He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.
Psalm 147:3
Depression makes me grumpy.
After being transferred to the inpatient rehab facility at Vanderbilt it took a while to get everyone on the same page. Much like my experience at UAB the lack of communication between doctors and staff members on my team was staggering. I would have them contradict one another, forget to put orders into the computer, or input them in such a vague way that each nursing shift would interpret them differently. This led to problems with my nightly schedule which included a barrage of treatments and hygiene care. As you can imagine, the lack of normal routine was more than frustrating for this Enneagram 1.
Even though my breathing had been a point of concern at various points along the way, It was a topic that had not been addressed for quite a while. Upon my arrival at Stallworth, though, it became top priority. Every evening a respiratory therapist would come to my room and hook my face up to a massive machine that would force deep breaths into my lungs. I was required to take 10 of these deep breaths every night before bed. My bonus mom Cindy, who was now spending large amounts of time with me in my hospital room, hated the machine. She said that it sounded and felt to her like they were trying to kill me. I must admit that it was unpleasant, but not near as unpleasant as the BiPAP machine that they insisted on strapping to me every night at bedtime. A BiPAP machine is like a CPAP machine for sleep apnea, but the BiPAP forces air into your lungs. It is an incredibly loud machine that is uncomfortable and more than a bit claustrophobic to wear. Each night they would turn it on and I would get comfortable enough to fall asleep only to wake up a few hours later in a panic. Since I was unable to move my arms, if the mask shifted, I was unable to adjust it correctly, and because it was continuously sending air into my lungs trying to speak or ask Cindy for help in the middle of the night was terribly difficult. It led to some frightening moments of pure panic!
Jodi, my mother, and Cindy insisted that I advocate for myself and so I decided to tell them I didn’t want the machine any more… but, like I said, being depressed makes me grumpy, and I was less than nice to the poor tech that kept coming by to try to strap me down each night. I apparently hurt his feelings and got in trouble with the nurses and Cindy for being a little too harsh with him. I must say that I continued to struggle finding the line between being rude and advocating for myself. Telling people what I wanted and needed, without coming across bossy or biting people’s heads off was a difficult line to walk, especially in the midst of my depressed anger.
But I felt like I had good reason to be angry!
Although I was beginning to see some progress in my therapy sessions, it was far too little for me to get excited. The gym at Vanderbilt was smaller than the gym at UAB and they were not quite as equipped to handle spinal cord injuries. I spent 3 hours a day in the therapy gym being stretched and strapped into various machines designed at getting my muscles in the habit of moving. They instructed us in what were called “range of motion” exercises for when we went home. Multiple times a day a caregiver would be responsible for physically moving my body around in its natural range of motion. They would start with my hands and work each joint, flexing them back and forth and then move to my wrist, elbow and shoulder. They would then repeat the process for my legs and toes. The goal was to send signals to the brain that these appendages were supposed to be moving and hopefully cause the brain to start stretching out new neurons at 1mm growth per day.
Slowly, I was beginning to move my right arm, but it was still so weak that I couldn’t lift it enough to place my hand on the controls of my wheelchair. If my therapist placed my hand on the controls for me, I would be able to drive my chair for short distances, but upon fatigue, my muscle tone would cause my right arm to move inward toward my body and my chair would get stuck in what I called a “death circle.” Essentially I would just turn left until someone stopped me or until I hit something. It was incredibly frustrating. As a guy used to independence and going and coming at my own free will, the thought of not even being able to control a wheelchair well enough to make it down the hallway was maddening.
I was also having trouble eating. Having lost down to around 100lbs my calorie intake was of utmost importance, but the medicines I was on were causing me to have severe dry mouth. This meant no matter how many times I chewed a bit of food, the impulse to swallow just would not kick in as there was not enough saliva to get it down my throat. We tried adding sauces, and forcing me to drink with each bite but nothing seemed to work. Each meal resulted in about three bites of food making it down before I was exhausted from chewing and the food on my plate was cold and slimy.
To make matters worse, many of the people I came into contact with simply had no idea how to act around me. One afternoon after therapy a tech came into my room to check on me. He noticed a photo of my girls and I after one of Abbi’s plays. He turned and looked at me, and then looked at the photo on the shelf. “Is that you,” he asked? “Yes, it is,” I responded. “Wow, what happened to you!?” was his response. I don’t think he meant to be rude or hateful, but his statement cut right to my heart. He was right. I was not who I once was, and I didn’t think I ever would be. The man that could stand beside his family, provide for their needs, put his arms around them and hold them tight, and protect them from harm… that man was gone. True or not, Satan used his words and these thoughts to push me further into the pit.
Days turned into weeks and weeks neared a month when the decision to send me home was made. At first I was to come home the week of Thanksgiving, but as my therapists dealt with insurance and looked closer at the calendar my departure date was moved up to the weekend before the holiday. My new fancy-pants chair would arrive on Saturday morning and my father would drive my new van to the hospital to pick me up and take me home in time for turkey, dressing, and the Iron Bowl. The girls would meet me for a quick hello in Nashville before they were off to a concert for the weekend, and then dad, Cindy and I would head west back to Union City.
As plans for my home going were made, Jodi began to make arrangements for Thanksgiving. Her desire was to make my favorite meal of the year a big deal! There were so many people that had given time and energy and money to get me to this point Jodi wanted to bring them all to the house to celebrate Turkey Day. What seemed like a great idea to my wife seemed like a terrible idea to me. All I wanted to do was be home with my girls and not have to hassle with a large group of people. (Of course I responded in my typical grumpy way, upset my beautiful bride, and lost the argument to boot! Most of the time, it’s just better to keep your mouth shut, say thank you, and move on!)
I had no idea what life was going to be like when I got home, but I knew I was going to be a hassle, and I knew that I was not going to like it. I had no idea what our new family routine would be, but I knew that people were going to have to bathe me, change me, help me go to the bathroom, feed me and care for me in every way possible. I assumed that people would stare and not know how to interact with me. If medical professionals already spoke about me like I wasn’t even in the room how much more would everyone else not know how to handle social settings with a quadriplegic? I wanted nothing more than just to be put in a corner and ignored when people were around rather than deal with the collective uncomfortableness of the circumstances.
Finally the day came. My chair arrived and I was quickly reacquainted with the sip and puff controls. At the very least I would be able to control my ride, if not with my hand, with my mouth. As my girls kissed me good bye I loaded up into my swagger wagon. Only the Lord knew what my future held. I was hurting physically and mentally. I was scared and angry and so uncertain of what was to come.
At the time I didn’t know, but God was beginning to bind up my wounds, at 1mm a day!
Jeremy Powell 