Month: November 2015

 

22 November 2015

Because I had broken ribs, I was completely paranoid of sneezing. I didn’t think about it too much, but I did worry about what it would feel like that first time. Given that I often sneeze 4-6 times in a row, you can understand my concern. It was at least 2 months after the accident that I felt the build up – but the sneeze that happened was the most dainty little outward sniff I’d ever experienced. Phew.

Fears replace fears, so the new one was falling out of the chair. The only time I really let loose with expletives in rehab was after a quick roll down a steep incline when I felt completely out of control and ended up stopping short and leaning well forward in the chair. I didn’t fall out, but I certainly gave the Occupational Therapist a bit of blue streak for her trouble. After that, I knew it would eventually happen and before long I found myself wishing it would happen just to get it over with. I wanted to fall out and live so I could dust myself off and stop thinking about it. I’m sure you know where this is going.

This evening, Steve, Friday and I went over to the lovely Esplanade for a roll/walk. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been trying to get out for a quick push a couple of times per week – sort of treating it like a run. Going a bit hard for 25 minutes and then cooling it on the way home. There I was, pushing along at a nice pace and looming before me was a manhole cover set in the pavement, but with a nice yawning gap and about a 1.5 inch lip. I was staring at it for several meters – do I stop? do I go hard and get over it? I went hard. I did not go over it. The chair went left and I went right. I might have made a sound a bit like a chicken before hitting the ground with a thud. Honestly? It wasn’t so bad. Steve and a kind passerby helped me up (thanks, Amber, for teaching me how!), and I think Steve scraped one of his fingers in the process – he was the only one with any blood to show for it. My very rugged belaying gloves proved their worth.

I fell out and it wasn’t a practice and it wasn’t onto a cushion. One less thing to be concerned about. That’s not to say that I won’t be careful or that I will treat manhole covers with anything other than the respect they deserve, but I won’t be so worried now that it will necessarily hurt or that it will necessarily end with a whole new wound. I’ve never been very good at worrying or spending much time thinking about what could go wrong. It is not in my nature. When it does happen, like worrying about falling out of the chair, I’m stumped. I don’t know how to think about it in any productive way, and I don’t know how to put it completely out of my mind. I’m interested in the idea that what scares me or worries me for the most part, is physical pain. I don’t seem to worry about embarrassment or failure.

I’m sure something new will come along to replace the rapid ejection from the chair as a fear, but for now, I’m pretty glad that one is gone. What a happy way to end a weekend.

 

17 November 2015

You would know, but Steve and I have not been alone in the aftermath. You would know because you are very likely one of the many people who supported us. From the moment I hit the ground, there have been people supporting us – some from a spot a little closer than others. So much energy and life coming our way that it can sometimes be overwhelming. I’ve been loved and cared for, and through it all, I’ve learned a lot about my friends and family. Pain and coping are revelatory, and so are the ways people go about comforting a friend. Many of my friends have shared their own personal suffering, not by way of comparison, but in a search for commonality and by way of reassurance. I was caught off guard by letters from people I had never received letters from before and by messages and thoughts that were conveyed (and are still being conveyed) with such compassion they would bring tears. I’ve even been figuratively knocked into shape by a friend who thought I had more left in me than I might have imagined at the time. I have been made stronger by you.

Now that we’re home, there is a whole new team of professionals here to help. It’s great in many ways, but like most aspects of life, the sheer number of hands can make things complicated. So here are some numbers:

4 – Occupational therapists – one for my personal equipment (bed, wheelchair, shower chair ramps, any other equipment in the home that can make things easier for me or facilitate my independence); one for work (desk, wireless keyboard, makes sure the building is user friendly and even evacuation friendly); one for our house (works with the architect and builder to make sure I can reach light switches, use the kitchen and bathrooms, access the garden); one for driving (assesses me and my capability to operate hand controls and helps us choose a car that can be modified for me to drive)

4 – Doctors – one GP (local who I adore who makes sure I’ve got the medications I need and that I’m rehabilitating well. He also makes gin for fun); one vascular surgeon who makes sure my aorta is good for another 12 months or 10,000 miles; one orthopaedic surgeon who makes sure my titanium frame is fitting in nicely with my actual bones; one neuropsychologist who makes sure my brain is recovering at the expected rate

1 – Massage therapist that I see about every three weeks helping me to keep my muscles and joints healthy and flexible

1 – Physiotherapist who gets me good equipment (standing frame) and keeps me on the straight and narrow with strength and endurance training and with practical skills like transferring (from chair to bed, from chair to car etc)

1 – Personal carer who helps me getting in and out of bed to the shower and back and takes up my slack around the house (cleaning, food prep)

1 – Grief counselor who listens to me and encourages me to increase the things in my life that bring me comfort and joy and decrease the things that don’t. Life advice for everyone really.

1 – ACC case coordinator who holds it all together

I haven’t even met the architect and engineer who are drawing up plans and getting costings for the house access and modifications (ACC may or may not approve – long story worthy of its own post).

I am surrounded by models of caring from the professional to the casual. Lucky doesn’t begin to describe it.

All of this makes me think about my own ways of coping and my own ways of comforting others. I have my own stores of strength put there by my mother’s fine example and hardened and topped up by life choices that didn’t always add up to safety, good health, money in the bank or even sanity. But they were my choices and the lessons have served me well – meaning that at the very least, they have made me resilient. I am, of course, ever hopeful that I will be able to stand with my friends and family in any tragedy or in any imperfect life situation. I am hopeful that my presence will be the necessary balm theirs was for me. I’m learning what vulnerability does for a friendship and how it lends authenticity to words of sympathy or sorrow. I’m not there yet, but I can see a time when I will want to reach out to others in a similar situation to mine to be a voice of reassurance. I’m not sure what form my own contribution will take, but it is important to me that I can keep the momentum of compassion going. You gave it to me and I want to keep sharing it.