like a bizarre reunion. As doctors, nurses, therapists, and staff passed by, when they saw Susan, they exclaimed, “Susan! Oh, my God! Look at you!”
She’d fill them in on her progress and explain why we were back, to which all of them were incredibly encouraging, echoing other previous comments we’ve heard. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. If you could make it through all the other…”
Clearly she was a patient who had made a huge impression. Doctors and nurses who hadn’t even dealt with Susan came by to say, “So you’re the one. There’s been a lot of conversation about you.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m famous for being hit by a bus.”
She was pretty accustomed to being flippant about it, calling herself a “walking metaphor,” or when she couldn’t remember something or got something wrong, would justify it by saying, “I get a permanent bus pass.”
Five hours later—it was early afternoon when they finally wheeled us back into the pre-op room and got her prepped—a nurse arrived to check us in. “How are you?” the nurse asked.
“Okay. Am I going in soon?” Susan responded.
“Yes, sorry for the long wait. Are you nervous?” the nurse asked.
“Not that…hungry.”
They assured her that it wouldn’t be long, but it was still another hour or so of waiting. Finally, the anesthesiologist arrived and went through his questions, eventually asking if she’d been given anything for anxiety.
“No, but I’d like something,” Susan said.
“So, you’re feeling anxious?”
“Yes,” she joked, “about when I’m going to get to eat again!”
Eventually she was taken in, and a few hours later Dr. Allison emerged and informed me that everything had gone very well. There was a lot of excess bone to chip away at, sort of like sculpting Mount Rushmore from a large piece of granite, but, as a result, he feels that she will have much better mobility. The bone had her completely locked up, and the knowledge he now had confirmed that all the PT in the world would never have made a difference.
Her subsequent stay in rehab was night and day compared to her first. Physical therapists, unfamiliar with Susan and used to first-timers, would come in and begin instructing her how to transfer to the wheelchair and then to stand, but Susan was way ahead of them, a seasoned expert at it all. Already, she is standing straighter than before, has far more mobility, and feels a million times better. She’s no longer the hunched-over bubbe.
So after some quick maintenance, our rock star, the one famous for so much more than just being hit by a bus, is back on the road again…now with a bit more bounce in her limp.
day 427
There have been days that tested my patience, others that tested my strength, my resilience, faith, pretty much everything you can think of. But this one tested something altogether very different.
After Susan’s latest surgery, the one thing she consciously experienced more than her previous surgeries was the pain. It was bearable, but, like every normal human being, she had
to rely on painkillers to get her through the worst of it. They did the trick, but they did another trick as well. They made her extremely constipated.
She had been taking stool softeners, but to no avail, and she was getting extremely uncomfortable. So on the fourth day of this, I went to the drugstore and bought her a saline laxative. I’ve had to drink these for the various colonoscopies I’ve had, and a half a bottle was more than enough to get me going, so that’s where we started.
She downed half the bottle, and we sat back and waited the ten minutes for it to kick in. After twenty minutes, there was still no action, so she drank the other half. For sure, we’d get something now, but again, after waiting twenty minutes longer, there still was nothing. This was enough laxative for a rhino, but it was having absolutely no effect.
Then the pain started. Not pain in her hip, but in her stomach, her bowels, everywhere. It was crippling, bending her over in excruciating agony for which she was desperate for relief. I had read about this kind of blockage, where it becomes so impacted that it requires going to the ER for help. I asked her if she wanted to go.
“I don’t know. Yes. Oww. No. I don’t know. Oh, my God.”
I was helplessly standing by while she was writhing in pain. “What can I do?” I asked.
“Nothing. Ow. I don’t know. Owwwwww!”
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