Joni (5 page)

“Sorry. I couldn’t get away. How was your day?”

“You said you’d be here by six, and it’s now eight. You can only stay here a half hour now before you have to leave. What kind of visit is that?” I fumed.

“Joni, I said I’m sorry. I couldn’t get away.” Dick was getting defensive, and I didn’t want him to get angry.

“Dickie, my day is absolutely miserable without you. Last night I dreamed you left me for another girl.”

“I’d never do that—”

“Oh, promise me, Dickie. Tell me you love me and that you’ll never leave me.”

“You know how much I care for you, hon.”

“Tell me. Tell me.”

“I love you.” Dick said simply. I could tell he didn’t want to say it. Not because he didn’t care for me deeply—I know he did. Rather, he resented my telling him to say it. He wanted to tell me in his own way, in his own time. But he smiled and added, as if to make the statement spontaneous, “I’ve loved you for a long time, Joni. If you’d waited five minutes, I’d have told you again—without prompting.”

“But I needed to hear you say it now, Dickie.”

“All right. I love you. I love you. I love you.” Each time he said it, he bent over and kissed me.

“Oh, Dickie. I love you too. Won’t it be great when I’m able to leave here?”

“I’m praying it’ll be soon. Boy, this hitchhiking sure wrecks my study habits.”

“It may be a long time.”

“Oh? Did you hear something today?”

“It’ll be several months of rehabilitation. Maybe a year.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Dickie, I’m scared. I can take it if you’re with me. You have to help me. But I can’t do it without you. If you leave me, I’ll die. I know it. I won’t be able to live without you. Promise me you won’t leave me.”

“Of course.”

“If you really love me, promise you’ll be with me forever—”

“Sure,” he said, glancing down.

“First I’ll get my hands back. Then I’ll walk. Then we can go to college together,” I promised.

“Right,” whispered Dick.

“How is college? Is it really neat?”

“Oh, it’s fine. Really a lot tougher than high school, though,” said Dick. “A lot tougher.”

“Maybe because you’re doing so much. How’s the team doing?” I asked.

“The team? Oh, just fine, I guess. First game is Friday.”

“Are you all ready for it?” I asked excitedly.

“I’m not playing,” said Dick simply.

“Not playing? Why?”

“I lost my football scholarship.”

“But why?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, Dickie, I’m sorry.”
It’s because he has to visit me so much—he has no time to study,
I told myself.

“It’s all right. We’ve still got time for that. Want me to read something from the Bible?”

“Not tonight, Dickie. I’m tired. And you’ll have to go in a minute. Just hug me and kiss me before you go.”

He bent over me and held my chin in his hand. He kissed me softly, lingeringly. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’ll wait forever for you—you know that. Remember that always. I’ll always be here.”

When he left, I cried bitterly. I felt cheap and selfish. I had put Dick over a barrel. What choice did he have? Could he say how he really felt: “Joni, we’re still too young to know if we should get married. We don’t know God’s will for the future. Let’s just play it by ear. You know you can always count on me. I care for you deeply.” I’m sure that’s what he would have said. But that wasn’t strong enough for my frayed emotions. And Dick was too sensitive
to hurt my feelings—especially after the accident—so he said what I wanted to hear.

Now I had driven a wedge into our relationship. I had forced feelings and commitments before they were ripe. I began to mistrust all my own motives.

“I’ll make it right,” I promised the Lord in my prayers that night. “I’ll do everything I can to be worthy of Dick’s love. I’ll do everything possible to walk again. Then he won’t have to love me because of the accident but because he wants to. Things will be better. That’s what I want, Lord. Please—please…”

When the hospital therapist came by the next day, I remembered Jason’s instructions: “You gotta fight.” PT—physical therapy—was the first step in actual rehabilitation. I decided to give it everything I had.

The therapist fastened my arms in slings and began to explain the process.

“Your fracture was at the fourth and fifth cervical level, as you know. At the first level are nerves for vital organs—heart and lungs. People who have breaks at this first level seldom live.

“The second and third levels control neck muscles and head movement,” she continued. “At the fourth and fifth levels, quadriplegia—like your case—generally results. The sixth level controls the pectoral and arm muscles. Now, you have feelings in your shoulders, upper arm, and chest just above your breasts. That means that maybe you can train other muscles—muscles in the back and shoulders—to compensate for certain arm muscles you’ve lost.”

“Is that what the doctors mean about getting the use of my hands back?” I asked her.

“Partly. Your chart indicates you’ve got about 50 percent use of your biceps—those are the upper arm muscles that move the arm in its fullest range of movements. We won’t know until we
get into therapy just how much you’ll be able to do. We’ll have to train new muscles to do motor movements for the ones you’ve lost.”

“All right, let’s try it,” I said.

“First, try to lift your arm by using the muscles of your back, neck, and shoulders. Just move it to begin with,” she instructed.

I tried. Nothing happened. I closed my eyes to concentrate more intensely. I felt the muscles tense and vibrate, but they seemed independent of my will. I could not get them to move.

“Keep trying. You’ll get it,” the therapist urged.

I gritted my teeth and tried again. Nothing.

“C’mon, Joni. Try again,” she insisted.

“Don’t you think I’m trying?” I snapped and swore for emphasis.

“It’s a matter of directing new muscles to do the work of the old ones. Don’t try to lift your arm with the old movements. Think of how the muscles in the arm are hooked up to the ligaments and bones—here.” She showed me diagrams in a book and traced the lines on my own arm. “Try to get movement from these muscles. Just twist or flex your back and try to move your arm in the process.”

I tried once more as she pointed to the spot. For more than ten minutes I exerted all my willpower and strength. Finally my arm rose less than an inch and flopped back limply.

“Beautiful! Great! Once more,” she instructed. “Put all your energy and concentration into lifting that arm and holding it up.”

Using all the strength I could gather, I tried again. After several tense moments of agonizing effort, I raised my arm once more—this time about an inch off the table—and strained against the slings fastened to it.

“Again!” she ordered.

“I can’t. It hurts. It’s too tiring. I have to rest first,” I begged. Nearly a half hour had gone by, and all I had done was move my arm about an inch two times.

“All right, Joni. You can see it is going to be hard work. We have a lot to do before you can really begin rehabilitation. But soon we’ll have you strong enough to leave here for Greenoaks,” she smiled.

“Greenoaks?”

“Yes. Greenoaks Rehabilitation Center,” she explained. “Dr. Sherrill will tell you all about it. That’s the next step. It’s a hospital specializing in motor-damaged cases.”

“A rehabilitation center? Oh, yeah—I remember now. That’s where I’ll learn to walk!”

The therapist smiled, unfastened the slings, and stood up. “Good luck, Joni. I’ll work with you again tomorrow. Let’s get you ready for Greenoaks!”

F
or nearly a month, I concentrated on getting prepared for Greenoaks. That was where I would learn to walk and begin life again. When word came that they had a place for me, everyone was excited. The nurses and doctors all came by to wish me well on this step toward rehabilitation.

“Well, lassie, y’behave yourself now. No wild parties and carryin’ on,” Dr. Harris teased, “or we’ll have to come and get you and bring you back here.”

“Oh, no you won’t!” I exclaimed. “You’ll never get me back here—you guys have plenty of sick people to work with. Well, one of these days, I might come back,” I amended, “but it’ll be on my own two feet—and I’ll take you to McDonald’s for lunch.”

“It’s a date, lassie,” Dr. Harris grinned. He squeezed my shoulder, winked, and left.

Two nurses—Anita (my favorite) and Alice—helped take down the pictures and posters and pack away all the things I had accumulated—several boxes—during my three-and-a-half-month stay at the hospital.

Finally the orderlies came in to transfer me to the ambulance waiting downstairs to take me to Greenoaks. As they wheeled me through the outside double doors at the ground level, a slight rush of beautiful, sweet-smelling, outdoor air tickled my nostrils and the bright sunlight was everywhere.

“Oh, wow! Wait just a minute, please,” I asked the two orderlies. “Do you smell that air?” I said excitedly.

“Polluted!” snorted one of the guys good-naturedly.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” I breathed deeply of its rich and, to me, heady fragrance.

“Hey, you’re gonna get high on oxygen,” teased one of the men. They eased my stretcher into the ambulance, shut the doors, and we began the drive to Greenoaks.

I couldn’t help contrasting this ambulance drive with my last one. Then the trees had been green, the grass and flowers lush and gorgeous. The air had been hot and humid, the people dressed in summer clothes.

Today, the air was crisp and cool. The stores were decorated for Halloween and fall sales. The trees were gold, red, and orange—the landscape reflected the full variety of autumn colors and textures.

An entire season had passed by while I was in the hospital! It was a strange feeling, but it did not stay to disturb me. The excitement and beauty of the ride was much too thrilling to waste worrying about a lost summer. I let the warm sun bathe my face through the window, and the driver kept his window rolled down so the fresh air could come in and sweep over me. It was such a pleasurable experience that I almost cried with joy.

As we approached Greenoaks, I became even more excited. Greenoaks. Even the name had a pleasant ring to it. In my mind I pictured a big, colonial structure with tall, white pillars overlooking sweeping green lawns shaded by huge green oak trees.

When we pulled into the driveway, however, I could see that it looked nothing like this. It was a sprawling, low brick building, more like an industrial park, office complex, or factory.

“Well, here we are,” said the driver.

“Yeah,” I said slowly.

“Anything wrong?”

“Uh—no. I guess not,” I said sheepishly. “I suppose any place you build up in your mind doesn’t live up to your expectations. Y’know?”

He nodded, then added, “Don’t worry—they do good work here. I think you’ll like it. Quite a few girls your age here. You should hit it off swell.”

“I hope so,” I replied apprehensively. As he wheeled me down the corridor to my assigned ward, I looked around and into open doors of various rooms. It was quiet, like the hospital. No one was “cured”—
walking.

I saw people slouched in wheelchairs, encased in Stryker frames, or lying in beds. The halls seemed dark and depressing, with people lined up in wheelchairs. It was an old institution, badly in need of decorating.

By the time we got to my room, I was discouraged.

Mom and dad were there to meet me. They had signed me in and cared for the billing details and other business. They tried to cheer me up, but as soon as I was as comfortable as possible, they excused themselves. I had seen this reaction before—at City Hospital when they were told of the permanence of my injury. I knew they were again on the verge of breaking down and didn’t want me to see their tears and disappointment. They left, promising, “We’ll be back as soon as possible, darling.”

I looked around at my room when they left. Four other girls shared the small ward with me. I decided to introduce myself. “Hi. I’m Joni Eareckson,” I began.

“Joni Eareckson!” I heard my name repeated contemptuously, followed by a string of obscenities. “That’s all I heard at City Hospital—Joni this, Joni that. I could puke!”

Stunned by the bitter voice, I recovered enough to smile and say, “Oh, I didn’t know I had a fan club here.”

The ice was broken. The others laughed. “You’ll have to excuse Ann,” explained one girl. “She’s new here too. She came to City Hospital after you, and I guess she wasn’t quite the model patient you were. They did an awful lot of comparing her with you. I’m Betty—Betty Jackson. The girl in the bed over there is Denise Walters.”

“Hi. Pardon me if I don’t get up.”

“Yeah, I know the
un
-feeling,” I wisecracked, adding, “Nice to meet you, Denise.”

“And this is Betty too,” said Betty Jackson, pointing with a flop of a useless arm, “Betty Glover. They call me B.J. to tell us apart.” Betty Glover was a pretty, petite black girl who looked much younger than the rest of us.

“Hi, Betty,” I smiled.

Betty looked up and nodded slightly.

“I’m here because of a broken neck—like you,” B.J. explained. “Betty has a blood clot on her spine. They’re working on her to see why she’s paralyzed. And Denise is here because she has M.S.”

“M.S.?” I asked ignorantly.

“Multiple sclerosis.”

I regretted asking. I recalled hearing about M.S. in the hospital.
It’s a fatal disease. Denise will probably be dead before she reaches her twentieth birthday,
I thought, shivering inwardly, and wondered how she maintained her gracious and open attitude.

“And in this cor-nah,” clowned B.J., “is Ann Wilson, whose mouth you’ve already met. Ann is in charge of b _ _ _ _ _ _ _.”

“Aw, go—” Ann cursed. She took a cigarette from her lips and threw it at Denise. It landed harmlessly on the tile floor.

“Well, now you’ve met us. You ready for this marriage?” asked B.J.

“I—I guess so, yeah,” I stammered.
Except for Ann and that smoke,
I thought to myself.

Ann had lit up another cigarette. In the hospital, I had discouraged people from smoking around me. In Greenoaks, many of the
patients smoked. To me, smoking was ugly, smelly, and something I wanted other people to do only in their own homes or rooms—not around me. I hated the choking smoke and acrid smell. But now I could claim only one-fifth of this room. There wasn’t anything to do but get used to the smoke and make the best of the situation.

I tried the one ploy I knew and said to Ann, “You know, that stuff causes lung cancer. It’ll kill you.

She looked squarely at me and replied in even tones, “Why do you think I’m doing it?”

But Ann wasn’t nearly as difficult and contrary as my first impressions of her. I could see a lot of my own attitudes of bitterness and resentment in her.
A few weeks ago, I was going through the same depression and despondency,
I remembered. I wanted to kill myself too. Ann was more confused than anything else. She used anger to lash out because she didn’t know what else to do. I decided to try and get to know her better.

During the next few days, I got an even closer look at Greenoaks. Patients from every age, economic, occupational, and racial background were housed in the four wings of the institution. They consisted of amputees, paraplegics, quadriplegics, polio victims, and those suffering from muscular dystrophy, multiple sclerosis, and other diseases affecting the motor and nervous systems.

“How come there are so many new people—mostly guys our age?” I asked B.J.

“Broken necks. Most broken necks happen in summer with swimming and diving accidents. They usually spend a couple months in city hospitals and then come here for rehab,” B.J. explained.

I made a mental note of the way she abbreviated the word
rehabilitation.
I listened for other such “inside” or slang terms used by the girls so I would not sound so much like a greenhorn.

“How many broken neck cases are new?” I asked.

“Oh, maybe ten, fifteen.”

“How long have you been here, B.J.?”

“Two years,” she answered.

Two years!
I recoiled inwardly at the thought.
Two years—and she’s still paralyzed and in bed like me!
The fact that
I
might be here that long really depressed me. I was silent for a long while.

That night as I lay in my Stryker frame trying to sleep, I was troubled by the old attitudes and bitterness that had made me so despondent at the hospital. I tried to pray and couldn’t. I tried to think of some promises from God’s Word to encourage me. Nothing seemed reassuring.

Seemingly the other girls had adjusted. They were chatting quietly, waiting for “lights out.” Except for Ann. She was complaining loudly, punctuating her objections with salty language. I decided that even if I had to be in an institution the rest of my life, I’d be pleasant—at least on the surface—and not like Ann. She had absolutely no friends on the outside. And inside, people treated her in kind. No one tried to understand her or make friends with her.

I need to have my friends, or I’ll lose my mind,
I said to myself, so I promised myself never to lose my cool with mom, dad, Jackie, or the others when they came to visit. No matter how bitter I was, I wouldn’t let it show.

“That’s a good idea,” observed B.J. when I told her about my thoughts the next day. “In here, everyone’s the same. So you won’t find much sympathy here. In fact, you’d be smart not to make many friends here.”

Why?
I wondered.

“It’s an ivory tower. Everyone here is the same—give or take an arm or two—so it’s comfortable. You get out for visits home when you have enough sitting-up time, but you can’t wait to get back. It’s easier to be here with people like us. No hassling about braces, wheelchairs, and stuff. It’s hard to leave here. The people on the street think because your legs are paralyzed, your brain must be too. They treat ‘cha like a dummy. So everybody always comes back here complaining and comparing injuries, but content to stay
because they feel at home here. You’ll be the same if you make all your friends here. Just because it’s
easier
to be in an ivory tower doesn’t mean it’s better. It isn’t. I know. I’ve been here two years. Whatever you do, keep your friends on the outside!”

Jay seemed to sense my emotional needs in that regard. She not only came often herself, but often rounded up old school chums to visit. I especially remember Jay and several friends dressing up in costumes and coming over on Halloween night. There was no bending of rules here, though. Unlike City Hospital nurses, Greenoaks’ staff rigidly enforced visiting hours. Promptly at eight o’clock, Jay and our friends were asked to leave.

My days became dull routine, brightened only by my visitors. I was confined to bed because of bedsores. A nurse would feed me in the morning and empty my catheter bag. Then she’d check the round mirror above my head to see that it was focused for me to watch TV.

About noon, I’d be fed and “emptied” again. And more TV in the afternoon. Mornings were the game shows. Afternoons, the soap operas. At evening, another meal and catheter emptying followed by more television watching until “lights out.” Each new day was a boring and monotonous extension of the previous day—eat, watch TV, sleep—in an unbreaking, sickening cycle.

I had to learn to eat and drink my food quickly. The staff people were always busy too busy to linger with those who dawdled with their meals. They were also too busy to really do more than care for our immediate physical needs. If my nose itched, I’d have to wait until Jay or a staff person was nearby. My hair was growing back and became tangled, matted, dirty, and snowing dandruff because no one had time to wash it.

One day when Jay came for a visit, she asked, “What’s that horrible smell?”

“What smell?” I asked.

“Ugh! It’s your hair. When did they wash it last?” Jay demanded.

“Over a month ago. At City Hospital,” I replied.

“It’s awful! It stinks, it’s so bad! I’ve got to do something about that!” she exclaimed. Jay checked, got a basin and soap, and improvised a means for shampooing my hair.

“Oh, it feels so good!” I exclaimed

“Me next!” called out Denise. “Wash my hair, please, Jay.”

“Then me,” echoed B.J. and Betty together. So, a regular hair wash and set, along with brushing, became Jay’s duty to the five of us every week, until “regulations” put an end to her efforts.

With my hair now growing out and sometimes even combed, I began to take a little interest in my appearance. The side effects of the medication had slackened somewhat by now too and I didn’t seem quite so grotesque. However, I was still thin and underweight, and my bones bulged through my skin, causing open, ugly bedsores.

Diana White, a friend from high school and
Young Life,
began to visit me regularly. She was a sensitive, caring Christian girl, with a positive, outgoing personality. She always seemed happy and cheerful. Yet, she was practical as well as optimistic. Her attitude was not glib, happy-go-lucky naivete. Rather, she countered difficulty and pessimism with her own strong personality. She had an innate spirit of helpfulness and won instant acceptance with people. Diana’s wide face, dark hair, and eyes lighted up when she talked, and the corners of her mouth curled up in a smile, making me feel brighter, better.

I appreciated her visits more and more because Jackie—now facing some inner turmoil of her own—no longer came as frequently to see me. Diana’s encouragement and reading from God’s Word also filled the void created by the fact that Dick’s studies prevented him from coming as often. Jason began to drift out of my life too. From others, I heard that he was dating a girl he had met at college and seemed serious about her.