FREE AT LAST!

My hospitalization seemed to last for weeks. That’s probably because it did – four weeks and a day from the date of the accident. After two surgeries, various complications, and a stint in rehab, I finally was told I could go home. That had been my goal, some would say to the point of obsession, since the accident. In fact, I pulled some rather absurd stunts to escape that would only seem like a good idea to someone on morphine - as I was at the time. (I don’t actually recall any of them.) In one of my lame getaway attempts, I said I had to leave to pick up my son at kindergarten. The flaw in this plan was that my clearly adult son (over 6 feet tall with full beard) was with me in the hospital every day and night. All of the hospital personnel knew him, so the kindergarten gambit was somewhat lacking in credibility. Another irrational escape attempt was reported in my hospital records. (My friend, who is a chiropractor, was able to obtain a complete copy of my hospital records, which were voluminous, and she reviewed every entry and test report.) According to these records, I had what is called a central IV line, i.e. it was threaded all the way to my heart. It was further reported that I had removed the central line. Understand, one can’t effectively sneak down the hospital corridors and out the door while hooked up to an IV. The nurse who discovered this asked how it could have happened. I cheerfully replied: “It happened by accident!” Apparently though, it’s highly unlikely that a central IV line would be entirely removed accidentally. Due to the resulting notations about my mental status, I was taken off morphine. My GP (former) thought it would be a good idea to do this “cold turkey”. The records report, however, that I got so sick from the abrupt withdrawal that a hospital doctor put me on Fentanyl. This relieved the withdrawal symptoms and provided pain relief similar to morphine, but without morphine’s comical (at least in my case) side effects. (I digress, but in the process I have introduced two of my many blessings: my devoted son and equally devoted friend, the chiropractor. They were as important to my recovery as the gifted surgeons and numerous caring nurses and therapists.)

Back to the original theme. The homecoming day came, my bags were packed, my transport arranged, and guess what? After all of my schemes to break out, I was a wreck! I had not given any thought to the effect it would have on me to go to the home that I had shared with my husband who died at the scene of the accident. My home now would be devoid of his presence, but full of his memory and belongings. His robe would still be hanging on the bathroom door! As the departure time approached, I became more and more agitated. Then all of a sudden, I felt a wave of comforting calm flow through me, instantly eliminating all of the emotional turmoil. (No, there was no change in medication at that time.) I realized then that a fourth “intervention” (I mentioned three “interventions” in previous postings) would allow me to have a peaceful homecoming rather than a collision with grief as might be expected under the circumstances. With a sense of awe and gratitude, I looked up and simply said, “Oh! Thank you!”