(This blog tells my family's story. To see more, click "blog" at the top of this webpage.) Beth’s decision to leave the rehab hospital early ramped up preparations for her return to home and school. At a July meeting with staff at the high school, she expressed no concerns about her first year in the sprawling building or her inability to do almost everything. I obsessed over every detail, trivial or not. I planned to meet Beth at school over her lunch break, so I requested a cot. A storage closet with an attached bathroom was converted into her private locker room. It included a small vinyl mat table. I also would be on call before and after lunch, so I signed our first contract for cell phones, ready with speed dials. We dropped physical education and band (trumpet) from Beth’s schedule and added two study halls, including one at the end of the day that she could skip to leave early. Three afternoons a week, we would drive straight from school to physical therapy in Green Springs with Laraine. Beth would not need to stay late at school for volleyball team practices and games, as we had planned before her injury. Her last weeks in the rehab hospital, John and I converted our living room into a first-floor bedroom. He removed the carpet and put down linoleum so the floor would be easy to wheel on. I bought a hospital bed and a cumbersome shower chair with rails for our one small bathroom. There wasn't enough time to build a bigger one. I tried to focus on anticipating what Beth would need, but my guilt over causing her disability would not be ignored. Averse to pity, I avoided everyone except my family. Even with my husband and children, the last thing I wanted was to cause them more worry. I made a heroic, but ultimately futile, attempt to bottle up my emotions. Planning for school turned out to be easier than going to school.
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(This blog tells my family's story. To see more, click "blog" at the top of this webpage.) I was not a stranger to disability before my youngest daughter’s injury. I had managed group homes and worked at a state institution. I thought I understood challenges. I was wrong. Through my jobs, the clients I had worked with seemed to have quantifiable disabilities, ones with a range of realistic goals. At the rehab hospital, I could not see an array of potentials for quadriplegics. Love and support could not alter brutal physical realities. My guilt over causing the accident grew into a horribly unspeakable thing. Beth never forgave me because she never blamed me, though there were times when I wish she had. I didn’t deserve a free pass for such a devastating injury. Years would slip by before I could forgive myself. In physical therapy, she learned the steps to sit up by lying on her back, throwing one arm over the other to roll on one side, then pushing down on the mat with both hands to lift her body up. However, knowing the process and having the strength to do it were two different things. The first weeks in rehab, continuous exertion with no progress exposed the extent of her hope. Eventually, from a position on her stomach, she could lift her trunk a few inches off the mat with her arms. Even Beth seemed surprised by, and glad for, every little thing. “I had to relearn how to do everything,” she said. About six weeks after the accident, a small group of us watched Beth attempt to sit up by herself for the first time. Starting on her back, she concentrated on rolling over to one side, making it after several tries. Next, she slowly—slowly—rose to a shaky sitting position. After picking up a shoe, she swayed through several clumsy minutes of strenuous effort to put on each shoe with uncooperative hands. I applauded with John, Maria, Beth’s grandparents, and the therapists. John’s dad had to walk away so she wouldn’t see her strong grandpa cry, the long struggle eclipsing the small success. Since Beth felt comfortable with the night nurses and aides, I left the hospital at bedtime to drive home, happy to see Maria and Ben. I slept the best I could and returned to rehab early each morning. I depended on regular visits from John and my parents during the days. Together we stayed on the sidelines and cheered for Beth, roles we would repeat often in other environments. My daughter's disability was entirely my fault. All the things that a mom should do? I failed at the most important one, to keep my child safe. Beth was fourteen years old when I fell asleep at the wheel. She watched the car flip three times and land upside-down in a dark Ohio field. Unable to move on a bed of glass, Beth reassured me, saying, "I'm okay. Everything will be okay." And it was. Eventually. In time. I wish I had known that at the beginning. Despite my life's work with disability, I could only see everything that she had lost. Because of me. At first, I thought that Beth would be limited by her spinal cord injury. Today, I am happy to have been wrong. This new blog will share the highlights of an amazing journey. I hope you will come along! |
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