The First Time I Walked
I remember laughing when the therapist brought in the goofy, 4-wheeled walker with platform armrests. Walkers are for old people, I giggled to myself. And now I’m going to be using one?? What have I been reduced to? lol I had just been off the ventilator for 3 days, and in the hospital for a week. There’s a central line in my chest, a chest tube dangling under my left arm, and a catheter in my bladder…I have 7 broken bones, and bumps, cuts and bruises everywhere…and you want me to walk?? Are you nuts lady?? YEAH! I’m excited. I stood up slowly, clumsily, unable to put any weight on my left leg. Lifting my arms to the platforms of the walker made my collarbone feel like fire, it took my breath away. I ignored the pain and took my first step. OW. Second step…OW. “How do you feel?” the therapist asked me. “Like I just got out of a giant tumble dryer.” I replied through gritted teeth. And I walked, and walked and walked. It felt so good to be on my feet, to be in control of my body with the help of this walker and the therapist whose name I can’t remember but whose face I’ll never forget. “Are you sure you want to keep going?” she’d ask. I didn’t want to stop…”You’ll be sore tomorrow I bet,” she’d say, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to walk…to know I still could. Every chance I got, I was walking. To the bathroom, the shower, the nurses’ station, everywhere. It hurt like hell but I didn’t care…I just needed to move, to get my muscles working, to feel alive and get those endorphins going. I showered every day, I wanted to shower more than once a day at first, to get the blood and glass rinsed out of my hair, my fingernails, my skin. Someone said, “you’re too sick to be up to the shower every day.” To hell I was. By the second week, I wouldn’t let anyone help me in the shower anymore. I needed to be able to do it myself, I needed to get better so I could get home to my family. In the shower, I let the hot water pound on my poor body…I gingerly washed my huge tummy incision, (34 staples) my hip incision, (21 staples) and my stitched-up face and left side. I had big casts on my hands yet, so we covered them with plastic bags and tape to keep them dry. Through the bags, I washed my hair, which was falling out so fast from all of the trauma I had endured. My hair is now about 7 inches shorter than it was before the accident…and it is growing in again where it had gotten thin…the whole left side of my scalp was thinning, probably the skin’s response to my injury there. I also have a strip along the back of my head where it looks like the hair was ripped right out, probably when my hair clip smashed into the seat or something…I’m not sure.
The hardest part about being injured was being away from my family. I had never spent more than 3-4 days away from the kids, and only twice---once from Zack and PJ when Carl and I went to Vegas, and once this October from all 6 kids for Chris and Ann’s wedding. That was hard enough, but to be away from them for weeks at a time…that was so hard. I couldn’t think of it very much, I couldn’t wonder how they were doing or imagine what they might be up to…it was too hard and I missed them too much. Carl brought them to see me every day…I was always so happy to see them, even though I was so exhausted when they left. Everything made me so tired.
I’m glad Dad had brought me my broken backpack that he rescued from the totaled van, so at least I had my schoolbooks to keep me busy. My books also helped to keep my mind off the pain. That was the second hardest thing about my injuries…the pain was constant…everything I did caused searing pain in my broken bones, but I refused to lie there and let pain decide what I can and cannot do. I was in charge of my body. I was in control of what I could do. My body was the only thing I could control.
