Who knew how much this little face would need wiped.
Thank God for letting me be his mother.

I spent all day Saturday cleaning our basement - packing, organizing and separating the trash from the donation pile. During that time my husband was upstairs putting crown molding and trying to install a new bathroom sink. We really know how to live it up around here on the weekends. This week my to-do list includes painting and more painting.

All this work is in preparation for moving to a new home in a few months. That’s right, we have found a place just outside the city and not very far from our work. It isn’t exactly where we thought we’d end up, but something about it makes us feel at home.

What I love about this new house most is the location. There is nothing down the road. Just a few homes on our street and hardly any traffic. This means the only sounds we will hear are crickets and toads at night. It will take some time to get used to, but I feel like I’ve spent the last 3 years in tune with the noises that city-life brings. Mostly the sirens that travel out street and the helicopters that fly over our house several times a day. Each time I hear those sounds my world stops and I relive a moment in my life that doesn’t seem to ever fully disappear.

I know moving away will not make it go away, but it will give me more than a few hours at a time where I forget. Maybe if I forget for long enough, the next time I hear a firetruck my mind won’t automatically take me to that place where my life and time stood still.

One of the things I painted today was Ethan’s closet door. Nate had stenciled a growth chart on there before he was born and every so often we’d measure him, and write it on the door. Obviously, whoever buys our house will probably not care to have our scribblings on their closet door, so we decided to paint over it now.

I had to take pictures before I did that of course. What I noticed was that the day before the car accident (7-8-04) that caused all these anxieties, we measured Ethan at just under 3 feet tall. Last night (3-24-08) when we had him stand up to the closet door for the last time he was just over 4 feet.

What makes my heart stop is wondering what would have happened if 3 feet was all I got to know of him. When I think of what has occurred between those dates I realize that hearing a daily reminder of why I’m here isn’t as bad as it truly sounds.

Life is happening all around me and I’m finally able to participate. My ankle is better, not healed, but good enough that I can walk (or limp) without the metal chopsticks that cause more problems then they are worth.

I’m not certain the 7 day steroid pack I took had much to do with this improvement. I’m also not inclined to believe the glorified ice pack was a lot of help. They were all band-aids to the problem. When I was in the hospital after the accident, a co-worker and friend of my mom, took it upon herself to send a well-known priest a request to pray for me and my recovery. I’ll admit that when I received the package from him in the mail - complete with a little white prayer cloth that had been specially blessed - I thought it was cheesy.

Turns out I had a lot of people praying for me and my family during that time. My name was all over church prayer lists and uttered by people I did not even know. At the time I found it thoughtful, but not helpful. After all, I had survived and I was alive. What good would prayer do now?

Then, came the morphine withdrawals. After 30 days on straight morphine they had to take away the constant pump. I ended up with pretty severe withdrawals and pain. The kind of pain where you wonder if dying wasn’t the better option. During those blurry days my mom took the white cloth out of the envelope and placed it in my hand, telling me to clinch it and pray.

It is when you are helpless and suffering that you are most likely to seek help. So I did. Although it in no way took away my pain, it helped. Some people may say it just distracted me and allowed my pain to be redirected, but I have faith that it went beyond just that. Over the following months of numerous surgeries and lots of physical therapy I continued to build inner strength from prayer.

I contribute our lives continuing in a good direction to that. There were many, many times I wanted to give up and call it quits. On life, on my marriage, on my family. But prayer kept me centered and allowed peace in my heart.

Sometimes we forget which road led us to today. Last week I felt like my life was unraveling at the seams. I felt hopeless and defeated, and wondered how much more I could take. While attending a meeting someone mentioned this priest’s name and instantly I remembered how well prayer saved me from darkness before.

That night I found myself laying in bed alone and instead of thinking negative thoughts I prayed for all the positive things I have to be thankful for. Each day this week my ankle has felt a little better. It will never be healed completely. I’m not expecting miracles, but I won’t stop praying.

I’ve been around a lot of doctors. All different kinds and specialties. Young, old, professional, unprofessional, humble and complete jackasses. I can tell from the moment they walk into the room whether or not they will be worth the co-pay. Of course, there are those who are so intelligent they can not communicate with you. And there are also doctors you cannot understand, because learning the English language is not required to get a medical license in the U.S.

My least favorite doctor was a general surgeon who helped fix my internal injuries. While in ICU they would do grand rounds 2-3 times a week and the entire medical team working on me would stand in my room and talk about me. After the first week I was fully awake and able to participate and ask questions. This older doctor did not believe I should be allowed to participate in the discussion of my own body and asked a nurse to give me a sedative before the next grand rounds - right in front of me. I was on a lot of drugs at the time and I remember telling him to go somewhere…not sure where? I just remember the nurse busted out laughing.

After the car accident I was assigned a new doctor in our area who was the chief orthopedic trauma surgeon at the hospital I was taken to. He was a good doctor and a nice man. His bedside manner was probably one of the best I have experienced and I was surprised, because given the life and death situations he’s faced over the years it had not hardened him.

In a small hospital waiting room he told my husband that my worst injury was to my elbow. His expectations were that I would never be able to feed myself with that arm or bend it, but he wasn’t giving up. While I was still in ICU unable to move anything from the waist down, he had a therapist in my room everyday working with that arm. Then, he had a special machine flown in that constantly moved my elbow back and forth to get the joint working. He didn’t accept his own diagnosis and because of that I am able to use that arm.

I spent many hours with him in the operating room during the first year of rehabilitation and many more office visits. (I’m pretty sure we made a few of his house payments as well!) It reached a point in my recovery that he explained there wasn’t much more he could do for me. It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it that made the sting burn a little less. He took the time in his busy schedule to offer me his apologies that modern medicine has only advanced so far. He went on to apologize for the circumstances that had led me to him.

I found it ironic that the man who had helped fix me was apologizing for why I was broken. He was gentle and he was sensitive, but more importantly he did not lie and promise me a full recovery. Instead he encouraged me to take advantage of any treatments available.

This week the ankle specialist he referred me to dropped me. He bluntly stated there was nothing more he do for me. This doctor offered no encouragement, but instead painted a rather bleak picture of what my life will be like. He offered no hope and only stated his view on what I will or won’t be capable of. Instead he sent me home with a glorified ice pack and said good luck.

His words stung and the fact he couldn’t look me in the eyes was even more piercing. Little does he know that I would never let his opinions define me, like his actions have defined him.

After a few recent posts, I’m trying to keep a better attitude. Mostly out of guilt. I know that my issues are minimal in comparison to others. I also know that I have a lot more love and support than many people dealing with much less. For both of those things I am thankful.

Despite the fact I’m now sporting an ugly black purse that is attached to my ankle via a tube 24/7, I am free of the PICC line! Yes, they removed it today. All 54 inches that they wound into my vein. (My mom almost passed out watching them take it out!)

My arm has been extremely sore, so I am hoping this will alleviate that pain. Now if I can just rid of the pain in my ankle when I walk, I’ll be even better.

Showering tonight with two hands was a dream. You can easily take for granted even the smallest things in life. For many of us it is our health.

I’ve gotten to know Dorothy at Grammology very well over the past year. She is going through her own health crisis and still finds time to give me an encouraging word. I enjoy reading her variety of topics, because she reminds me of a fountain of wisdom when it comes to families and relationships. She has started chemo (for Ovarian Cancer) and could use some support. Please head over there today and leave a her quick comment! (She has a few guest posters right now, but she’s reading her comments I’m sure!)