The beginning, The end (rough draft)

With the screen up, and the unnatural bluish light beaming from the blank, virtual page, I felt safe. I sat alone, in a place I didn’t know, at a deserted bistro table on a busy sidewalk and typed. Sometimes with the wild and vigorous fingers of the writer who knows exactly what to say, and at moments quieted, brooding over my thoughts and their translation to the page. The cigarette that burned slowly on the table next to me was occasionally disrupted from it’s station to satisfy my hands in the lapses. The night was warm, and quiet, save for the people parading by and the constant drone of traffic. Funny, I thought, I feel so alone on a crowded street. And I liked it. The store front light that shown down on me from above, was neither bothersome nor useful – just there. Without the compact keyboard beneath my tickling fingers, I would not have felt so comfortable, but it was there – my constant companion - and I did. The lonely, wheezing of a harmonica stretched across the dark streets above the din of the night life and I strained to hear it’s tune. The sound was almost sad and touched my ears only sporadically, punctuating in stark contrast the upbeat urban song of the streets. It felt perfect to me. Here and there the low rumble of a motorcycle would filter into my focused thoughts and the sound of it gave me pause. I missed it. I really did. So much had changed over the last six months and the woman I thought I was felt like a stranger, seeming from a life and time long ago. She was not who I had thought and the transition to the emerging creature had been wrought with anxiety, confusion and sadness. Such a strange sensation; feeling challenged and misunderstood in front of yourself. The emotion begged the question: then who have I been? The answer was clear and I didn’t like it. But it really didn’t matter. That woman was gone and in her place I stood, feeling as though I had just woken up. Twenty six years I had lived, my memories of that life were few, and nearly unrecognizable. In those years I had experienced the incredible act of creation and born a beautiful child whom I gifted to another family. I had been married, and divorced. I had suffered from the misunderstanding of youth and found myself homeless and lost. I had known the luxury of a moderately wealthy life and turned away from it, fearful it would change me. I felt loved, and I loved. I felt terrible sadness and great joy. I felt I had lived a full life and saw no purpose for it’s future. Not suicidal, just done, as though I had given all I had to give. I was exhausted from the drone of the everyday and my constant effort to lighten the world around me with happiness, peace and joy. I wanted the eternal rest. Two days after my 26th birthday my wish had been granted and I had died. Sitting at the little table on the sidewalk that night, I quietly reflected on the person I had been and the person I was becoming. Like freshly opened eyes, the spirit within had clarity and broad vision. I liked her, but I hardly knew her. She looked like I used to. She was strong, like I had been. She was friendly and widely loved, like I had been. She was connected to earth and spirit like I had been. She was confident and intelligent. She was quiet and brooding. She was funny at moments, and always a pleasure to be around. But this woman was so much more. She was real. And yet very surreal. Having come so far it felt strange to feel… a stranger. For a brief moment I felt the familiar longing for the sanctuary of death, the peace of an existence outside the physical realm. In that second I was back in the hospital bed losing the battle against those thoughts that had scared me. I could again feel the stinging tears streaming into my hair and onto my pillow as I gazed out the dark window of that sterile room and wondered silently to whatever higher power was out there why I was saved. Why wouldn’t you just let me die? I had been ready for the release from the prison of an earthly life and was robbed of my chance to be free of it. Tears welled up in my eyes as the memories came flooding back. I remembered the room, the smell, the walls. They had been painted in a soft caramel color as though in breaking from the traditional white, a person would feel more at home and heal faster. I remember thinking the color did little to soften the sterile feeling, the smell of bleach and the incessant beeping coming from the myriad of machines gathered around me. It still felt like a hospital, the air thick with sickness and death. This day a nurse came into my room and told me it may be possible for me to go outside for awhile. It would be a very short while because I could only be unhooked from the monitors and machines for about 15 minutes, but it was enough. “Aren’t you excited?” she asked as she made notes on my chart and checked my wounds. In the silence she looked up at me, expectantly. I smiled with effort and nodded with feigned enthusiasm. Outside? Seriously? Mother and father had come before lunchtime and echoed the excitement of that sweet little nurse when the prospect of going outside was discussed. Over the last month my world had shrunk to an 8 X 12 room. I wanted to be excited, I knew I would have been before… but now- I was just scared. I waited in grim anticipation of the excursion and soon a team arrived to help with the transport from the bed to the wheelchair. My left arm was utterly useless having suffered extensive nerve damage and I had no control of it past my shoulder socket. A cast encased my left foot and ankle, and gaping open wounds covered my left shin. Most of the skin and muscle had literally been shredded off the bone. My right leg boasted an array of steel rods with long screws pushed through the flesh and twisted into the bones. This side too, had a hole about the size of my father’s open hand where muscle, tendons and ligaments would have been, exposing bone just below my knee. The gaps in both legs were covered with thin gray foam and clear plastic tubing awkwardly taped to it's surface ran to a machine that was always on, sucking bacteria laden fluid out of the wounds, helping them heal. If even the slightest infection were to appear, amputation would be our only option. So the machine had to come with us and the team had rigged my drip pole to accommodate it. They looked at my chart, then at me. “No weight bearing on the left leg. Right leg as tolerated. No weight bearing on left arm.” Essentially, my right arm was my only usable limb. My right leg was fixed in an awkwardly rigid state by the fixator. "Weight bearing as tolerated" was an optimistic statement meaning if I could stand the pain of all my body weight pressing down on the foot-long screws sticking out of my bones, it was OK for me to stand on it. But I couldn't bend my knee, or put any weight on my left leg or left arm. I looked back at them blankly. To start, they asked me to swing my right leg around so I could dismount the bed without disconnecting all the other machines. Sure, yea, no problem I thought bitterly. Just swing it around, huh? With almost no muscle, an extra twenty pounds of steel in my leg and therefore the inability to flex my knee... just “swinging it around” was a gross understatement. I scootched my butt across the bed sideways, a half inch at a time with my one good arm, then turned so my rigid right leg was stuck straight out from the edge of the bed and the left leg dangled from the knee. “Ok, now stand on your right leg” someone said. A person never really understands the necessity of their joints and such until you can’t use them. Standing on my right leg was more like balancing all of my weight on a toothpick. And first you’ve got to get it situated underneath yourself so that you can prop up. Not that propping up is the easy part; maybe if you could start at a vantage above and just sort of lean forward… But from my position on the bed, I had to somehow angle my stiff leg so that I could pull myself on top of it. The steel rods of the fixator seemed to taunt me with their rigidity and solid structure; I see my knee, I know it should bend and push me up, but it isn’t moving. It was like watching my hands attempt to pick up a pencil without moving my fingers. So with my right leg situated at an odd angle, I teetered on the edge of the bed for a moment with my tongue pushed out between my lips in concentration and then attempted to push myself up from the bed and on top of my peg leg. I hadn’t taken into account that my right arm was, of course, shorter than my leg and therefore not long enough to push me fully upright. Apparently the “mobilization team” had not been aware of this either because as I started to fall back onto the bed everyone in the room sucked in a collective breath of momentary panic, reaching out to me before exhaling as I landed with a soft thump on the mattress. I looked up at them and grinned, knowing what a sight this must be. Everyone smiled back at me. I knew if my sister were here she would have burst out in laughter, but the feeling in the room was that of pity and I desperately wished she were there. “OK, let’s try again.” Yea, let’s I thought sarcastically. Pushing the anger and pain aside, I repositioned my peg leg and gave another launch, this time grabbing the outstretched hand of one of the aides. They were supposed to make me do this on my own, but watching me struggle they had all realized that it was a greater challenge than they had thought and it wouldn’t be possible just yet. The motorycle accident that had landed me here had damaged every part of my body except my head and my right arm. I had broken nearly every bone on the left side of my body; my arm in two places, all eight ribs on that side, cracked my pelvis, fractured my femur which then forced itself out through my thigh, shattered my knee, and twisted my ankle and toe out of their sockets. Both lungs were punctured by broken ribs, and my liver and spleen had suffered lacerations. These injuries, combined with the extensive tissue damage and arterial blood loss, had cost me my life. Thanks to the great efforts of the ER staff and numerous transfusions, I had been revived. I was lucky to be alive, much less standing. Once I was up a sense of accomplishment and excitement washed over me. Suddenly the new screaming pain from the weight of my body on the rods in my right leg became a happy reality. I was standing, for the first time in a month. I think I would have cried at the intensity of the emotion were it not for the physical pain. They had told my parents I would never be able to do this, that I would never walk again. My father and I locked eyes and stared at each other for a split second and the entirety of understanding passed between us. I felt his relief, joy and pride. And I knew when I saw his misted eyes that he felt my pain, but also knew my glory. The moment was broken by a loud beeping alarm; the tubes on my filtering machine had come loose and there was a mad scramble as everyone rushed to get the wheelchair situated behind me and the tubes re-connected before I literally fell back into the chair. Soon enough all the appropriate tubes and wires were attached and I was left in the hands of my parents for the great adventure. Frustration and irritation at the lengthy process and powerful discomfort quickly gave way to nervous excitement as Mom grasped my hand and Dad wheeled me out of my room and past the nurses’ station. All the nurses gathered behind us, watching us go, and their broad smiles told me they were excited for me, and proud. They had become my family over the last month. They knew this moment was significant, and that the experience would be powerful. Fear loomed again and I said nothing as we moved toward the elevator. I had not been outside my room- save for being wheeled in my bed from my room to various surgeries and back again- and I had never seen the floor. I knew the ceiling tiles nearly by heart but the walls, paintings and fake plants were new to me. It’s really kinda pretty, in that sterile way, I thought. Mom and Dad pointed out the waiting area and where they went to get snacks and make phone calls. I smiled and nodded, paying little attention and wondering why I was so nervous. The elevator door slid open and we got on. Watching the little lights come on as we passed each floor, I had to work harder and harder to put aside the fear. I had no idea what I was afraid of, but I knew the emotion well, and recognized it easily. Mom and Dad were talking, but I heard nothing. Finally the mirrored box came to a stop with a soft thud and the doors slid open. I breathed deeply. Dad pulled me backwards out of the elevator and leaning over to speak into my ear, quietly said “Are you ready?”. I nodded without looking at him, fear growing ever greater, and creeping deeper into my heart. We started out in utter silence and as soon as we rounded the first corner, time came to a standstill as I gazed in awe at the scene in front of me. A set of glass double doors was at the end of a deserted hallway and long rays of sunlight streamed through them pooling on the floor. The light was so pure and bright it was all I could see. It appeared to me as if I were gazing at the gilded gates of heaven and the outstretched arms of God. Suddenly I understood why I was afraid; I had wanted death. I had hoped for heaven. I had seen the pearly gates and been turned away. I would not feel God’s arms around me in the welcome embrace of eternal peace. Death and heaven were not coming, not yet. I finally realized the truth- I was going to have to live through this. Instantly and silently huge tears streamed down my face and into my lap but I never blinked fearful that if I closed my eyes for even a moment the magic would be lost. I sat in the chair shaking uncontrollably. Dad touched my shoulder, as if he heard my thoughts, though I knew he couldn’t possibly understand. Pushing slowly toward the light, I felt the sun on my skin for the first time. At it’s touch, my whole body quaked with emotion and I was utterly overcome. The feeling of the warm light on my face was like the pure, eternal kiss of true love. I wanted to throw myself into it’s embrace. I knew without question this was the way it would feel when Jesus put his arms around me and welcomed me home and I cried for the feeling of it’s sanctuary, I mourned my loss of it. The doors were pushed open and Dad inched me through them, out onto the sidewalk. Every sense was ablaze with recognition. My nose filled with the scent of late summer… I hadn’t realized until that moment that air had a smell. It was cool and fresh and the taste of it in my mouth made my heart flutter and beat wildly. Every hair stood on end. Wet cheeks felt the touch of the breath of life. I was powerfully aware of the smell of dirt, and heat, and tree sap. I could taste the brink of autumn in the air and the last of the summer sun. I could hear the trees whispering, their leaves shaking in the soft breeze. It felt as though they were dancing with excitement to see me, welcoming me back. I could feel the energy and heat of the sun seeping into very pore. I couldn’t stop gasping for breath; I wanted to drink it in forever. I sat there, crying, breathing and smiling. I reached out to the plants growing next to me and giggled through my tears at their touch. The tendrils of the brush were stiff and waxy, but it was alive, and the fact that I had touched it sent me into another fit of laughter and tears. I could feel. More than just pain, I could feel life. In that eternal moment, all suffering ceased, fear vanished and true joy reigned. Then and there I felt the touch of God and the reassurance that the presence I felt would be with me to the end. I was alive. And I was glad.