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My daily stops became part of our routine. I could tell she was having a hard time adapting to the reality of her new circumstances, though. Her family visited regularly and she put on an optimistic face, but the permanence of “I may never walk again” is a hard pill to swallow for anyone.
We moved her from the ICU to the regular wards, to the rehab wing. The team taught her how to use a wheelchair, how to transfer from bed to chair, how to take care of her skin to prevent bedsores and how to stretch muscles to prevent contractures. Her part was the hardest, though– she learned how to accept help, how to express her anger and grief, and how to live her new life in completely alien circumstances. Those lessons perpetuated long beyond her discharge from the hospital.
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She regularly took wheelchair cruises around the wards, and met the boy’s family and friends on numerous occasions. In the evenings I saw her visiting him– parked next to his bed, reading him the cards and well wishes out loud. Sometimes she just sat. She told him stories and brought in pictures of her family and friends, making up responses about the people in his pictures dotting the walls. Sometimes she talked about the future, what would happen after they both recovered.
The socioeconomic differences disappeared in the face of common challenges– but the parallels were obvious in all ways except the most important.
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One morning after physical therapy, she asked, “Is he coming off the vent soon? Do you think he’ll go home too?” Probably not. And home may never happen. I don’t remember what I said to change the subject but she didn’t ask again.
That week had been particularly challenging. Organ failure and infection waged a campaign against his tenuous hold on life, despite multiple operations to clean out bone fragments and remove infected tissue, giving the body the best shot at making itself whole again. Every time we went into the operating suite the risk increased, the opportunity for a good outcome edged just that much farther away until it was not clear that we could do any more good.
The care team had to present his family with the options: continue aggressive treatment that might not aid in recovery, or move to supportive care to make him as comfortable as possible.
No words will suffice at that point– the emotions come out in guttural screams and deep, soul-wrenching sobs. It was in that conference that I first became acutely aware of the failings of the English language. Unfortunately, it was not the last time I would recognize that fact.
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Over the following months I ran into her around the hospital, heading to the clinic to see her therapist and working on the psychological scars that persisted long after her surgical incisions healed.
The last time I saw her, we chatted in one of the rooftop garden niches that offer patients a respite from the antiseptic hospital walls.
“How are you?” I inquired. “I’m glad to see you smiling more.”
“Yeah, I’ve done a lot of growing up. It’s tough, but getting better.”
We sat without talking for a while, as leaves rustled in the breeze and the sun warmed the tops of our heads. She broke the silence.
“I should go, my mom is picking me up downstairs. Thanks for sitting with me.” I walked beside her to the elevator bank and watched the lights ascend numerically.
The doors chimed and slid open. As she wheeled expertly into the elevator and pressed the button, she looked at me. “I haven’t told anyone this, but I think about him every day– that’s what keeps me going. I’m one of the lucky ones. And I know it.”
I stood there, watching her eyes well in a reflection of mine. We raised our hands in the age-old farewell gesture as the elevator doors closed, leaving me looking at my own standing, breathing image. Lucky, indeed.
