CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 3
The Bible says, ‘Everything works together for good,’ even your accident, Joni.” Dick was trying to comfort me, but I wasn’t listening too intently.
“I’ve already been in this stupid hospital a month,” I complained, “and I haven’t seen very much good!
“I can’t sleep at night because of nightmares and hallucinations caused by the drugs. I can’t move—I’m stuck in this dumb Stryker frame! What’s good? Tell me, Dickie, what’s good about that?”
“I—I don’t know, Joni. But I think we should claim God’s promise. Let’s trust Him that it will work out for good,” Dick said quietly, patiently. “Want me to read something else?”
“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump on you like that. I guess I’m not really trusting the Lord, am I?”
“It’s all right—” Dick was on the floor beneath my Stryker frame looking up into my eyes. Incredible sadness and pity made his expressive eyes well with tears. He blinked and looked away. “Well,” he said finally, “I gotta go now. See ya later, okay?”
Dick’s faithfulness in visiting was one thing I clung to during those first grim weeks, along with mom, dad, Jackie, and Jay. Others, like Jason, came when they could too. The hospital personnel joked about all my “cousins,” and the “five minutes per hour for family members” regulation was bent many times.
When mom and dad came, I always asked to be flipped if I was facing the floor. While they joked and got down on the floor if I was facedown, I was deeply hurt that they had to go through the indignity of crawling around on the floor in order to visit with me.
I tried hard to kindle their hope and faith too. As I thought about my problems, it was easy to find others around me in the hospital who were worse off than I. With that in mind, I tried to cheer my folks and others who came to visit. I even began to be pleasant to the hospital staff.
It wasn’t that my personality had become sweeter. Rather, I was afraid people would stop coming to see me if I got bitter and complained, so I worked at cheerfulness.
“My, you’re in a good mood today,” observed Anita, one of the nurses from the day shift.
“Sure, why not? It’s a gorgeous day.”
“It’s raining!”
“Not on me. I’m snug as a bug,” I teased.
“Want me to come by later?”
“Would you? Yes—I’d like that, Anita.” Although she was assigned to duty elsewhere in the hospital, Anita took a special interest in me. She often spent her lunch hour with me, reading Robert Frost’s poetry or just chatting. Since I’d already spent so much time in the intensive care ward, many of the nurses were becoming my friends. By now I was more accustomed to the routine and regulations. And just as they sometimes bent some of the rules when visitors came, so I began to overlook the hospital’s shortcomings as well.
Anita patted my shoulder and waved. “I’ll see you later, Joni.” I heard her light footsteps click away down the tiled hallway.
When she left, Jason came to visit. “Hi, kid,” he grinned, “you look terrible. When do you get to leave here?”
“Not for awhile, I guess. I think I’m supposed to be learning something through all this,” I answered. “Dickie says God is working in my life.”
“God doesn’t have anything to do with it! You got a busted neck, that’s all. You can’t lay back and say ‘it’s God’s will’ and let it go at that! You gotta fight it, Joni. And get better,” Jason said sharply.
He looked at me, not knowing what else to say. Our relationship had been sort of “tabled” when we agreed to a cooling-off period. Now he was suggesting—if not by words, by the expression in his eyes and squeeze of his hand on my shoulder—that he still cared deeply.
“We gotta fight this thing, Joni. You gotta get better, y’hear?” His voice broke and he began to cry. “Forget the business about it being God’s will that you’re hurt. Fight it! Y’hear?”
He swore softly for added emphasis and said, “It doesn’t make any sense. How could God—if there is a God—let it happen?”
“I know it seems that way, Jason. But Dickie says God must have some kind of reason for it.”
“I dunno. Maybe I’m just bitter—cynical. But I don’t feel God is interested any more. I don’t think He’s there.”
This admission by Jason was the first step in his drifting away from trust in a loving God—his resignation that what happened was the result of blind, random forces.
I stared at the ceiling after he left. It had been a month, and I was still here. What’s wrong with me? I wondered.
“Hello, lassie. How’s m’ favorite lass today?” I couldn’t see him yet, but the voice was that of Dr. Harris. As his tall, redheaded frame came into my field of vision, I smiled and greeted him. Dr. Harris had been in the shock trauma unit of the hospital the night of my accident. He had taken a personal interest in me and followed my case. I was charmed by his Scottish brogue and the fact that he always referred to me as “lassie.”
He picked up my charts and looked them over. “Hm-m. You’re lookin’ good, lassie. Feeling better?”
“I—I don’t know. What’s wrong with me, Dr. Harris? The nurses won’t tell me, and Dr. Sherrill just gives me a lot of medical jargon. Please. Won’t you tell me—when can I go home? How much longer do I have to be in here?”
“Well, hon, I can’t say. That is, I’m not really on top of your case like Dr. Sherrill. I’m just—”
“Dr. Harris,” I interrupted, “you’re lying. You know. Tell me.”
He replaced the charts, looked serious for a moment, then concentrated on bringing forth his best bedside cheerfulness. “Tell y’ what, lass. I’ll talk with Dr. Sherrill. I’ll have him give y’ the whole story in plain English. How’s that?”
I smiled. “Better. I mean, I have a right to know, don’t I?”
Dr. Harris nodded and pursed his lips as if to say something; then, as if thinking better of it, he merely smiled.
Dick came bursting into the ward later that day. He was wearing a jacket, which was unusual for August.
“I—I’ve just run up all nine floors!” he gasped.
“Why?” I laughed. “Why didn’t you use the elevator?”
“This is why,” he replied, opening his jacket. He pulled out a small, lively puppy. It began to climb all over Dick, lying on the floor under my Stryker frame, licking his face, and barking quietly with a yip—yip—yip we thought would alert the entire hospital.
“Sh-h! Quiet, pooch—you want us to get kicked out?” Dick begged.
He put the puppy up by my face. I felt its fuzzy warmth and the wetness of his tongue licking my cheek.
“Oh, Dickie—he’s beautiful. I’m glad you brought him.”
“I thought I heard something!” a nurse exclaimed in mock seriousness. “How did you get him past the Gestapo in the lobby?” she grinned.
“I came up the back stairs. You aren’t going to turn us in, are you?”
“Who, me?” She bent down and cuddled the puppy, then put him down. “I don’t see anything,” she said simply and left for other duties.
Dick and I played with the puppy for nearly an hour before being discovered again. He picked up the small dog. “I’ll take the stairs again,” he said as he got up to leave. “Otherwise they may frisk me every time I come up here!”
We laughed, and Dick left with the puppy hidden beneath his jacket.
The next day I was taken down to the laboratory for a bone scan and myelogram. The bone scan was done quickly and smoothly, for it consisted basically of “taking a picture” of my spine. However, the myelogram was not so simple or painless. It meant tapping my spinal cord of its fluid and replacing it with a special dye, using two giant six-inch hypodermic needles. My spinal fluid was drained, pushed out by the dye going in. When the transfer was complete, I was turned upside down and placed in various positions under the fluoroscope while the medics ran their tests. When done, the dye was removed by injecting the spinal fluid back. One side effect of this treatment was a severe headache if some of the fluid was lost or nerve endings (which need the fluid as a lubricant) dried out. There was no medication for this, so I was sedated for several days.
When Dr. Sherrill, the physician in charge of my case, came by later, I accosted him. “Dr. Sherrill, what’s wrong with me?”
His reply was even, without inflection, so I had no way of measuring the seriousness of what he said. “Don’t you remember, Joni? You have a lesion of the spinal cord at the fourth and fifth cervical levels caused by a fracture-dislocation.”
“I broke my neck?”
“Yes.”
“But that means I’ll die.”
“No. Not necessarily,” Dr. Sherrill replied. “It means only that it is a very serious accident. The fact that you’ve survived about four weeks now means you’ve more than likely passed that crisis.”
“You mean you thought I was going to die? Before?”
“You were a badly injured girl. Many people don’t survive accidents of this nature.”
I thought of Tom and the other man who had died undergoing the same treatment as I was. “I guess I’m lucky,” I offered.
“Lucky, indeed. And strong. You have a tremendous will. Now that we’ve passed this crisis, I want you to concentrate all your willpower on getting better. You see, when you’re strong enough, I want to perform fusion surgery on you.”
“What’s that? In plain English, please, Dr. Sherrill.”
“Well, it’s sort of a repair process. Your spinal cord is severed. We have to fuse the bones back together.”
Back together? My mind grabbed at the simple statement and raced with it. That means I’ll get my arms and legs back! That’s what Romans 8:28 meant. Dickie was right—things do work together for good. Before long I’ll be back on my feet!
“When do you want to do the surgery?” I asked.
“As soon as possible.”
“Great. Let’s do it!”
I didn’t know all that was involved in fusion surgery. I thought that by fusing the bones back together and having the spinal cord healed everything would be the same as before—no more paralysis. But I wasn’t really listening carefully.
Following surgery, I was elated to leave the ICU ward and be wheeled into a regular room. It’s a sign I’m getting better, I thought. If I wasn’t, they’d keep me in ICU.
Mom and dad, smiling and happy to see me return from the surgery, were in my room, and Dr. Sherrill came by.
“Everything went fine,” he said, anticipating our question. “The surgery was a complete success.”
There was a collective sigh of relief.
“Now I want you all to concentrate on the next steps of recovery. There is much progress to be made yet. There will be difficult days ahead, Joni. I want you to know it and brace yourself for them. The toughest part of the battle is the psychological aspect. You’re fine now. You’ve been angry, frustrated, afraid. However, you haven’t really been depressed. But wait until your friends go off to college. Wait until the novelty of all this wears off. Wait until your friends get other interests and stop coming. Are you ready for that, Joni? If not, better get ready. Because it’ll come. Believe me, it’ll come.”
“I know it’ll take time, but I’ll get better,” I gamely replied. “These things take time—you said so yourself, Doctor.”
“Yes,” dad said. “How much time are we talking about, Dr. Sherrill?”
Mother added her concern too. “You’re talking about Joni’s friends going off to college this fall. But I sense you’re saying Joni won’t be able to. We made a deposit on her tuition for the fall term at Western Maryland University. Should we postpone her entrance until next semester?”
“Uh—at least.”
“Really?”
“Mrs. Eareckson, you might as well have them return your deposit. I’m afraid college will be out of the question for Joni.”
“Y-you mean—that you don’t know how soon Joni will walk again?”
“Walk? I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mrs. Eareckson. Joni’s injury is permanent. The fusion surgery didn’t change that.”
The word permanent slammed into my consciousness like a bullet.
I could tell that this was also the first time mom and dad had been confronted with the fact of a permanent injury. Either we had all been too naive or the medical people had been too vague in their explanations. Perhaps both.
Silence hung over the room for a few moments. None of us dared react for fear of upsetting and worrying the others.
Dr. Sherrill tried to be encouraging, however. “Joni will never walk again, but we’re hoping she’ll regain the use of her hands one day. Many people lead useful and constructive lives without being able to walk. Why, they can drive, work, clean house—it’s really not a hopeless thing, you know. We’re confident she’ll be able to get her hands back in time.”
Mom had turned her face away, but I knew she was crying.
“Don’t worry, mom—dad. There have been lots of times people with broken necks have recovered and walked again. I’ve heard lots of success stories while I’ve been here. I’m going to walk again! I know it. I believe God wants me to walk again. He’ll help me. Really! I’m going to walk out of here!”
Dr. Sherrill didn’t say anything. He put his hand on mom’s shoulder, shook hands with daddy, and left. For a long while none of us said anything. Then we began to chat about inconsequential things. Finally my parents left.
I lay in the dim light of the room. I should have been happy—the surgery was successful, I was getting better, and I was now in my own room. But I wasn’t happy. Grief, remorse, and depression swept over me like a thick, choking blanket. For the first time since the accident, I wished and prayed I might die.
After nearly an hour, a nurse, Alice, came by. She emptied my catheter bag and rearranged things in my room. Then she went over to the window to adjust the drapes.
“Looks like you’ll be getting some visitors,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. I see your mom and dad sitting together down in the courtyard outside. They’ll probably be up here in a minute.”
“No—they’ve already been here,” I replied. I felt tears, hot and salty, spill out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. My nose became stuffy. I couldn’t even cry because I couldn’t blow my own nose. I began to sob anyway.
“Hey, what’s wrong, Joni?” Alice wiped my face with a tissue. She pulled another from the box. “Here. Blow. Feel better now?”
I smiled. “I’m sorry. Guess I was just thinking of mom and dad down there. Dr. Sherrill just told us that my injury is permanent—that I’ll never walk again. I know they’re down there talking about it. And crying. And I’m up here crying. It’s just too much to handle, I guess.”
Alice ran the back of her hand along the side of my face. Her concern, her gesture, felt good. It was reassuring and comforting to feel something.
“I’m going to walk out of here, Alice. God will help me. You’ll see.”
Alice nodded and smiled.
During the weeks following surgery, I didn’t get stronger as I had vowed. Still fed intravenously or by liquids, my weight began to drop. The thought of solid food made me nauseous, and I just couldn’t eat food brought on trays to my room. I could only drink grape juice. The nurses stocked up on it and brought me glasses to sip.
One day a stranger in a hospital uniform came into my room. “I’m Willie, the chef,” he explained. “I came to see why you don’t like my food,” he added.
“Oh, it’s not your food. I just get sick thinking about food in general,” I apologized.
“What did you like best? Before the accident, I mean?”
“Before? Well, my favorite foods were steak—baked potatoes—”
“Vegetable?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Corn, I guess.”
“Salad?”
“Well, let’s see what we can do.” Then he left.
That evening a nurses’ aide brought my tray as usual. As she lifted the cover, I saw a big steak, a huge baked potato with butter and sour cream, sweet corn, and a magnificent Caesar salad. But when she put the tray down in front of me, somehow the smell made me nauseous again.
“Please. Take it away. I’m sorry—I just can’t eat it.”
She shook her head and took the tray back, and I turned away in frustration and sadness.
I never knew whether the nausea was typical or just a side effect of some medication. I was used to the hallucinations by now, and I believe even some of my dreams, or nightmares, were drug-induced. Lately I had sensed ugly “beings” standing around my hospital bed, waiting to carry me away, and this daydream or nightmare or hallucination, whatever it was, depressed me further. I couldn’t really see them, but I knew they were there—terrible and fierce, waiting for me to die—or maybe just fall asleep. I fought sleep for fear of being carried off by them.
I was glad when visitors came, for to some extent, their presence kept me in touch with reality and gave me something to look forward to. But I never really knew how difficult it was for them to come back day after day.
When friends came to visit for the first time, they were awkward and uncertain of how to act in a hospital room. As they began to be somewhat at ease, they all asked the same questions.
“What does it feel like?”
“Does it hurt?”
“How do you go to the bathroom?”
Many visitors were squeamish and uncomfortable; some were particularly upset to see the tongs pressing into my skull. It often seemed they had more difficulty coping with my situation than I did.
One day two girlfriends from high school came to visit. They had not seen me since before the accident, and I was as unprepared for their reaction as they were. They came into the room and slowly looked around at the Stryker frame and other paraphernalia. Then they stopped hesitantly beside me. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they came toward me.
“Hi,” I smiled. “I’m sorry I can’t turn my head to see you, but if you’ll—”
“Oh, Joni!” choked one of the girls.
“Oh, my God—” whispered the other.
There was an awkward silence for a moment—then I heard them run for the door. Outside the door, I heard one girl retch and vomit while her friend began to sob loudly.
I felt a twinge of horror sweep over me. No one else had acted that unusual. Were they particularly squeamish around hospitals—or was there something else?
For awhile I didn’t want to know. Then a few days later when Jackie came to visit, I looked up at her and said, “Jackie, bring me a mirror.”
She had been reading some cards and other mail and looked up abruptly. “Why?” she asked.
“I want you to get me a mirror.”
“Uh—okay. I’ll bring one next time I come.”
“No. I mean now. Get one from the nurse.”
“Why don’t we wait. I’ll bring you your pretty dresser set from home.”
“Jackie!” I was getting angry at her. “Bring me a mirror! Now!”
She slowly edged toward the door and was back shortly with a mirror. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes blinked nervously as she held it up before me.
I screamed and Jackie jumped, nearly dropping the mirror. “It’s ghastly!
“Oh, God, how can You do this to me?” I prayed through tears. “What have You done to me?”
The figure in the mirror seemed scarcely human. As I stared at my own reflection, I saw two eyes, darkened and sunk into the sockets, bloodshot and glassy. My weight had dropped from 125 to 80, so that I appeared to be little more than a skeleton covered by yellow, jaundiced skin. My shaved head only accented my grotesque skeletal appearance. As I talked, I saw my teeth, black from the effects of medication.
I too felt like vomiting.
Jackie took away the mirror and began to cry with me. “I’m sorry, Joni,” she sobbed, “I didn’t want you to see.”
“Please take it away. I never want to look in a mirror again!
“Jackie—I can’t take it any more. I’m dying, Jackie. Look at me. I’m almost dead now. Why do they let me suffer like this?”
“I—I don’t know, Joni.”
“Jackie, you’ve got to help me. They’re keeping me alive. It’s not right. I’m dying anyway. Why can’t they just let me die? Jackie—please—you’ve got to help,” I pleaded.
“But how, Joni?”
“I don’t know. Give me something—you know—an overdose of pills?”
“You mean you want me to kill you?” Jackie asked wide-eyed.
“Yes—I mean no—you won’t be killing me. You’ll just be helping me die sooner. Look, I’m already dying. I’m suffering. Can’t you help me end the suffering? If I could move, I’d do it myself!” I was angry and frustrated. “Please—cut my wrists—there’s no feeling. I’d have no pain. I’ll die peacefully, Jackie. Please! Do something.”
Jackie began to sob. “I can’t, Joni. I just can’t!”
I begged her, “Jackie, if you care for me at all, you’ve got to help. I’m dying anyway—can’t you see? Look at me! Just look at me.”
“Joni, you don’t know what you’re asking. I just can’t. Maybe you would be better off, I don’t know. I’m so mixed up! I want to help. I love you more than I love anyone, and it kills me to see you suffer like this. But—but I can’t do it!”
I didn’t say anything more then. Several other times, though, in similar spells of depression and frustration, I begged Jackie to help me commit suicide. I was angry because I couldn’t do it by myself.
I fantasized about how it could be done. Pills would be easiest, but the nurses would find me and pump my stomach. I could have Jackie slash my wrists. Since I had no feeling there, I’d have no pain. I could hide them under the sheets and—no, that wouldn’t work either. All I could do was wait and hope for some hospital accident to kill me.
Jackie became more conscious of my appearance after these bouts with depression. She tried to help me “look good” to people and to interest me in things that might take my mind off my situation.
“You’ll be better soon, Joni,” she promised. “Remember, the Lord says He will never allow us to suffer more than we can humanly bear.”
“Oh, yeah?” I grunted.
The medication and paralysis also left me with an acute sensitivity to light and sound. I made Jackie and the nurses keep the shades and blinds drawn and the door shut to keep out light and noise. Dr. Harris said it was evidence of nerves beginning to heal, but I was dreadfully discomforted by it. I could even hear conversations clearly from adjoining rooms. The usual hospital routine turned into a harsh, discordant cacophony.
One hot summer day, Jackie was moving a fan for me, and she accidentally dropped it. It sounded like a painful explosion going off inside my head as it clattered on the tile floor.
“Jackie!” I screamed and cursed at her. The ugly words that came out of my mouth were strange and obscene, dredged up from some dark recess of my mind. I called her awful names.
Then guilt washed over me. “I’m sorry, Jackie. It’s so easy to cave in.” I cried softly. “I know God must have some purpose in all this. Please call Dickie before you go. I need him. Tell him to come up tonight.”
Jackie nodded and started to leave.
“Jackie—wait. There’s something I have to say before you go.”
She stood near me. “Jackie, you’re such a close friend—I’m taking you for granted. I yell at you all the time—especially since I can’t scream at anyone else! I feel like being mad at God, at mom and dad, at Dickie. Y’know? It kinda gets to me sometimes, and I have to let off steam. But you’re the only one I can safely scream at. Mom and dad are already suffering so much—I have to make a special effort to be pleasant when they come. It isn’t fair for me to be critical, demanding, and mean to them. And I can’t take a chance on losing Dick by taking things out on him. I need him; I don’t want to lose him, maybe forever, by hurting him now. So, Jackie, I’m sorry. You’ve been my scapegoat. You get the brunt of every ugly emotion I let go.”
Jackie smiled warmly and shrugged. “That’s okay, Joni. I know you don’t really mean it. Besides,” she grinned, “what are friends for?”
She came over, smoothed my hospital gown, and kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll call Dick for you.”
Dick came by the hospital later. Quietly I lay there listening to the comforting words of Scripture he read to me from a J. B. Phillips New Testament paraphrase. Many of the verses were alive with contemporary meaning.
“Listen to this, Joni,” Dick said excitedly. “ ‘When all kinds of trials and temptations crowd into your lives, my brothers, don’t resent them as intruders, but welcome them as friends! Realize that they come to test your faith and to produce in you the quality of endurance’” (James 1:2-4).
“What do you suppose it means, Dickie?”
“I think it means just what it says—that God has allowed your accident to happen for a purpose, not as an intrusion in your life, but to test your faith and spiritual endurance.”
“Oh, wow! Have I ever been letting the Lord down.”
“Listen to the rest of it, Joni. ‘And if, in the process, any of you does not know how to meet any particular problem he has only to ask God—who gives generously to all men without making them feel foolish or guilty.’”
“My problem is one I can’t meet. Let’s ask God to heal me. Just like it says.”
Dick put the book down and began. “Father, we thank You for Your care and concern. We thank You for Your Word, the Bible, and the promises You have there for us. Your Word says, ‘If any of you does not know how to meet any particular problem, he has only to ask God.’ Well, Lord, we’re asking—please hear our prayers, in Jesus’ name, amen.”
I prayed next. “Lord Jesus, I’m sorry I haven’t been looking more to You for help. I’ve never thought of my accident before as something for testing my faith. But I can see how that’s happened. Lord, just like Your Word says, I believe my accident came to test my faith and endurance, but I also feel that You really want me healed. Thank You for this lesson. With Your help, I’m going to trust You. Thank You that even this accident ‘works’ together for good. I pray that others around me will see You through me. In Your name I pray, amen.”
After that, I began to see more positive aspects about my accident. During the following days I shared with nurses, doctors, and visitors the thought that God had allowed my accident merely to test my faith and endurance. “Now, with that lesson learned, I can trust Him to get me back on my feet. You’ll see!”
I took this attitude with everything.
The doctor told dad, “You should know that your insurance probably won’t begin to cover the expenses of Joni’s accident. Her hospital bills will likely be $30,000 or more before she leaves.”
I said simply, “Don’t worry, God will provide us with what we need.”
When Dr. Sherrill explained, “Joni, paralysis is generally a lot harder on an athletic person than ordinary people. I want you to know that when depression sets in, you’ll really have a struggle with it.”
“God will help me,” I replied glibly.
When a nurse commented, “I was reading about your accident. You know, if your break had occurred an inch or less lower, you’d still have the use of your arms. Sad, isn’t it?”
I answered, “Yes. But if the break was an inch higher, I’d be dead. God knows best, doesn’t He?”
Just after Labor Day, Dick stopped by with a present. My room was overflowing with stuffed animals, posters, pictures, cards, and other get-well mementos. One of them was a green and white plush bear that I doused with British Sterling shaving lotion and named after Dick. The familiar scent reminded and reassured me of Dick when he was absent.
This time, Dick gave me a huge study Bible—one with print large enough to read when it was laid on the floor below my Stryker frame. I could read it by myself if someone turned the pages. In the front, he wrote:
To my dearest Joni, with hopes that Christ will always remain in our relationship, and that Christ might give us the patience to wait for each other. With all kinds of love,
Dick
Sept. 9, 1967
Romans 8:28
Not long after Labor Day, Dick, Jackie, and all my friends went away to college. Dick hitchhiked back as often as possible to be with me. I didn’t know how difficult this was for him—or that his grades suffered as a result of his concern for me. I just took it for granted that he should be there. In my selfish little world, I didn’t care how he managed it; I just wanted him to be there with me. After all, I needed him. Without knowing it, I began to use my accident as a device to keep him interested. I even resorted to blackmail one evening.
“Hi, Joni,” Dick grinned as he bent over to kiss me.
“Where have you been? It’s nearly eight o’clock.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t get away. How was your day?”
“You said you’d be here by six, and it’s now eight. You can only stay here a half hour now before you have to leave. What kind of visit is that?” I fumed.
“Joni, I said I’m sorry. I couldn’t get away.” Dick was getting defensive, and I didn’t want him to get angry.
“Dickie, my day is absolutely miserable without you. Last night I dreamed you left me for another girl.”
“I’d never do that—”
“Oh, promise me, Dickie. Tell me you love me and that you’ll never leave me.”
“You know how much I care for you, hon.”
“Tell me. Tell me.”
“I love you.” Dick said simply. I could tell he didn’t want to say it. Not because he didn’t care for me deeply—I know he did. Rather, he resented my telling him to say it. He wanted to tell me in his own way, in his own time. But he smiled and added, as if to make the statement spontaneous, “I’ve loved you for a long time, Joni. If you’d waited five minutes, I’d have told you again—without prompting.”
“But I needed to hear you say it now, Dickie.”
“All right. I love you. I love you. I love you.” Each time he said it, he bent over and kissed me.
“Oh, Dickie. I love you too. Won’t it be great when I’m able to leave here?”
“I’m praying it’ll be soon. Boy, this hitchhiking sure wrecks my study habits.”
“It may be a long time.”
“Oh? Did you hear something today?”
“It’ll be several months of rehabilitation. Maybe a year.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Dickie, I’m scared. I can take it if you’re with me. You have to help me. But I can’t do it without you. If you leave me, I’ll die. I know it. I won’t be able to live without you. Promise me you won’t leave me.”
“If you really love me, promise you’ll be with me forever—”
“Sure,” he said, glancing down.
“First I’ll get my hands back. Then I’ll walk. Then we can go to college together,” I promised.
“Right,” whispered Dick.
“How is college? Is it really neat?”
“Oh, it’s fine. Really a lot tougher than high school, though,” said Dick. “A lot tougher.”
“Maybe because you’re doing so much. How’s the team doing?” I asked.
“The team? Oh, just fine, I guess. First game is Friday.”
“Are you all ready for it?” I asked excitedly.
“I’m not playing,” said Dick simply.
“Not playing? Why?”
“I lost my football scholarship.”
“But why?”
“Look, it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, Dickie, I’m sorry.” It’s because he has to visit me so much—he has no time to study, I told myself.
“It’s all right. We’ve still got time for that. Want me to read something from the Bible?”
“Not tonight, Dickie. I’m tired. And you’ll have to go in a minute. Just hug me and kiss me before you go.”
He bent over me and held my chin in his hand. He kissed me softly, lingeringly. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’ll wait forever for you—you know that. Remember that always. I’ll always be here.”
When he left, I cried bitterly. I felt cheap and selfish. I had put Dick over a barrel. What choice did he have? Could he say how he really felt: “Joni, we’re still too young to know if we should get married. We don’t know God’s will for the future. Let’s just play it by ear. You know you can always count on me. I care for you deeply.” I’m sure that’s what he would have said. But that wasn’t strong enough for my frayed emotions. And Dick was too sensitive to hurt my feelings—especially after the accident—so he said what I wanted to hear.
Now I had driven a wedge into our relationship. I had forced feelings and commitments before they were ripe. I began to mistrust all my own motives.
“I’ll make it right,” I promised the Lord in my prayers that night. “I’ll do everything I can to be worthy of Dick’s love. I’ll do everything possible to walk again. Then he won’t have to love me because of the accident but because he wants to. Things will be better. That’s what I want, Lord. Please—please…”
When the hospital therapist came by the next day, I remembered Jason’s instructions: “You gotta fight.” PT—physical therapy—was the first step in actual rehabilitation. I decided to give it everything I had.
The therapist fastened my arms in slings and began to explain the process.
“Your fracture was at the fourth and fifth cervical level, as you know. At the first level are nerves for vital organs—heart and lungs. People who have breaks at this first level seldom live.
“The second and third levels control neck muscles and head movement,” she continued. “At the fourth and fifth levels, quadriplegia—like your case—generally results. The sixth level controls the pectoral and arm muscles. Now, you have feelings in your shoulders, upper arm, and chest just above your breasts. That means that maybe you can train other muscles—muscles in the back and shoulders—to compensate for certain arm muscles you’ve lost.”
“Is that what the doctors mean about getting the use of my hands back?” I asked her.
“Partly. Your chart indicates you’ve got about 50 percent use of your biceps—those are the upper arm muscles that move the arm in its fullest range of movements. We won’t know until we get into therapy just how much you’ll be able to do. We’ll have to train new muscles to do motor movements for the ones you’ve lost.”
“All right, let’s try it,” I said.
“First, try to lift your arm by using the muscles of your back, neck, and shoulders. Just move it to begin with,” she instructed.
I tried. Nothing happened. I closed my eyes to concentrate more intensely. I felt the muscles tense and vibrate, but they seemed independent of my will. I could not get them to move.
“Keep trying. You’ll get it,” the therapist urged.
I gritted my teeth and tried again. Nothing.
“C’mon, Joni. Try again,” she insisted.
“Don’t you think I’m trying?” I snapped and swore for emphasis.
“It’s a matter of directing new muscles to do the work of the old ones. Don’t try to lift your arm with the old movements. Think of how the muscles in the arm are hooked up to the ligaments and bones—here.” She showed me diagrams in a book and traced the lines on my own arm. “Try to get movement from these muscles. Just twist or flex your back and try to move your arm in the process.”
I tried once more as she pointed to the spot. For more than ten minutes I exerted all my willpower and strength. Finally my arm rose less than an inch and flopped back limply.
“Beautiful! Great! Once more,” she instructed. “Put all your energy and concentration into lifting that arm and holding it up.”
Using all the strength I could gather, I tried again. After several tense moments of agonizing effort, I raised my arm once more—this time about an inch off the table—and strained against the slings fastened to it.
“Again!” she ordered.
“I can’t. It hurts. It’s too tiring. I have to rest first,” I begged. Nearly a half hour had gone by, and all I had done was move my arm about an inch two times.
“All right, Joni. You can see it is going to be hard work. We have a lot to do before you can really begin rehabilitation. But soon we’ll have you strong enough to leave here for Greenoaks,” she smiled.
“Greenoaks?”
“Yes. Greenoaks Rehabilitation Center,” she explained. “Dr. Sherrill will tell you all about it. That’s the next step. It’s a hospital specializing in motor-damaged cases.”
“A rehabilitation center? Oh, yeah—I remember now. That’s where I’ll learn to walk!”
The therapist smiled, unfastened the slings, and stood up. “Good luck, Joni. I’ll work with you again tomorrow. Let’s get you ready for Greenoaks!”