Spending a few hours in the hospital today has reminded me of some life lessons that I’ve learned during extended hospital stays. Most light hearted. As Ian and I often say, if we don’t laugh, it’ll kill us.
Nothing commands attention better than a nice pair of heels. A little trick taught to me by my Aunt Cheryl – doctors and nurses treat you much differently if you don’t look like you forgot to get dressed when you got up. Not to mention the sound of the heels down the hallway – you may even be mistaken as the doctor. However, this is most applicable to women and if you’re simply escorting a patient. If you’re the patient, just stay in your pajamas.
Don’t go to the gift store. You’re either going to buy something expensive and stupid because you’re so sad, disoriented and sleep deprived or you’re going to get really annoyed that the hospital would even think that you wanted to go jewelry shopping at a time like this.
Travel with a toothbrush and toothpaste.
Ask lots of questions. Be annoying, even. Not all hospitals are created equally. And if your gut tells you it’s a bad place, it probably is.
Maybe consider not talking to anyone in the waiting room. You may hear have to feign paying attention when you’re just trying to figure out when you can sleep next. Not because you’re mean, but because you literally can’t think anymore. One good trick is to just put your head back and close your eyes immediately after sitting down.
Expect to get lost in the maze of wings, units, wards, floors. If nothing else, follow the smells of the cafeteria, grab coffee and regroup.
If staying in a family house, be prepared to cry. Everyone is there because something is wrong. And a lot of times they aren’t going to get better. That might even be you. If not now, maybe someday.
If you’re tired from pushing a loved on in a wheelchair, just go to a hospital and make yourself look exhausted. Someone will offer to push the chair for you. Maybe even give them a fake office you’re visiting, just to get a break.
If you follow suggestion number one and also push a loved one in a wheelchair, make sure your trip does not involve significant hills. Or you will look really awkward. And then be careful of the elevators. The slots as you step out are the perfect size for a heel to slip down into.
“God is very kind to us. we found out yesterday that your jaw isn’t broken, your eeg results were fine, and they cancelled your plastic surgery appointment tomorrow because your wound looks so good. also, this morning you were coughing as if maybe you were going to throw up, so the nurse asked you if you were ok and you said “uh huh.” they asked you again and you did it again! God is so kind. and you did it in front of two head nurses and your doctor! i’d been praying that you would get your voice back soon and it seems as if you are well on your way. God is very gracious to us. you were really awake for me today. you were working really hard to bring your washcloth to your face, even when the therapists were done asking you to do it.”
this voice did come back, even in a very tired body. and this meant that things could change.
4.21.09
“trusting God – the story of my walk with the Lord this far. last night steve had a long talk with me and then with Ian about marriage. we’re starting to talk about it more seriously i guess. it makes me really nervous and really excited at the same time. i really believe though that ian needs to be in a different place physically for our marriage to work. but then again, what will that look like? what exactly are we waiting for? i’m not sure. but it’s weird to think that we could be married soon. it’s all wonderful, but if ian stays the same as he is now, it certainly won’t be what we imagined it to be.
but when i look at my life through the lens of the gospel, marriage to ian looks very sweet and wonderful, even if we were to be married tomorrow. God has given me a deep love, joy and attraction to ian, that has only increased in the last three years. when i am away from ian, i want to die. not literally, but i don’t enjoy it. and nothing brings a smile to my face like seeing ian, and hearing him talk, and hearing him laugh.
all of this talk though forces me onto my knees at the foot of the cross, acknowledging that i have absolutely no idea what is best for my life or ian’s, or what would honor the Lord most. so we will keep praying.”
we did keep praying. as did steve. and then cancer came. and steve went. but not before he taught us to take marriage seriously, and to keep God big in our minds.
we did. on his birthday in 2010. two years ago today. standing at the top of the hill, my arm resting in my dad’s elbow, a quick breeze came through the corn stalks rustling behind us. the sadness of his absence welled.
my dad walked me, both weak, unsure but happy, toward my waiting, disabled fiance. the summer air greeted us and i’m sure God was there in it. my sweet, sweet ian, he was there. so very happy to marry me. my best friend. next to his best friend, who helped him to stand. and we met God there and we said yes.
i dont know if we have birthdays in heaven, but steve you are so missed by us. today, but always.
and ian, you may not read this unless someone reads it to you. but nothing here is a better gift to me than you. and no words describe what you do for me and my heart. through oceans of grief and loss, from being trapped in that car to now holding my arm as you fall asleep, you are a delight. thank you, for not being afraid of what you couldn’t do as a husband, for not choosing to give up, for somehow loving me. you every day help me to want heaven more.
the words you sang to me on my voicemail, weeks before your accident, are a ditto:
I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you For all my life When you’re with me, baby the skies’ll be blue For all my life
i love you. and our two years. may many more follow.
she was on the other end of the phone, asking pre-op questions for something so minor compared to where he’s been. she didn’t know the memories that one word was stirring.
i hate talking about medical stuff. especially when it’s ian’s brain.
tomorrow, a day that celebrates two years of being wed, we head to pittsburgh until wednesday – first an injection and then surgery on wednesday. lots of time in the waiting room. hopefully not too much time to think. hopefully praying.
please pray that this would be a simple surgery for ian and that there would be no cancer. and that he would heal quickly – vacation is just a few days awayl. most of all, please pray for peace. hospitals bring so many things to mind.
i have a thing for saturday mornings. and this week, i have been so looking forward to this one. what is sure to be filled with the mundane – bills, actually writing blog posts, tidying up our room – feels like such a gift. i found myself awake much earlier than i would have liked because i was desiring this time so greatly.
and so while he sleeps, in our new bedroom that is not quite yet perfectly arranged, for a few hours our life feels normal.
we did it! with the help of a wonderful church care group, we packed up our house last night, scrubbed walls, and gathered on the porch for a final sharing of memories.
thank you SO MUCH, everyone, for making this move possible.
“ian, i’m really sad about leaving our house. are you?”
“yes, but a good sad.”
“what do you mean?”
“sad that we’re leaving but hopeful about the future.”
memories, memories, memories here – parties and a new life together and three roommates over two years and lots of laughing. one final farewell post and photo to come, but for now, trying to follow my husband’s lead and keep hopeful of the future.
our house is getting emptier, ready to move. my family spent the whole weekend with us, packing boxes, cleaning under beds, putting up the original curtains and light fixtures, doing laundry. they’re such a gift to us.
