As most of my formerly regular readers are aware, two years ago my wife fell down the stairs in our house. I heard the bumping from the den. When I came around the corner, she was laying at the bottom of the stairs, sort of crumpled up, semiconscious.
She couldn’t move -anything. And her skin burned whenever I touched her. I called 911 and, over her protestations, called for an ambulance.
By the way, this happened in the middle of Snowmaggedon, the year we got mroe than 25 inches of snow dumped on us in two separate blizzards.
Fortunately, I had cleared the driveway. There was a neat path up to the house when the EMTs got there. Getting her down to the ambulance was easy. Unfortunately, the abulance got stuck and I had to use my snowblower to dig it out.
We spent three days at Prince Georges Medical Center (I bullied my way into staying with her in the intensive care unit) and slept over the next couple of nights once she was moved into a room.
Then we went to rehab. As much as I want to say “Oh yeah. I knew God was going to heal her,” I was pretty much scared to death. It was days before she could move her hands. It was several more days before she could hold a spoon and actually get the food in her mouth. And even then she had have a special attachment on the spoon to use it.
About five weeks later we came home. She was, at best, marginally mobile. She needed help to get to the bathroom. It took us forever to get down the steps. It took us even longer to get up the steps. Oh, and by the way, the fall exacerbated her Multiple Sclerosis, causing her to have short spells of spasticity when her legs and hands absolutely refused to work.
Now, for the most part she can walk up and down the steps on her own. But I think I have an idea of how Post Traumatic Stress Disorder works. I have to watch her when she goes up the stairs.
Now she does some fairly simple cooking – rice, steamed vegetables, microwaving a prepared meal. And we are at that spot I described as the grindingly slow stage of her recovery.
Do I jump up and down every day thanking God that it happened? Certainly not. And I still might hit someone if they walk up to me and tell me that “…all things work together for those who love the Lord…” I had enough trouble dealing with one of the ministers of doofus who came by rehab and pretty much told my wife to claim her healing. I guess she meant well.
Here is what has become a constant question for us: Whenwe travel, are we going to take the walker or the wheelchair? Being the determined woman she is, she usually, and sometimes foolishly picks the walker.
All in all, I am grateful for where she is in her recovery and I often remind her of where she was when she gets frustrated.
Truth be told, we talk a lot more than we did. And yeah, I listen a lot more.