Here’s my advice: Don’t fall and fracture your pelvis, OK?
If you ignore this ancient wisdom, though, as I did recently, you may get the chance to see the sun come up every morning from your hospital bed. And as after any accident that could have been even worse, you will be glad to get to see it, from there or anywhere.
Of course, we don’t have to wait for calamity to appreciate all of the small moments that only add up to everything. But this unexpected detour has enhanced my gratitude for lots of things, including the nurses and techs who not only keep patients alive but also do so much of the physical lifting and you’ve-got-this encouragement that make recovery possible.
The last two times I was in the hospital, after I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2002 and then again in 2003, when our kids were little, I for a long time told almost no one. It was lonely going through the initial round of treatment mostly on my own in D.C., while my family was back in Rome, where we’d been living. But I’m the one who insisted that they go back right after my surgery because school was in session. And in retrospect, I wish I had let more friends in to help me. In trying to do so much stiff upper lipping, I was not a very good member of my own care team.
In the more than 20 years since then, I’ve at least learned enough not to make that same mistake again.
I’ve always believed there is truth in that quote attributed to Ram Dass, that “we’re all just walking each other home.”
So why all of the — embarrassment, is it? — about the human condition?
Just in the last month, I’ve lost one friend I didn’t know was sick until very near the end of his life, and another who minimized her medical distress so effectively, even to herself, that she didn’t call 911. Sometimes, those who are the first to help others are the last to see or say that they need it.
Someone with whom I have corresponded quite a bit announced on social media recently that he’s been recovering from a serious medical event for years, and is only telling us about it now that he’s fine, or close to it.
I understand, of course. When you’re already at low ebb, reaching out can be exhausting, and we have to respect those who decide to say only a little to only a few. People have their reasons for keeping their injuries and illnesses to themselves. Because they are their reasons, not ours, meaning that we don’t get a vote.
But this time, I am making a different decision for myself, and I’m telling you because I think you deserve to know where I went.
After a week, I was transferred to an acute inpatient rehab unit in the same hospital, where I’m getting three hours a day of physical therapy. The next couple of weeks here are not going to be anyone’s idea of summer camp.
I was supposed to be in a different health care facility right now, with my 91-year-old mom who needs help with just about everything. Suddenly, it’s me who fits that description, and my daughter who rose up and was so fierce on my behalf the other day after a physical therapist said some things that she should not have.
So it looks like I am where I’m supposed to be. See you here again soon.
About the author: Melinda Henneberger is a member of The Star’s editorial board.
