‘You’ve endured the worst’
These days, I tend to keep emotions buttoned up inside. I have to work at loosening up and reacting appropriately to the ebb and flow of daily life. I think it’s a reaction to my trauma, when my emotions were out of my control.
I first noticed it in the hospital when I discovered the portable CD player in a nightstand drawer, right below the stash of Boost I was supposed to drink to increase my calorie intake. It tasted like liquid chalk.
The singer was Jim Cuddy, a Canadian folk artist who has my favorite male singing voice of all time. As I heard the first few chords of the opening song of his debut album, “Second Son,” I lost control.
I cried like all the pain and sorrow of my life was a giant wave crashing over me.
I’d cry when I heard music in a commercial. I woke up from nightmares with tear-streaked cheeks. I cried when I got another container of cranberry juice (not really, but I wanted to).
When the first building crashes to the ground, I don’t think, “I’m watching a lot of people die.” It’s like I feel it. I sense a psychic connection to all that life as it’s lost. I ask my dad to turn off the television.
Appointments at Emory University Hospital go as planned that day, national tragedy or no. The first appointment is for my pill, a blood thinner called Coumadin.
Then an orderly pushes my wheelchair to the radiology department. He is the talkative sort. As we traverse the hallways of the hospital, he talks excitedly about planes flying over from Europe that are going to be shot down. I’m glad I’m kind out of it.
Radiology is cold. Whoever came up with the warm blankets for that room is a certified genius. I am as comfortable as I can be for someone about to get a catheter inserted into my heart.
We listen to the radio. The hosts discuss school closings and the dawn of a new world. I can’t control what’s happening in the world any more than I can control what’s happening to my body, so I say encouraging words to the people trying to help me get better. In my corner of the world, people are a little nicer to each other that day as we feel dread and foreboding for tomorrow.
Who remembers Sept. 12, 2001? I do. It’s the first time I go outdoors in four weeks.
I head outside on the sunny campus of Emory University, where students do what students do, albeit one day after a shared national trauma. We note the lack of air traffic.
My friend Don Funk pushes the wheelchair. Don is part of my fantasy football league. During my hospitalization, my friends bring the championship trophy I earned the previous football season into my room to cheer me up. I receive a constant crush of friends and family. Someone brings in a composition book and keeps it for people to write in while I am out of it. The name on the book is “Get Well, Zach!” and the school is “Your ICU Fan Club.”
The notes my friends and family wrote do the job in cheering me up.
“What’s up with you missing football? Ditka would play with a ventilator, what’s your problem?” — Paul,
“I am still working on the Funk Fest beer supply and hoping you show up and help me finish it.” — Don
“Today is Daddy’s birthday. He’s happy because you are getting better. They are reducing the sedatives that have kept you in dream land for the last 2.5 weeks. Now you move around and open your eyes, but you’re not quite awake. I know you hear our voice, but you probably will not remember any of this. We love you.” — Mom
“You were the first patient that I ever saw at Emory Hospital as a physician. It was about 5 a.m. and I was told by my colleague that I should see you first because you were ‘a little unstable.’ It has been one of the most gratifying experiences to watch you recover from a semi-comatose state where a machine took every breath for you. Monitoring your progress has been very rewarding. Also, I enjoyed greatly developing such a deep bond with your family and friends. You have surrounded yourself with wonderful people and that makes all the difference. Zach, I know that there are many times you will be scared over the next several months. But just remember that you’ve endured the worst and your perspective can make you a better, more compassionate person. Take care of yourself.” — Dr. David Huneycutt
from Don T Breathe - Google News http://ift.tt/2DtwYSZ
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