Footprints in the Sand

        I was becoming moody.  Three months had passed since our collision.  Having decreased my narcotic dose, I was more lucid, which allowed me to remember more of my daily pain.  Misery was normal.  Moodiness came from lowering my narcotic consumption and frustration of not being able to accomplish what  I want to do each day. 

      I had never sat this much in my life.  My mind would not let me focus to read, I stared at the tv without hearing it.  I was exhausted from healing, I was bored, I couldn't drive, I couldn't leave my house on my own, I couldn't do much at all without help.  

     I was pissed about it. 

      Dependency is not my personality.  Greg sat with me and explained this is the third time I had gone through this phase of frustration.  Remembering this time only, I was stunned by his confession.  

     I did not go around the house screaming or throwing things, but my family could sense how irritable I was.  I did not want to talk, I did not want to be alone, but I did not want to be around anyone at the same time.   I just wanted to stand up! 

     Limbo, is where I was swinging right then.  We did not know if I would walk well or when.  We did not know if my ankles would hold me or how long.  We did not know how long the actual healing was going to take.  We did not know much, except that I was surviving. 

      Reminding myself of this often helped me work through my days.  I am grateful that I am alive.  I do not want to give up the life God granted.  Somehow I had to work through this and learn patience.  Please God, grant me the patience.  

     Greg and I spoke at length about how I could find peace with dependency until I could do things on my own.  I could see it was wearing on him.  He'd gotten upset only once, at least that's all that I can remember and I believe I am the one that pushed him.  

     Knowing that I do not know what I am saying most of the time requires great understanding from him.  He is my living angel.  He has patience, understanding, a thick skin and a love for me that carries us all.  I hold onto his strength so tightly that I hope that I do not drain it from him completely.  

     Thoughts of how well I was going to recover were constantly boring their way into my mind.  I desperately wanted Greg to understand my thoughts, feelings, all of these emotions swirling their way around inside of me.  He is unbelievably compassionate, but I see in his deep, brown eyes, a lack of full comprehension.  

     He's cannot fully understand because he experienced a different side of this tragedy.  It is not fair of me to get upset by this.  I felt I was at my lowest, saddest point in recovery. If it hurt this terribly to sit, it was going to be more excruciating to stand.  Maybe it would be better to stay in the wheelchair.....  Maybe it would be better to remove my right lower leg.....  Anything had to be better than what I was going through at that time. 

      Explaining to him that I felt like I was going through this part alone, he softly says that while we were in the hospital he read a phrase in the hospital gift shop and would like to recite it to me. 

      Holding my hands loosely in his, he looks tenderly at me, "Carey, you are asking me why you feel alone during your weakest moments and I think this is your answer.  The quote said,  

"Why, during my hardest times was there only one set of footprints in the sand?"  God answered, "You were not alone.  That is when I was carrying you, when you were not strong enough to carry yourself." 

  I stared, awestruck at him, lips parted, eyes wide with understanding.  I could not believe how true those words rang.  Greg's timing with that phrase was impeccable.  I could only sit there and allow that to sink in as my admiration for my husband grew.   

     He kneels on the floor beside my wheelchair and caresses my hand.  He says softly, sympathetically, "I can't fix this part for you Carey.  You cannot take the idea of being vulnerable and depending on others to take care of your needs, I can sense this."  

     "You feel guilty and it's causing a great deal of frustration.  Let us take care of you and make yourself a priority for once in your life.  I don't just love you Carey, I adore you." 

      I'm sobbing at his words, he is spot on.  "Carey, you haven't cried about what has happened, not once.  Just cry and let it all out," he begs.  I sobbed on his shoulder until I could sob no more.  

Within an Inch of Her Life:Part 2

     Last week I described to you how wonderful Wednesday ended for me, let's go right into Thursday.

     Another day of mowing grass and chomping up weeds.  Two sections of pasture were left before I could move to the West side of the acreage.  

     Yellow rays of sunshine were cascading down upon our farm this morning.  My first and immediate task was to locate the calves born the day before.  Summoning my amateur calf bawl, Cows 131 and 149 came running, right to calf 149.  

     Standing twenty feet from the calf and assessing that they were both calm and the calf was lazily climbing to his feet, I pulled the truck beside him and put a tag in it's right ear.

     Texting a photo to my husband with the words, safely and efficiently, he responded with, "How did I know?"  Without saying it he warned me to be careful and that I knew what he meant before leaving for work that morning.  Cow 149 was taking extreme security measures the evening before which did not allow my husband to tag her calf.  I didn't want to pass up an easy opportunity and I just love that I can accomplish it.

     Driving around the field, bawling, I could not summon Cow 131 to show me where she hid her baby girl.  Beginning with the section farthest from Calf 149, I began cutting grass.  Finishing I moved to that patch, again calling to Cow 131 and she will not give up her location. 

     Sighing, I cut the entire rectangle gritting my teeth, my body so tense that my shoulders were up to my ears and my eyes darting right and left constantly.  Assuming she hid her somewhere in the grass that I had cut the day before and I'm not able to see her, I move on. 

     Driving into the hay lot, I decide to clip the little bit of grass that

has grown up through the chat rock before moving onto the West ninety acres.  Unable to recall if there are any large rocks in there, I raise the mower deck a bit to be cautious.  

     I could only drive forward and back up to each fence line instead of turning around due to space.  Backing up for the last eight feet stretch, I shifted into forward, let the clutch out and hear the dreaded sound.

     For the second day in a row, I hit the PTO with my fist as I braked, idled down and threw the tractor into neutral with a plethora of emotions swarming over me.  I'm not sure how I exited the cab so quickly or how I did not stumble as I shuffled to the rear of the mower.  As I neared the fence, I saw her. 

     No. No, no, no, no, no.

     Her eyes tell me she has passed, but she looks perfect.  I instinctively reach out and her black hair is hot from the sun and her heart is beating ferociously against my palm.  I hope against the odds as a mere thirty seconds pass by as her heart slows to nothing.

     Looking her over, I find only a quarter size, "nick" on the back of her head.  As I pulled the mower forward, she had raised her head from her slumber.

     I'm sick with despair.  I took the very life that I had worked so hard to save the day before.  Sitting on the tire of the mower, my heart feels like there is an anchor tied to it.  This is not the first farm animal tragedy, but it is the first dealt by my hand.  It is not just the unnecessary life taken, but each farmer understands that a dead calf does not pay the bank note. 

     There is nothing left that I can do.  I tell her and her Momma, "Sorry bout that."  and climb pathetically into my tractor seat. 




 I was on a nineties music kick that day, my mouth fell open as my ears pick up on Ozzy Osbourne's voice singing these words, 

 "These are your final days.  See you on the other side."

    

 Shit. You. Not. 

 

 

   

   Ozzy's Song

Touched by Angels

    

    
      Each week as I ready for blog writing, I let my topic come to me as I go through my every day activities.  Not knowing until I was in church this morning, sitting, listening to the homily, I had  to look down for my eyes were whelming with grateful tears as I remember my first church visit four months after our collision.  Yes, this is what I should share today as the holiday season is among us, as we sit, look back at all we are grateful for and bask in all that we are given.  At the suggestion of a wonderful high school classmate of mine, I want to bring up how each one of us can be someone's angel, right here on this earth we live on. 

    Easter was late that year, April 24th.  Our priest suggested that I wait to come to church until my pain lessened and I became more mobile.   Unable to drive or attend many of my families activities,  unable to stand being cooped up any longer, I asked my husband to take me to mass.  Rolling me into church, I could feel warm eyes on me, although welcome, I felt small in that wheelchair, stripped of my independence.    Dragging my bottom from the chair to the hard, wood bench, I cringed.  I had forgotten to bring a seat cushion.  Weighing around 110 lbs, there was not much padding for my sore tailbone that I had been sitting on, without relent, for many months.  One of our daughters finally gave me their coat to ease my discomfort and stop the grinding sound that came from my constant fidgeting.  

     With that taken care of my ankles started talking to me, before long they were barking and by communion, howling.  Since they are elevated most of the day to relieve the pressure of my injuries, an hour of hanging down has caused deep aches and a pounding each time my heart beat.  We all know that Easter mass is a tad longer than a normal Sunday devotion.  Admitting silently that this was not one of my best ideas, communion commenced, meaning we were close to ending.

     I sat on the right side of church, in the front row, at the end of the pew, farthest from the aisle.  I had not heard or absorbed a single word of mass since entering the church.  Concentrating solely on increasing my comfort and berating myself for being impatient with my progress, I had lost the purpose of even attending with my family. 

      Keeping my head down as parishioners received the Eucharist, I felt the first soft touch on my right shoulder.  Gently smiling, I

covered this man's hand and nodded thank you.  Lacing my fingers together, I laid my clasped hands in my lap as another hand gingerly touched my shoulder as they passed by me, another patting, another squeezing, another caressing, another and another and another. 

      Each one of these wonderful angels spoke volumes to me as they moved past.  No words, just touch.  Soft, compassionate, reassuring shoulder embraces.  This was not sorrow or pity from what had happened to me.  This was normal people being sent as angels to comfort.  One hot tear fell from the corner of my right eye and then one more.  As more parishioners moved past me, more tears fell.  I could not lift my eyes for fear of completely collapsing emotionally.  So many hands that I could not count touched my heart.  

     With nothing to wipe my eyes, I sat there, slightly bent, watching the tears fall from the contours of my face to the fabric of my pants as the line moved forward.  My face was hot from the cascade of emotion sliding down my cheeks.  Silent sobs racked my chest in even increments as I earnestly kept them from escaping.   Unable to hide what was transpiring within me, my soaked eyelashes laid on my cheeks for the remainder of the hour.  

     Incapable of succeeding exclusively on my own, I accepted the help of others for the first time that I can cite.  Beholden with gratitude at what God asked these individuals to do that day and their willingness to accept has been the foundation of my successful rehabilitation.  Never knowing when we will be called upon, we should live gratefully and selflessly all year long instead of growing a soft heart only near the holidays or when tragedy beats on our door.  It did not matter that I heard no words recited from scripture this day, He said everything I needed to hear transmitted through your touch.  

   

  It is said that if angels exist, they have wings and halos above their head.  That they only show themselves when we reach so deep within ourselves that we touch a place we never knew we even had.  

But I see angels every day and they look just like you.

It's Time to Wake Up

   My last two blogs have been some of my most emotional.  Continuing this same path for the rest of this month makes me sigh when I choose what I want to work through next.  Only due to the high emotion is causes, but each week I purge and the part of me that hurts so much from that particular remembrance ebbs. 

  It is working. 

     Natural curiosity is abundant when an event of this magnitude occurs.  Asking ,"What was like when I awoke or what do you remember as you awoke?" was and still is a dominant inquiry.  Here it is as "I" relive it. 

      Six-thirty.  There were no sirens that I could hear.  I started to wake just like the actors do in the movies.  Trying so hard to pry my eyelids open.   Feeling as if they had weights hanging from them.    They blinked dramatically slow.   Fogginess obscured my mind and focusing was minimal.  I had no idea where I was or what had transpired just moments before.  When my eyes could focus, I ascertained I was looking out my drivers side car window, but there was no glass.  I believed I was looking at a hillside of grass.  It was at the level of my window and I could only see in black and white.  When our car finally stopped spinning  after the impact, we circled to a gridlock in a ditch along side of the rail road tracks.  

 I was trying to make sense of what I was seeing when I heard what I thought were people yelling at me.  Where was that coming from?   Did I hear, Mommy?   It had to be the girls, they were both calling my name, begging me, "Please wake up, please!" "Are you okay?" they demanded .   

Words finally penetrated through my lethargic mind.  "Mommy, I think I broke my arm", the oldest said softly.  Broke her arm?  What is she speaking of?  It started coming back to me, creeping ever so slowly into my confusion.  

Dear God, we were in a crash!  I knew it had to be terrible, there's no way we couldn't be hurt after a crash like that.   Her voice was trembling as she stated again, "Mommy, I think I broke my arm."    I thought I knew how strong I was until I heard the pain in my children's voices.  

  I  turned my head towards her voice and my movement seemed unusually delayed.   There was only darkness with a white light in the upper left corner of my vision when rotating my head to the right.  Why couldn't I see them?   I knew my eyes were open, I had just been looking at grass. 

 I was desperately trying to get the words that were in my head to reach my lips.  I needed to give them reassurance.  I spoke softly to them, " Calm down, people will be here to help us soon.  Call 911."  Only partial words were coming out, but they understood enough to take action.  She grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and called for emergency help. 

 Again I tried to move, to help the girls and yet still I couldn't see them.  Something was so close to my chest, it wouldn't let me turn either direction and the lower half of my body wouldn't move.  I was trapped and couldn't understand why my body wasn't feeling any sensations.  The shadows kept trying to envelope me, they were breathing down my neck.  I fought for consciousness every moment.

  I heard the youngest say in a small voice, " Carey, I think I'm cut on my belly pretty bad."  My heart sank as I wondered what injuries they had sustained.  My little angels were suffering.  I tried to ask her if she could see the cut.  She then stated confidently, " No, no I think it's okay" then just mere moments later, the worry is back in her voice as she whimpered, "No, Carey, I think it's pretty bad."  To hear her tone and the way she is dramatic one moment, then nonchalant the next, it is just so her.  I don't know how humor could show it's face in my drowsy mind at that moment, but it did.  Even though my heart was aching for the girls, it let me know her personality was still intact.  Their speech was coherent, this let me assume they did not bear brain trauma.  I did not hold this same confidence with myself. 

    I instructed the girls to call Dad.   A woman took my daughters phone to finish the 911 call. "My  phone is in my purse" I whispered.  Again the youngest asked with all her sassiness " Where the heck is that?"  Again a small smile entered my mind at her.  I told her it was on her floorboard before the accident.  Luckily it lingered at her feet.  

 I was so proud of these two girls.  They really did stay calm in light of what they had just been through.  The oldest took charge of getting us help. She was calm with the 911 operator and in relaying details to my husband about where we were located. 

 What he must have been thinking, I can't imagine.  We had just left the house maybe eight minutes before the collision happened.   

 It's odd that I couldn't get my thoughts to form out of my mouth, but I had so many inside of my head.  I was worried about how badly the girls were injured.  I was frustrated that I couldn't help them.  I wanted to hold each of them tightly and whisper comforting words in their ears.  They were frightened.   I must have hit my head so hard because I just couldn't stay focused on what was happening.  

      As the girls ended their phone call with my husband,  I again tried to turn towards them, then the most God awful, intense pain I had ever felt, hit me in my lower legs.  Never had I felt anything so explosive in my entire life. It was completely overpowering.  Sensation had come back to my body with such severity, rating it on a pain scale was absurd. 

  I reached down and could feel my legs had been pinned by the car.  Debris surrounded them.  Sharpness from the broken car was everywhere.  If I could move them, even a little, maybe it would give me some kind of reprieve from the monstrous agony I was in.   Gently I tugged on my legs and they did move just slightly as my body spasm-ed with pain.  I rested my forehead on whatever piece of the car was against my chest and decided to try a second time.  Pulling just a little harder this time the waves of sickness were too much as the misery escalated me into unconsciousness. 

 Had I been able to think clearly, I would have understood that I should not be attempting this action.  Thank goodness they did not move because I would have caused even more damage to myself as the fractures in my right leg had perforated my skin and were now exposed. 

                         
    There is pain that makes you cry and there is pain high enough to make you vomit.  Then there is the pain that is so severe, your body's natural response is to send you into shock because it cannot tolerate the reactions it's feeling. 

 Your body is in survival mode only. 

   

    I know what drinking and driving is, my story  is how drinking and driving feels.

twitter

Facebook

LinkedIn