have a right to know what’s going on.
During many sleepless nights, I would lie in bed, convinced that the nurses conspired against me. It never occurred to me to wonder why they would want to do that.
Then why don’t they tell me anything? I’d rail as I lay there. What can they possibly do that will hurt more than this?
The answer was nothing . I endured additional pain that resulted not from the accident itself but from the process of healing. For instance, when they harvested bones out of my right hip and put them in my left arm, they made an incision six inches long—and closed it up with metal staples. When the day came for them to take out the staples, they pulled them out of my skin. As they pulled each one, I winced in pain and steeled myself so that I wouldn’t scream at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t remember hurting that excruciatingly. I had, of course, but I had forgotten how much torture my body could take.
The poor nurse who was extracting the staples stopped after each one. Sadness filled her eyes, and I knew she sensed how deeply the procedure hurt me. She was a large woman and always treated me as gently as she could. “I’m so sorry, Reverend,” she said softly.
“I know,” I mumbled. “You can’t help it.” Momentarily, I lapsed into my pastoral role of trying to console her. I didn’t want her to feel bad for the torture I felt.
“Reverend, why don’t you just haul off and yell?”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“If it was me, I’d be yelling.”
“Yeah, I bet you would.” I offered a faint sense of humor. “And you’d wake up every patient in the hospital.”
I just never could yell voluntarily. Maybe it was a fear of losing control. Perhaps I feared that if I did scream, she and others would consider me as weak. I’m not sure of the reasons, even now. I know only that I couldn’t scream like others on my floor. From several other rooms, every day I heard patients scream out in agony. I just couldn’t let go like that. Instead, I’d hold my breath and sometimes break out in a cold sweat, but I wouldn’t scream purposely.
Though I know I wasn’t the easiest of patients in demeanor or medical requirements, the nurses of the orthopedic floor treated me with kindness and much compassion. I learned to care a great deal for them and admire their dedication. I guess they must have seen something in me as well. I know the nursing staff often bent the rules when well-wishers showed up to see me, no matter what time of day or night they came. But the sweetest moment came when I was discharged from my 105-day stay at St. Luke’s. Apparently, arrangements were made with nursing staffs of other hospital floors to cover for them as the nurses from my floor all accompanied me down the elevator and to my waiting ambulance on the day of my discharge. Being surrounded by nurses that fed me, medicated me, bathed me, and did only the Lord knows what else, made my going home that day so wonderful. It was as if they were saying, “We’ve done our best. Now you’ve got to get better and come back and see us.” I can only imagine how different I must have seemed to them that going-home day from the day I had arrived wavering between life and death.
In spite of my stubborn resistance to showing emotion, before I left St. Luke’s, the months of intense pain finally crumbled my resolve. I broke down and cried. I felt worthless, beaten down, and useless. I was convinced I would never get any better.
“God, God, why is it like this? Why am I going through this constant pain that never seems to get any better?” Again I prayed for God to take me. I didn’t want to live any longer. I wanted to go back home, and now for me, home meant heaven.
I prayed that way for days, and usually, I’d fall asleep from exhaustion. When I’d awaken, a cloak of hopelessness would spread over me again. Nothing helped.
Just before the accident, I had ordered several cassette tapes of popular
During many sleepless nights, I would lie in bed, convinced that the nurses conspired against me. It never occurred to me to wonder why they would want to do that.
Then why don’t they tell me anything? I’d rail as I lay there. What can they possibly do that will hurt more than this?
The answer was nothing . I endured additional pain that resulted not from the accident itself but from the process of healing. For instance, when they harvested bones out of my right hip and put them in my left arm, they made an incision six inches long—and closed it up with metal staples. When the day came for them to take out the staples, they pulled them out of my skin. As they pulled each one, I winced in pain and steeled myself so that I wouldn’t scream at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t remember hurting that excruciatingly. I had, of course, but I had forgotten how much torture my body could take.
The poor nurse who was extracting the staples stopped after each one. Sadness filled her eyes, and I knew she sensed how deeply the procedure hurt me. She was a large woman and always treated me as gently as she could. “I’m so sorry, Reverend,” she said softly.
“I know,” I mumbled. “You can’t help it.” Momentarily, I lapsed into my pastoral role of trying to console her. I didn’t want her to feel bad for the torture I felt.
“Reverend, why don’t you just haul off and yell?”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“If it was me, I’d be yelling.”
“Yeah, I bet you would.” I offered a faint sense of humor. “And you’d wake up every patient in the hospital.”
I just never could yell voluntarily. Maybe it was a fear of losing control. Perhaps I feared that if I did scream, she and others would consider me as weak. I’m not sure of the reasons, even now. I know only that I couldn’t scream like others on my floor. From several other rooms, every day I heard patients scream out in agony. I just couldn’t let go like that. Instead, I’d hold my breath and sometimes break out in a cold sweat, but I wouldn’t scream purposely.
Though I know I wasn’t the easiest of patients in demeanor or medical requirements, the nurses of the orthopedic floor treated me with kindness and much compassion. I learned to care a great deal for them and admire their dedication. I guess they must have seen something in me as well. I know the nursing staff often bent the rules when well-wishers showed up to see me, no matter what time of day or night they came. But the sweetest moment came when I was discharged from my 105-day stay at St. Luke’s. Apparently, arrangements were made with nursing staffs of other hospital floors to cover for them as the nurses from my floor all accompanied me down the elevator and to my waiting ambulance on the day of my discharge. Being surrounded by nurses that fed me, medicated me, bathed me, and did only the Lord knows what else, made my going home that day so wonderful. It was as if they were saying, “We’ve done our best. Now you’ve got to get better and come back and see us.” I can only imagine how different I must have seemed to them that going-home day from the day I had arrived wavering between life and death.
In spite of my stubborn resistance to showing emotion, before I left St. Luke’s, the months of intense pain finally crumbled my resolve. I broke down and cried. I felt worthless, beaten down, and useless. I was convinced I would never get any better.
“God, God, why is it like this? Why am I going through this constant pain that never seems to get any better?” Again I prayed for God to take me. I didn’t want to live any longer. I wanted to go back home, and now for me, home meant heaven.
I prayed that way for days, and usually, I’d fall asleep from exhaustion. When I’d awaken, a cloak of hopelessness would spread over me again. Nothing helped.
Just before the accident, I had ordered several cassette tapes of popular
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