"So, what happens now?" I ask my mom once I'm finished primping.
"I'm not sure. We'll have to wait for Dr. Fischer. I think they said they will be moving you out of ICU today because you're clearly doing much better."
It's not long before Dr. Fischer makes an appearance. He informs us that I will indeed be moving out of the intensive care unit. I will move to a regular bed, and when I'm ready to begin physical therapy, they will transfer me to another part of the hospital that's reserved for rehabilitation patients, such as myself. I will be working with a physical therapist in my room until then.
My heart falls with the news. I'm getting homesick already. And I think it's more than just missing home, but I'm missing my old life, which will never be back to the way it was.
"Can't I just go home and come back for physical therapy?" I ask hopefully.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. You'll have to stay here until we know that your legs are healing well."
My right leg will never heal, I think. It's gone.
Perhaps Dr. Fischer can read my mind because the next words out of his mouth are, "Your right leg is gone, but we still have to watch for signs of infection and swelling. And don't forget that your left leg has to heal, too. It won't take as long, but it will be sore for a while. In fact, it's a miracle that it's not broken or worse."
Yeah, some miracle, I grumble internally. Thirty-four stitches and no right leg. I'm a walking miracle! Wait, I can't walk. What the hell kind of miracle is that?
I wonder if it's psychological, but my left leg seems to be aching more since I noticed the bruises and the stitches earlier.
"It hurts," I tell the doctor, motioning to my left thigh.
"We've been backing down the pain medication."
Thanks for asking me, I think sarcastically.
He continues, "We'll eventually install catheters in your right leg to deliver numbing medication only to the residual limb. For now, I will ask your nurse to bring your IV back up to what it was before," he assures me.
It's not long before a transfer tech comes to push me, bed and all, to the new unit. My mom gathers up all of the flowers, cards, and balloons in my room. I'm amazed that so many gifts came in such a short period of time. I realize I haven't really even looked at them yet, so I make a mental note to do just that after the transfer.
My new room is a little more cozy than the ICU. Dark sage wallpaper climbs up about half way, met by a delicate border of flowers. The top part of the walls is just a creamy color with tiny little sage flecks. It's not exactly my decorating style, but it feels more homey than the ICU. Most of all, I'm relieved that I still have a room to myself.
My mom puts my tiny suitcase in a small closet across from my bed, an unwelcome reminder that I'll be staying here longer than I want to. She places all of my essentials on a small table next to the bed. She puts my laptop on the rolling table that fits snugly over the top of my bed.
I don't realize how much I'd been out of the virtual loop until I start my computer, my trusty laptop. It's oddly comforting somehow.
I log on to Facebook and I'm a bit taken aback by hundreds of notifications. I click on them to see message after message, everyone wishing me well, assuring me of their thoughts and prayers.
Then I take a look at all the cards and notes, along with the flowers and balloons that accumulated mostly while I was unconscious. Of course there are flowers from Sam, Cam and Morgan, from some people at my mom's church, and a large bouquet from my dad. He must have sent them right away, before he knew he'd be hopping a flight. There are several cards from a few people from my dorm, from my aunt and uncle in Grand Rapids, and even from some of my college professors.
I swallow a small lump in my throat and think to myself that I haven't been all alone this whole time. My friends have been with me.
A new nurse comes in and introduces herself, "I'm Bette."
I just give her a small smile and nod.
She goes through all the motions, taking my temperature, checking my blood pressure, checking the stitches in my left leg, asking me if I need anything.
"My leg really hurts," I tell her. "The doctor said he'd tell you to increase my pain medication."
"I'll go and ask him how much." She disappears and comes back and makes some adjustments. She tells me that I should feel it working soon. Hopefully, she's right. Not only is the pain becoming unbearable, but oddly enough, it's a reminder of what's no longer there.
My mom leaves to get some lunch, so I decide to flick on the TV and sit back for a moment. But I'm soon interrupted by another new face in a lab coat.
"Hello, Sarah, I'm Mitch. I'm a social worker."
"Hi, Mitch," I reply, reluctantly turning off the TV. I'm sure he's another person who's going to tell me that I can live a perfectly normal life with one leg.
"I'll be helping you and your family to adjust to your new situation," he tells me.
He makes it sound so innocuous. Situation, as it's some mundane condition that can be fixed with some thought and effort. This isn't a situation, this is my life, forever destroyed by the fact that my leg is gone.
This is not a situation, it's a catastrophe.
He continues, unaware of my bitter thoughts. "I will help your parents to assess your home to find out if we need to make any modifications to make it accessible."
Handicap-accessible, he means. I'm handicapped now. Wheelchair ramps, grab bars, like a nursing home.
"What about the dorms? I'm living there right now because I'm in school," I said.
"Well, that will be another hurdle after you cross this one. I'm sure the dorms are accessible as well, but there still might be some things that we can do to make it easier. But we won't have to tackle that for a while yet."
"What do you mean?!" I ask indignantly. "I'm going back to school after I get out of here. In fact, I was going to try to contact my professors today to see if I can make up any work that I missed."
"I'm sorry, Sarah, but I don't think that's part of the plan," Mitch said carefully.
"Whose plan?!" I ask, becoming furious. "This is my life and suddenly everyone else thinks they're running it!"
"Well, the doctors, for one," he says, unfazed by my increasing agitation. "You have a lot of work to do here in therapy, but when you leave, you'll still have to go to therapy at least three times a week. And you'll have lots of follow up appointments to check on the healing of your legs. I'm not sure it will be possible for you to continue college right now."
"Don't tell me what's possible and what's not!" I snap. "I can do anything I put my mind to!"
"That's a great attitude," he smiles as a platitude. "We don't have to talk about this any more right now. Just communicate with your doctor to make sure you're on the same page as far as treatment, okay?" He hands me a business card. "Here is my extension. Just pick up the phone and dial those three numbers if you want to talk about anything. I'll check back with you regularly."
"So, you're like a counselor?" I ask, softening my tone. I guess that's what I thought social workers did, but he kind of surprised me with the whole let's make your house accessible business.
"Exactly."
"Well, I don't feel like I will ever be normal again," I tell him. "Last week I was your average college student and now I'm like disabled or something."
"Were you really normal before?" He asks.
I don't quite get him, but I hesitantly answer, "Well, yeah."
"So, you did everything exactly like everyone else? You thought the same thoughts, did the same things for fun, ate the same foods? You were a robot, programmed to be like everyone else?"
"No." I roll my eyes a little. I know where he's going with this now. "But I'm not like anyone else now. All of my friends have two arms and two legs and people don't stare at them everywhere they go. People are going to stare at me because I'm a freak."
"Yes, they might stare at you. In fact, they probably will," he says.
I'm a little surprised by his response.
He continues, "To be honest, almost every little kid you meet will probably stare at you when they first meet you, well at least until you have a well-fitting prosthesis and you learn how to walk with it. And some adults will, too. You should prepare yourself for that."
He's not making me feel better yet.
"What do you think about that?" He presses.
I shrug. "I don't know. So people will stare. I guess it's not a big deal."
He agrees, "That's exactly right. The big deal is knowing what to expect and how you plan to respond to it."
He gives me a genuine smile and tells me that he has to meet another patient. He heads toward the door, but stops and adds, "I would encourage you to get comfortable with your body. Look in the mirror as you feel ready. Accept that this is the new you and you will become less and less afraid to let everyone else see the girl you see in the mirror."
I don't want to accept that this is the new me. It is simply unacceptable. I want to go back to school and catch up on my classes and pretend that none of this ever happened. I'm tempted to flip him off as he leaves, but I decide against it. It's not his fault that he came bearing more bad news.
I look around my room and find that there is only a tiny mirror above the sink. I guess I'm not stripping down to look at myself in my full handicapped glory.
The door to my room is closed, so I decide to take the approach I'd been using. I feel around again. I'm still not used to the idea that my leg is gone. In fact, every time I try to make myself believe that I haven't lost it, I get angry that it's just not there. I definitely can't fool myself.
I manage to trace the outline of the stump without feeling faint. I run my hand over my left leg, over the areas that are swelling and stitched. I can feel some pain, so obviously the medication hasn't come back up to it's full strength yet. I pull the blanket off and wiggle my hot pink toes.
A bizarre thought strikes me – I wonder what they did with my other leg – and it just seems oddly funny. It must have looked hideous. It's kind of strange to think they just cut it off and threw it away, pink toenails and all.
I start to laugh, in spite of myself. Then I continue to explore. Most of me hasn't changed. My arms, my hands, my fingers are all the same as they were before. My face, my neck, my breasts. All the same. I had washed between my legs earlier, but I hadn't taken the time to feel around. I slip my hand into my underwear and run my hand up and down. Still the same, I guess.
I lay back onto the pillows and think, "Okay. Now what?"
A small knock on the door startles me. "Come in," I call.
I'm greeted by my blue-eyed rescuer. "Hey, Sarah."
"Hi, Ethan." I briefly wonder how on earth I'm supposed to act around the guy who saved my life. I mean, it's a pretty significant thing. I feel like I should bow before him or something.
Then I realize how thankful I am that he didn't walk in a few moments earlier when I was feeling myself up.
He kisses me on the top of my head again. Weird. I've never known a head kisser.
"You look great!" he remarks. "How are you feeling today?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck," I deadpan and look out of the corner of my eye to watch his response.
Ethan bursts into laughter and then I laugh, too. It feels really good, and we both end up holding our guts, laughing until we're gasping for air and tears are streaming down our faces.
"Wow, that was really bad," he says, straightening his face, but the way his muscles are twitching, I can tell he's trying not to keep laughing.
"Well, it's the only time in my life I can say that, right?" I shrug.
But then my smile disappears as a grim question enters my mind. "Who was driving the truck?"
"An old guy," Ethan offers as he pulls up a chair. "He was pretty shaken up, obviously. He sat in the truck hyperventilating the whole time. He came to the hospital to check on you once or twice, I guess. That's what your mom said."
"Did he get in trouble? I know it was my fault. He couldn't have seen me coming," I worry.
"No, I think that the police ruled it accidental and didn't ticket him or anything. But I'm sure he will be a whole lot more cautious when he drives from now on. If he ever drives again."
"Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better," I reply sarcastically. I really do feel awful that someone else had to go through that.
"Sorry, didn't mean to make you feel bad. It was just...scary for everyone, obviously." Something about the way he hesitates makes me wonder what it was like for him. However, I don't really want to know anymore details at the moment.
"So, how are you today?" I ask, eager to stop my mind from trying to piece together images of the accident scene.
"Great," Ethan responds. "The sun is shining, which makes everything seem happier, even with all the snow that's still out there."
"Thanks for the weather report, Pollyanna," I say, smirking.
"Did you just call me Pollyanna?" He demands playfully.
"You're talking like one," I say, shrugging lightly. Then I tell him, "I don't know if I ever want to go sledding again."
"I don't blame you, but don't make any decisions on that just yet. You still have a lot to deal with, but I suspect that you're not going to take any of this lying down."
"I might have to," I say with another sassy little smirk. "I can't very well stand up right now."
He laughs again, leaning forward in his seat. "Nice to know you still have a sense of humor."
"Yeah well, I'm trying, but the social worker just told me that I won't be going back to school this semester, which completely sucks. I was on track to graduate early, but now that's gone entirely out the window."
"Think about it this way," Ethan says. "You worked hard to get ahead on your classes to graduate early. But now you might be able to graduate within a normal time frame because you can afford to take a semester off."
That's not the way I see it," I sigh. "But whatever."
"It's called positive thinking. It can change a whole lot for you if you choose to believe that everything will work out for the best," he says.
"I'm used to working hard so I can get the best for myself. I don't rely on fate or anything else to do the work for me," I say.
"What happens when something is completely out of your control? Something like this? Then what?" He challenges me.
"Quite frankly, it pisses me off," I say bitterly.
"So that's what you have to work on," he says with confidence. "Sure, you still have to do the physical work of recovery. But even more so, you have to do the work of accepting what happened to you and finding some peace with it. Maybe it's too soon for you to hear this, but I promise you that the sooner you come to terms with that fact that your leg is gone, the sooner you will find that everything else will fall into place."
I'm not in the mood to hear a motivational speaker. "What if it doesn't, though?"
"It will," he smiles. Even though it mildly annoys me, I can't help but think that Ethan's right. Mostly because he seems so darn convinced of it himself.
* * * * *
How's everyone doing? :D