My host family in Sedro Woolley brought some of my personal belongings over to the island at the beginning of the week. Not my household stuff. All of that is still corralled in a mini storage facility in Bellingham. What I'm referring to is the partial collection of library-office-personal items, which keep me on task with my doctoral studies. Well, that, and the ongoing communications on legal matters, medical records, and correspondences regarding the transfer of my consulting work from to WA. Lots of sighing!
With some personal effects around me again, I am surprised to feel bit closer to achieving a permanent home. This is still an interim move, however. Much is yet to be decided and stabilized. But intuitively, I can focus my energies on the present evolution of circumstances.
I wish now that on Monday I had taken a snapshot of Kim and Don's small, greying poodle, Mandy. To keep her out of harms way, with all the weed whacking and rider mower maneuvers permeating the airwaves that day, she got tucked into a wheelbarrow, nestled on top of a well-worn brown jacket. Now THAT is animal protection!
As per my son's request, here is a selfie I snapped this week. After two days of much needed rain, it was a pleasure be out of doors.
Before I line those photos up, I wanted to say that my son, Liam, who is putting the last minute pre-launch details on a fundraising effort for my hoped-for residency at the True North Health Center, had taken a full month off from his job in 2019 to help me after the crash.
Liam flew to the Green Bay airport and friends of mine picked him up to bring him to Door County. He literally did my cooking, grocery shopping, dressed my head wound (once, when the visiting nurse couldn't come), and drove me to daily medical appointments. Then he slept in a bunk next to my bed for twenty-nine days. I never found a comfortable position to sleep in while I was in those braces. There were only two positions: on my back with a pillow under the knees, or on my right side. Any movement was difficult and full of surprising sensations on my part. I doubt my son got much rest himself. But he never complained.
This photo was taken the third week after discharge from the hospital. I was weaning off the pain meds, so I'm afraid there's a bit of a wince to my face along with a high level of inflammation present. But I am actually quite happy to be upright, walking, and navigating stairs --- albeit at the pace of a sloth! I had required help getting up and down from a chair (and many thanks to ADA for wall mounted bars near toilets!). Every time I needed to get in and out of a car I had to have assistance. I couldn't even fasten my own seat belt!
My broken left arm was still in its cast, but it is behind my Liam's back. My attire features a tight-fitting C-collar, and a rigid thoracic brace (which came down to my sternum area). The crisscrossing black belt thingy is a maximum security lumbar brace. That C-collar didn't come off until late October. The thoracic and lumbar braces were set carefully aside in mid-September. It would be November before I could begin twice-weekly physical therapy for the neck, shoulders, back, and abdominal muscles.
During the first weeks after my discharge we were graciously housed by acquaintances (now friends), from my Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Door County community. Karon and Jerry Winzenz had a vacant mother-in-law apartment in the upper level of their home. My sanctuary there was for six weeks, before my next interim housing unfolded in Ellison Bay, near the tip of the peninsula, also adjacent to another state park. The Winzenz's custom-built Maya-themed and art-museum quality home, is perched along the western shore of Lake Michigan. While living there, we watched two rather magnificent lightning storms roll in, churning up the waters to a mild roar. On becalmed nights, we could hear the caress of waves on the rocky shore, barely a hundred yards from the ground-level back door.
Less than a half-mile away was the Whitefish Dunes State Park. It made a perfect destination for me to walk through each day. I tired easily, so a quick rest against a tree became part of my routine.
The cliffs at Whitefish Dunes (below) don't look too bad, considering I had to become a one-handed wonder with my smart phone.
To have friends who have permitted me essential time, space, and access to nature has been a source of abundant gratitude. My healing trajectory has been made better because of those gifts. When I was especially tired, my mind would start to roll over itself in continuous thoughts of what's next, how do I get from broken to whole in "x" amount of time, or, I don't have time for this! To slow down that cacaphony, I would take a walk among the trees and near the lake's shores, and feel renewed enough to trust in life as a continuous process of divine regeneration.
Before Liam's arrival, another Door County friend and work colleague, Cassie Le Coque, stayed with me the first week at Karon and Jerry's. She had lovingly provided fresh veggie juices and some vitamin supplements during my hospitalization. Less that two years previous to this, Cassie had helped me and my kids pack up my Orcas island home. Cassie and I then drove a 16-foot moving van from the Pacific coastline to Lake Michigan's shores, spending the 2017 Thanksgiving holiday at my sister's home in Bridgewater, IA.
My sister, Marci Raasch, is married to an organic farm that also came with a husband, chickens, and a grandson. All of this was twenty-one years after becoming a single mom of four. Marcie's wedding was in December of 2016 but I didn't get to see her farm until I made my initial trek to Door County several months later. After my crash, Marcie made the 9-hour drive from Bridgewater to Door County, spending several days keeping me company. She located a couple of chic clothing haunts to find apparel for me that would fit over or under those body braces.
Here is Marcie on organic egg washing duty!
During that 2017 visit to Marcie's farm, we took a half-day excursion to see the Bridges of Madison County, after the farmer's markets closed for the weekend. Above, we are pictured with our cousin Cyndi. I'm the eldest (with the braids), short stuff is Cyndi, and Marcie is wearing shades. After a lighthearted debate over the should-we-or-shouldn't-we of signing our names on the inside of the bridge --- we did. I added my kids names, in case they ever want to trace my journey there. Probably too corny for them, but it was my first and last experience at small scale graffiti. For posterity, of course!
While Liam was helping me with the daily basics, my friend Sarah Rivkin was gifted a plane ticket to fly in from Seattle and spend a week, too. Then my daughter, Maggie arrived, overlapping her three week stay from the last week of Liam's journey to the middle of August. Sarah's photo is next.
We usually have the deepest and most expansive conversations about life, the universe, and creation consciousness. Two strong women who know where they have been. We remain curious about how to navigate the years of maturity ahead.
Back to recovery pics. The day I was released from the rehabilitation hospital, my beloved friends Celine Goessl and Kathy Lange provided the essential transportation. Stepping out into the sunlight, still much too bright for my concussion-sensitive eyes, I felt and heard the normal traffic as a harshness of life in downtown Green Bay --- at high volume. Bending awkwardly, to settle into the front seat of Celine's car, became aware of my nervousness about that first post-crash ride. I wasn't expecting to get in another crash but I hadn't moved at high speeds beside other cars for over two weeks! Once the car was in motion, I could see that my depth perception was wonky and couldn't keep up. To eliminate the sensation of spinning, I closed my eyes. And that was pretty much what I did for the next hour-and-a-half it took to get to the Winzenz's home. Unforgettable.
The body braces I wore accentuated the vibrations of the car. I therefore had to lean forward a few inches in the front passenger seat. The next photo shows my first sit-down after climbing the stairs at the Winzenz home. I had tears in my eyes, both from feeling celebratory and because it took a lot of work to get there! Celine is comforting me and Kathy caught the moment on her phone. (The vibration situation was greatly reduced by the use of a horseshoe shaped neck pillow, worn while traveling, around the cervical collar. Mine was gifted to me by the home visiting nurse that same week.)
The next photo shows Kathy and Celine, the first time they were able to visit me, after the new body braces were put on and I was transferred out of ICU. I honestly can't recall anything about the removal of the original white, tortoise shell like brace I was put in the second day after the crash. I am pretty sure I was given something to knock me out. Come to think of it, I don't recall being put into that first brace, either. Only being measured for it. It was so uncomfortable and made me claustrophobic. I might have only I lasted 48 hours in it, even on morphine.
Celine and Kathy (Sisters of Mercy of the Holy Cross, a Franciscan Order) have recently retired to their Provincial House in Merrill, WI. But at the time of my crash, they were living in De Pere, the last independently living nuns of their order to do so in the country. They came to see me 15 days out of the 16 that I was hospitalized. Though I am not a Catholic, we had been associates in community education presentations, focused on human trafficking issues, for over a year.
We had traveled together to several parts of WI, and did so a few more times --- in late 2019. I needed to be well enough to stand at a podium and bear up under travel conditions. My difficulties with sustained equilibrium, to the point of constant nausea and dizziness, were due to some inner ear issues caused by the effects of the car rolling over so many times. I recall some discussion between my doctors over the multiple head impacts and over-extended neck positions that must have occurred --- and their incredulous remarks about how lucky I was to have lived and to not be paralyzed. I didn't talk to them about my near-death experience but I did express my gratitude at what seemed to me a paradoxical miracle.
It would be 18 months later, after lots of hours of with my physical therapists, that my inner ear issues gradually reached around 85-90% resolution. At this point, I still experience nausea at tracking a car passing and when I do certain yoga poses. I have to move up from a downward position in triple slow motion. Dancing is out of the question. Turning my head with any rapidity makes me lose my balance.
Sitting and laying down remain the most uncomfortable things that I do to date. Of course, I haven't attempted hanging upside down yet! Standing and moving, and now bicycling and gardening, make my physical healing more psychologically sustainable. I try not to call all this discomfort pain, because that brings fear and contraction. I have been retraining myself to refer to discomfort as sensation and I indicate intensity through a number system. In this way I can observe limitations I need to respect and adjust accordingly.
As an example, I generally awake with a combination headache/neck ache in first place, with the thoracic and lumbar areas coming in at a close second in intensity. Pillows make it worse, so I use a rolled towel or a low-fill buckwheat neck pillow. On a scale of 1-10 (10 being the most intense), my range is 3-6 most days. Within an hour of movement and activity, that range can drop to between 2-4. When intensity creeps up during any activity, I stop what I am doing and give myself a reset with some modified yoga, PT movements, or by using an 85 cm gym ball to get my thoracic, lumbar, and cervical vertebra to move closer to their natural alignment. This has to be done several times a day.
Building up all the tiny fibered muscles and unfreezing tendons, particularly along the facets of the spine, will eventually (I hope) help my body be able to hold a reasonable alignment. It's noticeably better month-by-month. So far, my work-life-balance involves a daily range of repetitions and relaxation breakthroughs. Anywhere from six to over a dozen times each day. Physical therapy with a PT is 5-10% of the solution, because PTs can help me address nuances of potential movement I would be unlikely to figure out on my own. However, the remaining 90-95% of the therapeutic process will always be in my court.
I recall the day that my team of doctors approached my bedside, announcing I would now be prepared for release in one week's time. I was in the rehab facility. But I had not had any rehab yet. Up to that moment, I had not been allowed out of bed. I was still connected to the Foley urine catchment system. The wakefulness of that night had me wondering where I was going to wind up! My position at my employer's had already been filled. It was obvious I wouldn't be able to work for who knew how long. Because I suddenly had no means of support or capacity for living alone, my studio apartment had been rented out to the two young men who were replacing me at the job.
Well-meaning friends had haphazardly packed up my belongings and delivered them to my nearly empty storage unit a few miles from the apartment. Therefore, that first night of the news that I would be prepared for release, my mind was challenged by an unending litany of what ifs with no clear answers. The next morning, I managed to get myself to a seated position in the bed, so I could start the necessary occupational and physical therapy. I felt like I was basically one monstrous toothache with an all-over body abscess.
When a male nurse brought in a wheelchair to take me to the PT room, I abruptly said, "No wheelchair!" Then I apologized for my abruptness. In a calmer voice, I simply requested a walker to start with. The nurse gave me a rather dubious look. I took that in for a moment and then said, "Look, I can go to a wheelchair if I can't stand. But I want to try standing and walking first. Will you help me?" I asked.
He nodded rather slowly, circled the wheelchair back out of the room, and came back a few minutes later, with another nurse. A female. And the walker I wanted. By then, I had worked my way to the edge of the bed, but my feet were not able to reach the floor. I couldn't even see my feet because the C-collar didn't permit any head or neck rotation. Despite my determination, nausea was creeping up from the pit of my stomach and it was quivering in a way it never had before. Sweat had started to bead up on my face and across my back. Part of this was because of my exertion, no doubt. Another factor, in the sweat dilemma, might also have been due to the fact that I had delayed that day's first dose of pain medication. I was on a personal campaign to be medication-free by discharge.
The female nurse, a young Muslim woman of only 22, with dark brown eyes that revealed a quick intellect, was serving in her first nursing internship. She wore a dark blue hijab with her pale blue scrubs. She moved to stand near my right side and offered to help lift my arm to enable me to stand. I failed to be able to shake my head so I asked her to wait. I was a bit intimidated at the prospect of my first "touch-down" after 9 days of being in a bed. Just the day before, this nurse had her first lesson in fitting me to the lumbar brace. Her movements had been quick and a bit rough without intending to be. We figured out a better routine after that.
Despite my anxieties, a plan for getting out of that bed, with minimal help, took shape in my mind. "Let's lower the bed down" I said. "I want to see if I can touch the floor first. I need to get my bearings." And that is what we did.
My first grunt up was stable enough. But I was listing forward at quite a tilt, like a wounded ship about to nose herself under the next wave. My tummy and back muscles, bruised and inflamed, protecting fractured vertebra and ribs, had not been used for over a week. Those traumatized areas hurt in a massive way when I started to change my position to gravity. Let's just say that I no longer believed that gravity was my friend that day.
Another complication was that my left arm was in a cast from fingertip to beyond the elbow. That arm was nonfunctional and heavy and had to go wherever I did. I finally figured out how to balance it on the walker while I navigated with the other hand. It didn't take but those few minutes to make me almost breathless. Once I was satisfied that the walker could support my awkward stance, I was glad for the security that a nurse on either side provided.
Next on the agenda was to literally find my footing. I could not see anything below my chin, and had to look ahead and remember the path forward. Sliding one foot after the other, in short bits, I eventually navigated 80 to100 yards. I noticed that my right foot was a bit slower than the left. About half-way to my destination I already had very wobbly legs. Once I saw the door to the PT room I felt a bit bolstered to close the distance.
My occupational therapist, Annie, was standing by a set of parallel bars, awaiting my arrival. When she saw me standing at the door, crookedly upright, the look on her face was one of surprise. It made me feel a little sheepish but victorious. Believe me, such things matter when your starting place is rather akin to when you were 10 months old and hanging onto walls and chairs to stay upright. Annie had expected me to arrive in a wheel chair. She teased me about defying her expectations and then we set to work. Eventually, there would be 110 checklist items I would need to achieve before I was suitable for release.
Now that I had walked a goodly distance, Annie scaled her plans for me the finer elements of sitting down slowly and getting back up slowly. I had to hang onto something stable in order to do so. Feeling as though I were in a Twilight Zone moment, I wanted to believe this couldn't be real. This was just a nightmare, right? Simply an illusory episode of fear and helplessness that would disappear any second now. Only it didn't. Moving like a sloth was my new reality. Twigs and leaves for snacks, anyone?
My legs were uninjured but the nerves seemed affected in a generalized way. I noticed a stroke survivor at a nearby PT station. Not to be competitive but I was a little faster. Not by much, though. Which was momentarily depressing, I have to admit. By the time I got back to my room, I was thoroughly drenched in sweat and wanted to get my tilting self, frame and all, back into the hospital bed. I coldn't do it without help. Every muscle hurt, even in my legs. Every movement was in triple slow motion. I took the next pain dose and fell asleep deeply, without eating. That was the first time I can recall actually sleeping fitfully since the crash.
To standing and walking unaided on day 15 (Below).
It would be the second day of PT before the urinary Foley was removed. I was so relieved that I could start going to the toilet under my own steam. I still had to be accompanied, of course. It would be three more days before I could park that walker and ambulate without aids. I was anxious to get on with the business of showering, and was terribly disappointed, to the point of a few tears, that it would be months before I could do so. It was a whore's bath for me then. At the sink.
My head and hair had not been washed, except for the areas that had been surgically repaired. My remaining long hair was encrusted with dried blood and road dirt. I learned later that in addition to 24 cm of stitching, there were over 30 staples lodged in my scalp. My persistence at wanting to wash my head and hair finally paid off on day 12, when a team of nurses came in to perform a bed bound shampoo. It was pretty messy and painful. But by day 16, I could sit at a sink, with my back to it, and push my self up enough for a nurse to do a more thorough shampoo and rinse. Without the mess.
Because sleep was mostly elusive I had to take frequent naps through out the day. I took to wandering the halls of the hospital unit at night. With three hours of PT and occupational therapy each morning, I began to make solid progress towards the scheduled release date. I welcomed the offer to stay at the Winzenz home because it was given in love with a generous faith in my progress, as they had explained it to me. I would have loved to be in my own bed, but that was not to be for another 7 months!
Ultimately, I would still need help with unpaid medical bills. This came through a community-based ministry program, which my psychotherapist helped me apply for. I found it frightening to discover that essential medical services were not always paid in full by my medical insurance. Even with my automobile policy's med-pay account, the costs seemed alarming to an unemployable woman, essentially disabled without the benefits of a disability income, in the first 7 months of recovery.
By September of 2019, I was invited to spend a week with Ilona and her parents, Dave and Renny Lea, as part of a 3rd interim move. They live in Fish Creek, across from the Peninsula State Park. The park is a well known international destination with a poignant pre-colonial Indian and settler history. My daily walks gave me access to small triumphs: increasing stamina, and the mental reset that nature always provided.
With the cervical collar on, I could not turn my head left or right at all! Nor could I look down or up. I had to acquire the habit of scanning walk ways and stairs in advance, well before my feet arrived. Whenever there was a step, curb, or change in elevation - especially on uneven ground - I had to stop and assess whether I could navigate it.
That tourist attraction, with the oversized purple lawn chair in front of the restaurant, had a seat that slanted sharply toward the chair back. This made it easy to get into but especially difficult to get out of! Ilona had to help me up but I kept sliding backwards. Which set us to laughing. My fractured ribs were quite sore for several months yet. Therefore, sudden moves, laughter, or any kind of twisting --- even a misstep that caused me to have a jolt, was shockingly painful and took my breath away. Nonetheless, small moments of levity linger in my memory. There were several seemingly impossible moments that humor had a way of softening for me.
At that point in my recovery, spasms along the sides of my spine, particularly from the thoracic region rippling up into the shoulders, were particularly demanding. They were occurring nearly 24-7. The sensations were somewhat dulled, I think, by the systemic inflammation and tightness in my tissues surrounding the injured areas. Surprisingly, as long as I didn't overdo things, the walking and using small weights for moving my arms kept the spasms manageable. I was having weekly PT on the left arm and wrist, now that the cast was off. With sustained walking, I could feel a downward shift in my pain level without medications. So I kept at it. I had thrown away the meds back in July because I did not want to depend on them. My own mother had lived a life of secluded addiction following a major surgery when she was only twenty-three. She never knew freedom thereafter. She passed on September 21, 2013, of COPD, seizures, and alcohol induced dementia. My sense of the spiritual and continuity of life convinces me that she is now experiencing freedom.
Dealing with continuous spasms set me to wondering about the causes. Beyond the initial injury, I mean. I have come to believe that those spasms were part of my tissues and muscles trying to find their new normal, and probably not as random or hurtful as a person in fear might feel them to be. My new normal kept changing every day. Another explanation might also be that electrical misfires along the nerves were simply part of how my nervous system dealt with its task of cellular and tissue repair after so much physical trauma. Perhaps both explanations, and something as yet unknown to me, are all true.
After my week at the Lea's, I spent the next three weeks of September at a guest cabin on the Green Bay side of Lake Michigan, in Ephraim. While there, I was able to walk to the tiny local library, as well as to the Sunday services held at the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship where I had been attending. That cabin retreat was the second time that I had a brief respite in which I could be in solitude. I began to be able to cry in depth about what made me feel anxious and how much of my life energy was now focused on my body, and not the work and studies that had so engaged me before the crash.
While residing at the cabin, my doctors allowed me to remove the c-collar just for showering. It was extremely disconcerting to find that I had zero ability to turn my head in any direction. Like a piece of wood, my neck was unyielding. The use of very warm water each day made a start at softening the muscles that had become rigid and contracted. My first illness, since 2014, also occurred while in my cabin retreat: A relatively mild cold. Sneezing and coughing rattled ribs, head, neck, and chest. No matter where I was, I had to keep facing life because it kept coming at me head on. The last weekend of September (2019), I was helped by the lea's to relocate to Algoma, in the neighboring county. In December, some housing assistance came through and I was able to secure a year's lease for an upper story duplex. It was through word of mouth that I was referred my new landlords. My situation disqualified me from traditionally managed apartments. I had already failed two application processes. By January of 2020, I was developing the smallest tendrils of income producing work. I'll write about that transition in another post.
As I gradually unpacked my formerly stored household into my Algoma apartment, tears of relief and grief flowed. I kept remembering how deep and far my life had taken me: from a youth in which I had been trafficked, married as a teen, and eventually into a more coordinated healing and educational journey. With my four kids now adults, I had leapt into a life of community service in my field of expertise. What did my life mean now? How much ground would I lose I on the progress I had made as a mature woman? I was finally finding a voice in providing legislative testimony and giving presentations to communities across the state. All that activity had made me hopeful that I was finally landing full circle on the spectrum from former victim to a thriving survivor.
Less than 3 months before the crash, this photo (below) was taken during my third or fourth legislative appearance in Madison that year. In a 30-year span of time, I had transformed from a silent victim, to a mature college student, evolving even more through motherhood, and finally pursuing my education --- all as part of a way forward to a loving life as a legitimate educator. The newly plowed field of my professional endeavors was metaphorically ready to be planted.
How do I reconcile that crash as a life crisis, a seeming reversal of fortune? Is that even the truest question I can ask?
Perhaps there is some wisdom to be found in attending to the near death experience (NDE) that came with surviving the crash itself.
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