February 22, 2003
Dear Friends and Family;
Noah has been home since Valentine’s Day. The first several days were rough. There is a finality to being home that will require some adjustment. Though we were all ready to be done with the hospital, the moment-to-moment presence of professionals gives the patient hope that discovery of recovery is imminent. At home, we are on our own and our only tool for healing is patience. What we know for certain is that we don’t know much. How long can one wait? How fast or slow is the waiting? Is the waiting slower when you are stuck at home with Mom and Dad? Probably.
Out patient physical therapy has begun. Noah will be going to Portland 2-3 times each week. There is not enough time in a day for his intensive care, and several trips to Portland, and a life for any of the three of us. How long can we keep this up? Long enough. Some of the time may be returned to us as Noah becomes more and more capable of providing his own care.
One of the cruelties of paralysis is the consumption of time by all of life’s ordinary activities. The transfers from bed to chair or chair to car or chair to shower bench are adventurous every time. They are like rock climbing pitches. Some are straightforward ascents with good hand and footholds; others are like overhangs on ice. Always, one of the climbers is vulnerable (Noah) and the other is working the belay (Marilyn or I). Late in the day, these get more difficult. We become tired and cranky. We are not angry at each other but rather with the situation and roles we have all had to assume because of this tire from outer space.
I saw photos of the police report. Noah could easily have died given the condition of his truck. Somehow, someway he rolled to a stop without a secondary collision. The extent of his injury was limited to the impact of the tire. That may be the single most telling moment of the accident. There was not enough room left in the cab after the tire collapsed the roof for any additional impacts.
Still, there is nothing Noah or I hate more than for others to tell him how lucky he is! For the time being, that is BS. There is great good fortune in the fact that he has an incredible support group of family and friends. That is an undeniable blessing. But he has also had his life ripped off by another young man’s poor choices. Noah and I are not bitter but we refuse to accept his current condition as fortunate. The duplicity of finding good fortune in paralysis is semantic legerdemain we cannot yet appreciate.
Somewhere on this climb he may reach a point where he can re-assimilate the life that was his with the life that now exists and understand they are one and the same. For now, however, things are still understood as before the accident and after the accident. Normal moments are rare. Always the tyranny of paralysis is there, rubbing your nose in mental anguish whenever you attempt to move. Each day that new recovery does not present itself feels like a day of going backwards. Learning to wait, to be here now is his greatest challenge. He can escape this oppression only when asleep or distracted by TV or computer or music or drugs. Soon, I expect other interests will develop and help him to cope. Then he may have daily activities and perhaps new interests to occupy his mind.
Numerous individuals have opened up to me during this time of dealing with the consequences of Noah’s accident. Acquaintances and, in some instances, complete strangers have shared with me their personal memories from tragedies they have known. These are not common knowledge. These are personal treasures of pain that people keep secreted in the recesses of their hearts. People respect their most trying times or the tragedy that changed their life forever by keeping the feelings intact and held close. They choose to share it with me because they know, and they are right, that others who may be dazed and confused by their own misfortune need to be aware they are not alone. Morbid as it may seem, it is comforting. Furthermore, others share their stories with me because they know I will listen and my empathy will have credibility equal to their compassion. These tales are among the most profound experiences I have had since Noah was first injured.
The fundraisers are beyond incredible but I do not relate well to the numbers or participation. It is a social side of support that I am not personally able to do well. The close encounters of the heart fit more easily with my personality. These stories do not change with time or the re-telling. These are not fishing stories wherein the catch grows with every recounting. Instead, the detail is preserved exactly and the teller, though not an experienced storyteller, invariably shares it well because it is their story, tempered in a forge of pain they had no previous sense they could endure. And yet, they do endure and instinctively know when and with whom that pain can transform into a balm for the teller and the listener. Some have okay endings, most do not. Some have caused some to lose their faith in God, others their will to live. Hearing these stories is like stepping through a door into a new world with a depth and breadth of human experience that teases us with both pain and enlightenment. I am so honored when one of these secrets comes my way. Thank you.
John
