Things had the potential to radically change from minute to minute, and my family was no longer in town—they had to leave after the first week—so Sean was alone in the hospital with me the vast majority of the time. My parents would come back for a few days at a time, but he had no other support at the hospital. His parents had offered to come help, but he worried it would be too much for them, so he reassured them he was okay.
He wasn’t okay. He was terrified for me. I hope you meet Sean one day; he is a bright light and so full of God’s love and grace. He radiates joy and love.
By then he knew that there were some serious questions about how I would function, assuming I made it through all of this. I had a colostomy, considering my intestines were still sticking out of my body, and no one knew if it would ever be reversible. I had a feeding tube, a catheter, a ventilator…there was a “wound vac” on my left side from my hip to my knee, which meant that a sponge had been inserted into my giant leg wounds, covered with a film like Saran Wrap, and a tube inserted into the sponge was connected to a vacuum that continually sucked the fluids away from the wound. I had more than three rolls’ worth of gauze packing in my abdomen, and countless rolls in my butt.
How long would I need all these things? There was no real timetable; “as long as it takes to heal” was the only response.
On October 29, there was a freak blizzard in Connecticut—a nor’easter that delivered snowflakes the size of silver dollars and forced Halloween to be canceled. Doctors and nurses who were at the hospital were trapped there; no one else could drive in. These people take on a job knowing they’re essential workers and can be forced to stay on duty in times of natural disaster and emergencies, even if it means being separated from their families. It’s pretty amazing—and I was unaware of all of it, of course. In my world, there was no blizzard. There was just the endless loop of nightmares my mind invented.
During that time, there was some talk of stepping down some of my medications to test my responsiveness—while still keeping me sedated enough for pain management. I was not yet strong enough for the next round of surgeries, and they needed my body to rally because I had a systemic infection.
They began by testing my breathing, turning the respirator on and off over the course of three days to check whether my lungs would take over. After a brief initial failure, it was successful: My oxygen levels stayed perfect, and the breathing tube was removed on October 30, three weeks into my stay. That meant I could no longer be as sedated as I was; the pain medications had to be stepped down to allow my lungs to function properly. This put all future procedures in question because no one was sure how much pain I could handle without the heaviest medications.
It also meant that I would come back to greater consciousness and try to communicate.
It wasn’t a cheerful movie-scene moment, though. Not the “Hey! I’m alive!” moment with a big smile that you see in scripted dramas. I was filled with anxiety and dread, not really sure whether I was awake or asleep, or even alive or dead. After a few days of breathing mostly on my own with the assistance of a nasal cannula, I became more aware, though it would be almost five weeks before I returned to full alertness. My first post-trauma memory is of seeing Sean standing by my bedside, talking to me in midsentence. It was so hazy that I had no idea what he was saying, but I knew he was there, and I vaguely remembered being run over. I was in a tremendous amount of pain, and I saw a doctor, so I knew I was in a hospital.
Then I spotted my parents across the room.
I tried to speak to Sean, but my vocal cords had atrophied and my mouth was so dry that no sound would form. I mouthed out the words “When did Mom and Dad get here?”
“They came in for the weekend to see you,” he said.
“So quick?”
I thought the crash had just happened and I was amazed that my parents had been able to get there so fast. In my mind, hours had passed. Maybe a day.
“Honey, you’ve been in a coma for almost a month,” he said.
That stunned me. I started crying.
“You were run over by a truck,” he said gently, unsure whether I remembered. No one knew what I would recall of that day, or of any other day, really. For the next week or two, I would forget the basics pretty often. It was a little bit like Groundhog Day for Sean; I’d wake up and not know why I was in a hospital, and Sean would have to remind me again.
As the haze continued to lift a bit, I tried to understand what was happening with my body. Then came the day they finally removed my feeding tube. The nurse said, “Try to cough,” and as I did, up came this tube that felt like it was burning a hole through my insides. There were all these unfamiliar feelings—bandages and tubes and monitors all over me. Then I looked down and saw my colostomy bag.
That made me cry harder.
“It’s okay,” Sean said. “It’s going to be okay. Look! When you get that out, we’ll have matching colostomy scars!”
He pulled up his shirt to show me, and darned if he wasn’t telling the truth…the scar from his snowboarding accident was in the same spot as my incision.
“You said we have Wonder Twin powers…now we have Colostomy Twin powers, too!”
It was a moment of levity in a sea of distress.
In the beginning, I slept the vast majority of the time. I would wake just for a few hours a day, and nurses would crank up my bed to let me sit up a little, do wound changes, ask questions to determine how I was reacting, and try to feed me once the feeding tube was out. I had lost too much weight and I was in desperate need of protein. But my jaw had atrophied, too. Chewing was impossible. I would try and try to chew one bite, and it would hurt and exhaust me and I’d wind up spitting the food out.
So they tried giving me the standard hospital fare for people in my position: Ensure.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever tasted Ensure. If you have, I’m sorry. If you haven’t, I envy you. It’s disgusting stuff. Even in my best condition, it would be hard to tolerate, but combined with a ripped-apart digestive tract, it was a disaster. And when you have a colostomy, whatever you put in your mouth very quickly comes right out in plain view, if it makes it that far. Usually I threw up first. Either way, it was nauseating.
“This is so full of junk…corn syrup, artificial flavors, sucralose…can’t we do better than this?” Sean asked the nurses. “We want to heal her, not make her sicker. How about we do a protein mix with almond milk and fresh bananas or something like that?”
They had to clear it with a doctor, but soon they agreed. Sean would mix up fresh fruit smoothies for me with protein powder every day. It was so much better in every way—easier on the stomach and so much better for me.
Doctors wanted to start my physical therapy as soon as possible, but they couldn’t because my heart was too erratic and my blood pressure spiked too much. In early November, they moved me out of the ICU and into a step-down room where I’d remain for another week, until I was strong enough to go to a rehab facility. Finally, Sean was able to stay in the room with me rather than sleep in the lounge.
When a nurse named Tammy came for a visit in my new step-down room, I put my arms out for a hug. I had no conscious memory of this woman, but something in my soul remembered her.
“Let’s take a picture of you two,” my dad offered, and Tammy stood beside my bed with her hand on my shoulder. I’m sitting up in bed and smiling in the photo, wearing my nasal cannula. I don’t remember the picture at all, or the encounter, but I’m told that there were two nurses in ICU whom I responded really well to even when I was in the coma: Tammy and Toni. When they were on shift and talking to me, my blood pressure and pulse would stabilize. It’s amazing to me that even when I was not conscious, I was aware of tender care. I could sense these beautiful people and know that I could trust them—literally with my life.
I was not coherently communicating at this point, although I was trying. I got out some thoughts that made sense, but also talked gibberish at other times. All in wh
ispered tones because I didn’t have much of a voice yet.
The nightmares didn’t end once I became aware of what was happening to me; if anything, they intensified. I was on edge all the time and couldn’t win: When I was awake, I could feel all the pain of the injuries and the wound changes. When I was asleep, my mind flew off into horrific imagery. One night I woke up quietly screaming, and Sean was dead asleep in the recliner next to me.
A male nurse came rushing in.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I couldn’t speak. I was just sobbing. What’s wrong? Pick something. Everything is wrong.
“Are you in pain? Do you need something for your pain?”
Finally, I squeaked out, “Hug.”
He raised his eyebrows for a moment, not accustomed to this request. He put on gloves and ever-so-delicately leaned over and tried to navigate how to hug me without hurting me. Mostly, he just bent over me and I put my arms around his back and patted him and cried. It was very tender. Of course I was in pain, but there are things painkillers can’t fix. There is nothing like the psychological first aid of human touch, nothing that’s as good at healing the soul.
That was not what I was going to get from MJ, my main nurse practitioner in the step-down room. She was a tall and boisterous woman who wore bright earrings and took no crap from anyone. She dominated the room and was all business, no squishiness. But I liked her, too—she intimidated me like crazy, but I also felt like she knew what she was doing.
“We’re trying to get you out of here as soon as possible,” she said. “Now let’s get you up out of bed so you can be on your way to the rehab facility.”
Out of bed sounded like a wonderful place to be, but also a pretty unrealistic place. I was torn apart, stitched up, bandaged, and medicated, and I hadn’t used my muscles in over a month. The more I stayed in bed, though, the harder it would be to ever get up. So with my nurses’ help, I would sit up in bed and then come to a standing position with my weight on just my right leg, just for two seconds, with nurses holding on to both sides of me using a Hoyer lift—like a crane for human bodies. The nurses would roll me from side to side while placing a heavy canvas sling under my body—imagine videos where you might see a whale or shark get hoisted up and moved onto a boat. Once the sling was under me, they could lift the contraption with me in it high into the air and then swivel me over and lower me into a chair. This way I could sit upright in a setting other than the same hospital bed.
The Hoyer lift hurt immensely. As I tried to get vertical, my body felt heavier than it ever had before—like it was filled with concrete. It took so much out of me that I would have to sleep for hours afterward. I don’t remember doing it more than once or twice at Yale before the orthopedic surgeon decided it was too soon for me to be standing, but much of that stay is so blurry in my mind.
One thing I remember clearly is the moment I finally realized the extent of the damage. I had not been lucid enough or strong enough to really look or touch to explore my whole body, until one day I moved my hand over my vagina and felt metal on both sides and in front. I knew I had a catheter, but this was new to me and I yelled out.
A nurse came rushing in.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“What’s this?” I asked the nurse, panic in my voice. “Why do I feel metal all over my vagina?”
“Yeah…your labia were ripped off in the accident. It’s a little cosmetically altered, but the surgeon reattached them and they seem to be adhering nicely. The doctor will probably take the staples out next week.”
My labia were ripped off. I don’t think there’s a delicate way to put that, but at a time when everything seemed to be wrong already, this was just a tremendous topper. I tried to take in what that would mean for me, for Sean. For us.
“Will I ever make love with my husband again?” I asked.
“I can’t answer that question right now. We don’t really know how your body is going to heal.”
She was telling me that I might never be sexually active again, for the rest of my life. Maybe my new husband and I had made love for the last time. How do you process something like that?
Coupled with the intense pain, the hideous mess of my body, the flashbacks and nightmares, and the prospect of possibly never walking again, either, I was no longer sure I was glad to have survived.
Six days after I came out of the coma, and after twelve surgeries, everyone was thrilled with the progress I was making. They ordered a walker and a recliner for my room and encouraged me to try to move between the bed and the recliner on my right leg. I had my first taste of solid food: brown rice and vegetables. My wounds were nowhere near healed, but they were progressing the way the nurses said they were supposed to, even if they looked and felt horrifying to me. An X-ray of my pelvis revealed that my bones showed signs of starting to knit. I was meeting the goals to move to rehab faster than expected: I needed to be able to eat a minimal amount of solid food and to stand with assistance, for starters.
Sean remained cheerful. My parents sent out optimistic updates on social media sites so my friends and family could follow along with my progress. My father ended every one with an inspirational Bible verse or a prayer request for Sean and me.
“God is so great,” he said.
I wasn’t anywhere near that thankful. I felt like a child with all the help I needed just to move, eat, and take care of myself, and I hated it. It became hard to imagine a future free from all of this pain and need. It became hard to imagine a future at all.
That made me feel guilty, too, because all around me was so much gratitude. I asked Sean to write a Facebook post for me.
I cannot let fear take over my heart. I have to give my soul to God every day. I am so thankful for my family and my friends.
Please pray that God will use this for a reason and that I will be able to manage the pain and the fear. Thank you for all of your love. It’s a month later and I’m still at the hospital. Hopefully at the end of this month, I’ll be in rehabilitation.
My heart is full of love for everyone.
That’s where I tried to focus: the love. It was all around me, from the strangers who had saved my life to the lifelong friends who were checking in with my family every day. It’s what kept me going even after I thought I couldn’t fight anymore. I was in for a long and agonizing journey, but I was never in it alone.
Chapter 10
Rehab at Gaylord Hospital
AFTER FIVE AND A half weeks at Yale, I was put on a stretcher to be taken to Gaylord Hospital, a long-term care facility in Wallingford, Connecticut. As we neared the doors to go outside, I had a full-blown panic attack. The sounds of cars and the thought of being on the road terrified me. Every time I thought about going outdoors, I saw images of big trucks coming at me. I hated even hearing the sounds of traffic from my window.
During the transfer and the first few days at Gaylord, the distinction between reality and the fuzzy dream state of anesthesia became clearer as I asked my caregivers to continue cutting back on my painkillers. It’s not that the pain had actually lessened significantly, but I was afraid of drug addiction and I wanted to stay in control. The haze wasn’t a comfort to me. It was maddening. It didn’t stop the visions; it just made me less sure of what I was actually experiencing versus what were nightmares.
Even so, I was still desperately tired and weak and spent the vast majority of time lying in bed in my new location, room 111 at Gaylord. Even stranger, the date I moved in was 11/11/11. We decided it was a sign; repeated numbers are reputed to be lucky, or to be a signal that someone is looking out for you. November 11 is also the date my brother Erin met his wife, and they are such examples to me.
My body was working so hard to produce new cells and heal my broken bones that there was little energy left to do anything else. Whenever I moved, I was dizzy. You know how you get a little light-headed when you first get out of bed in the morning? Your spinal fluid needs time to adjust from all that time b
eing horizontal. Now imagine you’ve been lying down for more than a month. Not only that, but you’ve been bleeding and losing bodily fluids the entire time, and barely eating. It’s like that getting-out-of-bed feeling multiplied by one hundred. I was also prone to passing out. I was still on a heart monitor and blood pressure monitor so the medical team would have a heads-up on when I was crashing.
At least my room was nice. It was a big room with a high ceiling and a giant window. Sean had written a scripture verse on my whiteboard that I looked at every day:
“Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, yes, I will uphold you with the right hand of my righteousness.”
—Isaiah 41:10
As cards came in, my family stuck them all over the wall until there was very little blank space left. People made posters and sent pictures, and it was a visual way to remind myself that I was surrounded with love.
My oldest brother, Shawn, and Kaori visited right away, and all I could do was just cry and cry.
“Sis, I guarantee that before you know it, you’ll be walking these hallways and being a blessing to other people,” Shawn said. “Actually, I would not doubt it if you could come back here and even give a talk after it’s all over. You’re going to motivate people and be a light. I just know it.”
I didn’t just know it, but I wanted very much for his words to be true.
In a quiet moment one day, Sean asked, “Do you think you lived through your dream?”
“Maybe I did.”
Maybe the recurring dream about dying on a bike had been mental practice, and helped me to know that I had to keep fighting when the real moment came. The mystery of it would stay with me, and I would wonder for some time if there was a message I was supposed to get from it.
My first therapy at Gaylord was occupational. Soon after I got there, a nurse helped me to wash my hair for the first time. She moved me into a well-padded wheelchair and wheeled me into the bathroom and in front of the sink. It was the first time I’d seen myself in a mirror since the trauma, and I hadn’t prepared myself for the sight. I knew what I could see when I looked down at my torn-up body, but I’d been told that my face was nearly unscathed, so I hadn’t given much thought to what it looked like. Then I made eye contact with myself in the mirror and knew that this vision was real.
Gratitude in Motion Page 9