Showing an Attitude of Gratitude

"Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it." ~ William Arthur Ward.

Wow. What a crazy last month this has been. I've been wanting to share this story for quite a while, because it's really taught me a lot. It's reinforced my love for my family, strengthened my admiration for my friends, and even made me admire some things about myself.

Legally, I'm being prevented from talking about the actual accident itself. So let me start with immediately afterward...

...when my left leg was facing sideways, my hip was dislocated and I was balancing on one leg and trying to convince the paramedics I wasn't crazy...

"Ma'am," one told me. "You need to sit down on this stretcher. Then we're going to swing your legs around so you're laying down."

I barked out a sound that was a cross between a laugh and sob. "Right," I said. "Well, you're going to need a baseball bat to knock me unconscious because there is NO WAY I am going to let you guys swing my legs anywhere. I am in so much pain right now."

I could see them exchanging looks, probably attempting to gauge my level of irrationality. I felt the need to explain things to them so they didn't think I was going to be as difficult as a homeless crackhead.

"See," I told them, "I watch those shows like '911' and 'Cops' and 'Trauma: Life in the ER' and I see all those crazy people with paramedics and I am NOT LIKE THEM, I promise. I'm normal, I have kids and I'm not difficult but I swear to God you are not going to swing my legs around anywhere." That was the first time I started to cry during the night.

Somehow, during the next several minutes, between negotiating and assurances and an adjustable stretcher, I found myself horizontal and being loaded into the back of an ambulance, on my way to the hospital. Within a few minutes, I was hooked up to morphine and asking one of the EMTs if he was single and what was the craziest thing he's ever seen on a call. I'm curious like that. I'm surprised I hadn't sent him a friend request on Facebook by the time we got to the hospital.

The next several hours involved xrays, being surrounded by doctors, going under anesthesia and having a cat scan. 

Before I had my first xray, one of the two nurses in my room said, "We're going to need to take your jeans off, honey, before the xray."

I started to panic. "W-wait," I stammered. "Please don't cut these off. I got these in California and they're my most favorite jeans. They have bling on the butt, just the way I like 'em. Ladies, let's put our heads together and figure out a way I can take these off without cutting them." 

So very gently, and very carefully, they slowly slid them off my hips and down my legs. Without cutting a single inch of denim. How they did that with my dislocated hip and with me not crying out I will never know. I'm going to chalk it up to their compassionate care and skills as nurses, along with the pain killers I was on at the time. 

The first time they were going to put me under, I asked what they were going to use. They held up a vial of white liquid and told me, "Propofol."

"That's that shit Michael Jackson died from," I responded, just in case they weren't aware and hadn't watched TV for the last several years. I was assured I'd be fine.

Unfortunately the attempts to put my hip back into place were unsuccessful, and it was determined I needed surgery. I was transferred to a hospital room to get prepped and ready. Two more sympathetic and caring nurses had the unfortunate duty of informing me that I needed to be rolled to my side during a sponge bath and it was going to hurt.

They weren't a kiddin', either.

That was the second time I cried.

A couple hours later I was waiting to be wheeled into the operating room. The two orthopedic surgeons came in to discuss what was going to happen. One told me that I was going to have a long incision on my leg. I could tell she felt bad.

I waved my hand and laughed. "No worries. I gave up my dream of being of a string bikini super model YEARS ago."

She smiled and went on about the surgery itself, how long it was probably going to take, and what was involved during the procedure.

It was then I found myself crying for the third and final time. I realized this was all a much bigger deal than I had thought.

Thankfully the surgery went fine and I woke up a few hours later. As a nurse wheeled me down the hallway to my room, I could see my parents waiting for me. Also, I noticed warily, my brother was with them. I love my brother very much but he works a lot, is very busy, and it made me nervous to see him.

"Why is my brother here?" I asked the nurse. "Am I dying?"

Apparently my brother was just being a good brother. I should give him a little more credit.

I spent a few more days in the hospital, learning some basic skills such as getting in and out of bed, getting up and down stairs and using a walker and crutches. 

The first day was kind of a blur, thanks to the IV of morphine that was being administered. At one point I woke up to a nurse checking on me. In a moment of semi unconscious confusion, I sat up and blurted out, "I like butterscotch and black boots!"
She smiled at me and replied, "That's nice, dear."

My family and friends began to start showing up to visit. I love that my friend Nicole was one of the first people there, bringing a bag of what she knew I would consider absolutely essential:

Cosmetics, magazines and a Diet Mountain Dew.

She listened intently when the doctors came in and remembered details for me, since I was in a bit of a fog. She hugged me close and told me everything was going to be all right.

Other friends and family came in with flowers and books and candy. They kept me laughing and made me realize how lucky I was that I had such amazing people in my life.

Even my kids surprised me a bit.

My daughter Sophie, a typical 13 year old, stayed with me one evening while everyone else was in the gift shop. She painstakingly waited while I inched my way across the floor to the bathroom. She held my gown and my hand and made sure I didn't fall. She helped me back in bed and when she saw me wince with pain, she made sure I had everything I needed. Never once did I see any typical middle school teenage angst; just a lot of patience and generosity. My other kids were so sweet too. Maybe it takes a debilitating accident to happen to their mother to make them stop fighting for a few hours. Whatever, I'll take it.

On the day I was getting discharged, a nurse was going over my recovery plan. I told her that luckily I lived with my parents, and my mom was a registered nurse. "That's good," she said. "Because this is the type of injury you need to go to a nursing home to recover if you don't have any help at home."

Oh. Wow. Talk about an eye opener.

All of this happened almost five weeks ago. Since then I have been completely humbled by the love I have been shown. I have spent my time resting and healing and trying to shuffle my walker away from my mother whenever she tries to administer my twice daily injections into my stomach so I don't get blood clots. I'm not that fast. She always catches me.

My parents are amazing. They now spend their days driving my children to school, buying all the groceries, cooking all the meals and taking me to medical appointments. My bedroom looks like a storage closet at a nursing home: a walker, crutches, a tub transfer seat for when I take showers, a raised toilet seat and other physical therapy tools. I am sure they didn't expect the first few months of their retirement being my driver and errand runner. I'll never be able to fully thank them.

My friends have also taken it upon themselves to make sure I still get to my hair and nail appointments. They pick me up and bring me with them, knowing sometimes I just need to be outside. They know my ridiculous desire to just drive around downtown River Falls, and wave at people I know. They make sure to hold the bathroom doors open for me as I navigate my walker in various businesses. Even though I know it is a monstrous pain in the ass to bring me anywhere these days, they act like they are honored to do so. 

When I think about the actions of my family and friends, I am humbled to tears. How do I ever explain to them how much I appreciate the love they've shown? How will they ever know that their laughter has been my best medicine?

I am one lucky girl.

I looked at the incision on my leg this morning. It's not as bad as what I had feared. As I traced the scar with my finger, I couldn't help but feel proud of myself, too. 

This scar doesn't just show where the doctors had to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, but it shows something even more important. 

It shows that I SURVIVED.