“Do you feel it coming?”
“Yes, but it’s stuck. I can feel it trying to poke through, but it won’t come.”
She then began to breathe Lamaze-style, exhaling in bursts to deal with the pain. That is when I offered the unthinkable, the thing our vows didn’t come close to covering, the true test of Dr. McSegal.
“Do you…want me to try to pull it out?”
“I don’t know. Do you think you can? Whoo, whoo. Ow. Yes!”
I quickly ran into the hallway and found a box of surgical gloves. Slipping a pair on, I returned to the bathroom, where she was leaning against the doorframe in agony. Always the general, she commanded, “Put on some gloves!”
“I am! What do you think, I’m gonna go up there barehanded?!”
I grabbed some Vaseline and lubed the area.
“Okay, bend over,” I instructed.
And then, with face scrunched and two fingers extended, I reached in. There was immediate contact.
“Can you feel it?”
“Yeah. You’re right, it’s stuck right at the end.”
“Can you get it? Whoo, whoo, whoo,” as she continued her Lamaze breathing.
“Hang on.”
I pushed a little deeper, which naturally elicited another yelp of pain, and though I could feel how hard it was, it wasn’t just a little nugget that was going to clear the way for the rest to follow. There was a significant mass of it.
“Okay, ready…” and then, keeping with our child-delivery motif, “Push!”
“Nnnngggg. Owwwww!”
I pulled out the first hunk, and with it cradled in my hand, I went over to the toilet and tossed it in. The immediate relief from that extraction turned Susan from being a reluctant participant into an eager one. “Oh, God, that’s better. Can you get any more?”
Then the laughter started. Her tears of pain were mixed with the hilarity and embarrassment of the situation. I went back in, and for the next few minutes pulled out what I could. Soon, it was coming faster than I could keep up with, and my attempts to keep it contained to the toilet were failing as shit was basically flung around the room in our desperate attempt to clear the passageway.
We both were in hysterics, and then after a quantity that seemed like at least a couple of day’s worth, she finally felt like she could do the rest on her own, and so I put her rehab commode back over the toilet and she eased herself down.
I surveyed the battle scene and began wiping up the random shrapnel, while she remained seated, blissfully evacuating amid occasional bursts of laughter. A few minutes later, I peeled off my gloves and added them to the trash bag. It was finally over.
And then, still seated there, she looked up at me, her eyes still red from laughing. “Oh, my God. That’s love for you,” she said, and chuckled.
You can fucking say that again.
the unposted: part 16
Just as this entire journey has been so unpredictable, during the next few months, Susan suddenly hit another unexpected rough patch.
Though her hip surgery was successful in terms of helping with her flexibility, she began experiencing an enormous amount of pain in her leg, making it very difficult to walk. A visit back to Dr. Allison and more X-rays revealed a new complication. It turns out that even though the HO in her hip was preventing her from standing up straight, it was also protecting her femoral head (where the hip meets the thigh). Now that the HO had been removed and her hip was resting back where it should, the femoral head had begun decaying, which now required a hip replacement. The hits just kept coming.
Susan reassured me, “Love will see us through—if you don’t kill me first.”
This new development was hard for both of us—Susan, naturally, because she faced yet another surgery and recovery, and me, because of the demands on my patience for playing nursemaid for another post-op period. An additional complication to the whole matter, other than the medical issue, was the timing. I had taken another job by this point, one that I was much happier with. In addition to that, Alyce’s bat mitzvah was coming up in a couple of weeks. After that, I had to go out of town on a shoot for ten days, followed by coming home for only a week before going back out for another ten days.
The plan was to do the surgery after the second round of filming so that I could be around for her recovery, but the pain became so intense that we had to schedule it for the week between the two shoots, hoping there’d be enough time for her to recover so that she could manage on her own while I was gone. She certainly also would be able to rely on the continued generosity and help from friends, which was comforting.
And then there was Alyce’s bat mitzvah.
It’s funny to think that in just one day, in fact in just a matter of hours, a boy or a girl can cross an invisible line that marks the transition from childhood to adulthood. For Alyce, at least according to the Jewish religion, that day had finally arrived.
The truth is, though this would be the day that our religion made it official, Alyce had passed over that threshold a year and a half earlier, the day that bus crossed its yellow line into the path of our car. In that instant, she dealt with facing devastating loss as she kissed her mother goodbye, thinking that it might be for forever. Pulling herself from the car, she found the presence of mind to call me. And over the next months, learned about independence, self-sufficiency, and self-sacrifice.
There was nothing about her that wasn’t already a young woman. Yet, of course we were still so happy and proud to go through the formal day with her. By this point, Susan’s pain was agonizing. She had tried a cortisone shot, which gave her a modicum of relief for a couple of days, but now she couldn’t take a step without searing pain. Still, she wasn’t going to let that interfere with this day that Alyce had worked so hard for and had been looking forward to for so long.
We were going to be back in the temple’s sanctuary, by definition a place of safety and refuge, surrounded by so many who had played such significant roles over the past eighteen months. Since the accident, I’d been to my fair share of bar and bat mitzvahs. I’d let the prayer and music fill me with emotion, and the blessings and sentiments of the parents’ hopes and wishes for their children push that emotion into tears. This was a holy place, but nevertheless I wondered, was it God I’d become closer to or the people who filled the space? With everything we’ve been through, I wasn’t yet convinced that heavenly angels existed, but I was certain that human ones did.
On the day of the service, Susan rallied for the event, hiding the pain she was in. We sat in the front of the congregation, watching our girl go through the same ritual that so many millions of others have held as a defining moment in their lives. I was filled with pride, but more than that, I was incredibly grateful.
From the “parental message” I wrote for the program:
We remember when you were born, holding this little miracle in our arms. And then, over the years as you grew older and bigger, even as we continued to love you, we tended to get caught up in life and failed to remind ourselves on a daily basis of the marvel you are. And then suddenly things change, and we’re once again acutely aware of this piece of grace we are blessed with. Alyce, you are that miracle of life, many times over. It’s impossible to hold you and not feel grateful; impossible to not appreciate who you are and who we know you’ll be as you continue life’s journey.”
It was a wonderful and emotional service full of a tremendous amount of love and support. As part of the service when the bar (boy) or bat (girl) mitzvah reads from the Torah, before each of these passages, the rabbi invites certain people up for an aliyah, which is the honor of being called to the Torah for a reading. It is meant to recognize the people most influential and close to the bar or bat mitzvah and the family. Usually, aliyahs consist of loved ones such as parents first, then grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins, but anyone can receive this honor, including teachers and friends.
For Alyce’s aliyahs, we first called Michael up with both my mother and Susan’s m
other to read the Torah blessing. Fortunately, Michael was there to cover for the grandmothers, who, despite spending their entire lives as Jews and participating in Jewish events and services, and even with hours of practicing, could still only silently mouth their way through the blessing. Next came Susan and me, and after us, we brought Michael back up to the bimah.
Then, for the next aliyah, we did something a little different from the usual, something to recognize the gift our community had given us. The rabbi announced it: “For the third aliyah, the Segals would like to call you, the congregation—their family and friends—to recognize and honor the love and support you have given them. If you would all rise and, as a community, place an arm around one another as we read together the blessing.”
Not only was it incredibly rewarding to give this small gift back to those who had given so much to us, but to see everyone rise and engage in this large embrace was truly special. I made a point of completely taking in the moment, standing up there with my family and looking out into our smiling, tearful community. I knew they all appreciated the miracle that we represented, standing there, the four of us, still together and fighting this ongoing battle that none of us deserved. I also knew that none of them deserved the battles they were fighting.
Everybody’s got their bus. We’ve all been hit with something, and we deal with what we’re dealt.
Following the service, that night we all gathered again for a party. While Alyce and her friends tore up the dance floor, Susan stayed confined to a chair but enjoyed herself nonetheless, talking and laughing with friends and family. It had been a wonderful day and night, and when it was over, I wheeled her back to our car and then home, where she struggled up the stairs and finally collapsed into bed.
A few days later, as the pain in her leg worsened, the time came for me to go away for my shoot; it was tough…for both of us. We had ostensibly been joined at the hip since the accident, so saying goodbye was hard enough on its own. Coupled with that, Susan was scared because she was having more and more trouble just walking, never mind taking care of the kids’ needs, schlepping them around with pickups, drop-offs, baseball, softball, etc. There was also the depression of having to face yet another surgery. It was a lot to process and handle, and I, her most constant and reliable crutch, wasn’t going to be around to lean on.
Thankfully, again with the help of friends, she managed okay while I was gone, but during that time, she became even more apprehensive about future potential issues and the ongoing uncertainty of what might present itself in the months and years ahead. Despite that, we continue to remind ourselves that we don’t want to live that way, worrying about what might happen. We can only react to what does happen, and this, unfortunately, has been one of those things. In time, we’ll be beyond it, and until then, all we can do is stop and remember to take in the special moments of life, basking in memories like standing up on the bimah, surrounded by so much love and joy.
day 548
It’s not over yet. We’re still running our race…albeit, admittedly, getting tired of it.
Susan is back in the hospital, having just emerged from a necessary hip replacement. All went as well as hoped, but because of a little more bleeding than they expected, they’ve decided to keep her overnight in the ICU.
So here we are, once again putting to test what has been a constant for Susan—her infinite, positive attitude. I’m confident it will remain and she will rally, digging deep to find her fourth, fifth, or eighty-fifth wind before she finally crosses that finish line.
A conventional marathon is fixed. Yes, it’s twenty-six excruciating miles, but there’s a beginning, middle, and an end, and at any point during it, you know where you stand. Our marathon doesn’t work that way. As we run, we think, or should I say, hope, that we’re finally nearing the finish line and then, like a cruel prank, it’s moved forward again, just out of reach, teasing us with promised relief.
Another difference with our particular race is that, unlike conventional marathons for which there can be thousands of participants, in ours there is only one. However, we are fortunate to still have an extraordinary sideline of supporters, all cheering just for her…
To please keep running.
the unposted: part 17
I was hit (extended pause) by a bus.”
This is the statement the kids most tease Susan about, often wagering among themselves how long it will take her to make this declaration when she meets someone new. It usually isn’t too long into the conversation. Being polite, people generally don’t ask why she uses a cane or where the scars on her arms and neck came from or what those two little dents in her forehead are from, but when Susan has to explain why she isn’t physically able to do something, like go on a college campus tour or watch everybody else ice skate from the sidelines, or is simply making conversation with someone new, she will say, “Oh, I had this crazy accident….” That’s when the kids will look at each other and me, and mouth along like it’s a movie they’ve seen a million times, “I was hit…by a bus.”
Yes, she was. At least our family maintains a sense of humor about it. Furthermore, Susan has decided to wear it as a badge of honor versus using it as an excuse or a depressing life sentence. I was hit by a bus…and I lived to tell about it.
She says it not to garner sympathy or pity but recognizes that it is remarkable and should be shared with a spirit of accomplishment. It’s okay to be famous for this, maybe even more so than what she grew up dreaming of becoming famous for. Because here, she actually accomplished the miraculous feat rather than simply portrayed it in a TV, theater, or movie role. She’s lived it.
It’s her story, not her entire story but certainly a significant part. She has embraced that and is determined to use it to carry her forward rather than to hold her back. And what a wonderful way to be able to walk through life, even if it’s with a less-than-perfect gait.
And so, 165 days after my previous update, I posted this….
day 713: the final update
On October 23, it will be six months since Susan’s hip replacement, and exactly two years since the accident. Happily, the memories of both continue to fade into the distance.
Susan is walking better than ever, more upright, still with a pronounced limp, but with no hip pain other than sore muscles after she works her body a little too hard. And that’s a pain she is more welcoming of, as she knows it’s a necessary and healthy part on her path to recovery.
As we approach the two-year mark, it really feels like we’re coming to the end. There will naturally be other challenges ahead, but hopefully they will be the kind we’ll consider ourselves lucky to face—Michael soon going off to college, Alyce entering high school, decisions about our future that are no longer centered around the events of the past two years. Throughout this entire journey, the one enduring hope from us and from all of you is that we somehow, at some time, emerge on the other side of this. Thankfully, it feels like we are at last there.
With that in mind, we did something the kids have been begging us to do since they were little and that Susan’s delusions prophesied—we got a dog! He’s a rescue, curly hair, fashionably black with little white socks for feet and white around his neck. When we first took him out on his leash, I noticed that he also walked a little sideways. It turns out he had been hit by a car and had to have a plate surgically inserted into his hip. When the kids heard this, noting the uncanny similarities of his injury as well as his curly hair and stylish black outfit, they said, “Mom, we got you as a dog!” Bruce (that’s his name) also doesn’t wallow in his injury. He isn’t lamenting; his spirit is purely positive. He’s just gotten on with his life, is happy to see us when we return home from our days, happy to play…just happy. Those qualities are quintessentially Susan.
And so it’s natural to wonder, and a question the whole family has been asked, “How has this entire experience affected you?” For me, some of that answer is contained in the many entries that came before this. F
or Susan and the kids, despite it being two years, some of the answer may be too early to tell.
In fact, on occasion, we discuss such questions among ourselves. For example, yesterday while we were all driving home, Michael asked, “How do you think the whole experience affected the way you parented us?” I explained that I didn’t want to drag them onto the emotional roller coaster of good days and bad days, and that I tried to protect them from that. I also told them that I tried to normalize things at home as much as possible, by continuing to take them to school and to be home to share dinners together like before the accident.
Many assumed that I camped out in the hospital that first night and every night for the duration of Susan’s stay, curled in a reclining hospital chair with a limp blanket, surrounded by the sounds of the ICU machines and moans and coughs from the patients and electronic honks from the ventilators. The truth is, I didn’t stay overnight in the hospital that first night, or any night. My decision might have been different had we lived farther than fifteen minutes away from the hospital. I knew I could get there quickly if I needed to, and I wanted to be home with the kids. Each in their own way was experiencing the worst time in their life, and if they couldn’t have their mom, I wanted them to have their dad. Susan was unconscious and surrounded by the finest doctors and nurses. She might have sensed my presence in the room or subconsciously known I was there, but I knew she didn’t need me to be there to know that I loved her and was sending my strength. On the other hand, I felt my kids did.
So I was home with them for dinners and intent on maintaining a sense of normalcy, but it was still far from normal. Alyce refers to those first few weeks as being like living in a horror movie, and the phone was the murderer. Over dinner, they’d sit and pray it didn’t ring. Periods of quiet would cause the suspense to build in the same way a killer lurks nearby, threatening to burst in at any moment.
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