The worst of times...

Well, this is the post that almost wasn't. On August 9, 2006, I was driving home from the airport with my mother-in-law and Lily when a large SUV crossed the center, grassy median and struck my car head-on. My mother-in-law and I had to be removed from the car from emergency personnel. Lily, thankfully, was unhurt. My mother-in-law, Pam, died in the helicopter ride to the hospital. I was transported via helicopter as well to a large trauma hospital in Memphis. My prognosis was bleak. In fact, the doctors asked my family if I was an organ donor. That tends to put my family (and all their friends and acquaintances in non-stop prayer mode.)

In the hours/days that followed, I had surgery to remove my spleen and part of my pancreas, repair two collapsed lungs and a broken right kneecap. I don't remember those days at all. I am told that I was awake after a few days and trying to communicate even with machines doing my breathing for me, but I don't remember. What I do remember shortly after I was breathing on my own, is the hallucinations. I had something called ICU psychosis-coupled with the morphine being pumped into my body-which made me see and experience terrifying things that were not really there.

Once I was taken off the morphine, reality started to get a small foothold. I began to realize my state of being, which was sort of a blessing and a curse. In addition to the surgeries that I already had, I found out that I had several cracked ribs, a broken collarbone, cracked C7, ligament strains in my left leg and no movement in my left arm due to nerve damage. I still had two surgeries to endure on my right ankle, and another lung surgery to remove fluid, but I was still trying to come to terms with what had happened to the rest of my body and my life. I was pretty broken. I remained in the trauma hospital, trying to wrap my brain around the situation for 20 days.

After completing the remainder of my surgeries (and experiencing a level of pain I had never felt before-childbirth included) and having the first round of staples removed (32 from my abdomen) I was discharged to a rehabilitation hospital. There I was pushed to do things that had always been done without a thought-dress myself, brush my teeth, feed myself, get in and out of bed, etc. Now, each action required intense concentration and superhuman effort. I was trying to teach the fingers on my left hand to move on command and trying to withstand the discomfort on my right side whenever I moved my arm. The hardest part of it was/is the emotional turmoil.

As thankful as I was/am to be alive...

I missed my baby girl's first birthday. I wasn't even lucid that day. I didn't get to make the choice to stop nursing-it was made for me. I missed weeks of being the first person that she saw in the morning and the last person that she saw before going to sleep. So many people jumped in and helped, and I am so grateful. But, now my Lily was being cared for by other people. Mommy was someone that wasn't around anymore. I will never, ever get those weeks back. Even now I can't take care of her like I want to. I can't pick her up, roll around on the floor with her, stand with her perched on my hip, get her in and out of her crib, or even change her diaper and get her dressed. I am so grateful to God for being here, but missing these things cuts me to the core.
I am improving, though. Everyday I try so hard to make some little improvement so that I can stay on track with my rehabilitation. I want to be able to start walking at the end of November. I want to be able to pick my little girl up and hold her in my arms. She has learned how to kiss me when I ask for one, but I can't bend far enough down in my wheelchair to claim it. I want to pick her up and nuzzle her neck just like I used to. I'll get there, but I have a very long and hard road before me. Bear with me; I'll make it.