Feel This

Wear clean underwear! That’s what they tell you, right? Well, at least your mom does. And why? In case you get in an accident, of course! 

Well, I have a little secret. Lean in close…guess what? If you’re in an accident, you really don’t care what state your underwear is in. Chances are, it will all be a mess anyway. Like the rest of you. I won’t get into details, I’ll just leave it at that. 

The day of my accident, I’m pretty sure I showered that morning. I think. But, it was summer so I very well could have shrugged off the shower before heading outside for a walk. 

The afternoon sun was shining, the birds were singing, and somewhere behind me, a car was swerving. Right into me. 

I woke up from my coma cloud bleary-eyed, with a tube down my throat in the ICU. (Not thinking of my underwear, mind you.) I couldn’t move, but could blink. I blinked at a person standing over me telling me I had a tube in my throat and couldn’t talk. Yep, valid. Then they told me I was in the hospital and just rest. They didn’t have to tell me twice. How long was I out? A week or so? Long enough. They took the tube from my throat, which felt like I had managed to swallow a garden hose then decided to yak it back up like a hairball-hacking cat. Not a very pleasant experience. 10/10 would not recommend. 

Still not able to move, yet I was deemed well enough to earn a roommate in a less touch-and-go setting of the hospital. I bid my private room farewell, and was wheeled whole-bed style to the new unit. 

A thin white curtain separated me from my new roomie. Not that I was eager to initiate our first Girl’s Night and play Truth or Dare giggling and getting to know her. I could hear her on the phone with someone. She had a thick tobacco accent. 

“They said they’re going to the house! You gotta lock the drawer. No! Get everything out you can THEN lock the drawer with what’s left…I gotta go. I’m gonna ring for more meds. See ya later.” *click* 

I tried to think of what needed to be removed and locked up so urgently as a nurse entered the room. 

“You need something?” she asked me. 

Before I could say anything, Secret Sally barked from behind the curtain, “She don’t need nothing! I need meds! The PAIN! It’s terrible! Get them now!” 

The nurse was unmoved and dryly asked her to please rate her pain on a scale of 1-10. If I were a betting gal, you know I’d put my money on the 10 here. Secret Sally was seemingly desperate. My meds were still being drip-drop-dripped through my IV in a steady flow, “to keep me comfortable” in my broken state. I could only imagine what I looked like based on the gasps and exclamations of horror from the nursing staff when they helped me and saw the bruises that had formed. You’d think they would keep all that to themselves. Like when your kid falls face first into the sidewalk and looks like a crime scene but you tell them it’s nothing so they don’t freak out.

“It’s a TEN! A TEN!” shouted Secret Sally in dramatic wails. 

“Ok, I’ll be back,” the nurse replied, and left the room. 

“Hey over there! I need my rest so don’t expect me to talk to you. You hear me over there?” she directed at the curtain. 

“Yes, that’s fine,” I managed with my post-intubation accent. 

The world was a blur since I had no contacts or glasses (casualty of the accident) to help me see. My vision had failed since third grade when I got glasses, then refused to wear them. I hid them in my desk instead. Since then, I had matured enough to want to see though. But now I could neither see nor feel anything when I tried to move my hands. Sensory input was definitely compromised, but, for how long? Forever? 

I clumsily grabbed my phone that was sitting on the bed tray. I held it close to my face, whole handedly, and tried to tap the green text message icon. Nope. It fell from my hands onto my lap in the bed. I managed to pick it up and drop it back on the bed tray with a sigh. Texting was talking and I couldn’t do it. I desperately wanted to message everyone I loved, everyone I missed, everyone who felt so far away. And I couldn’t. 

Secret Sally was on the phone again instructing someone to find a stash of something in the coffee canister in the kitchen. Oh, Secret Sally, that’s probably the first place they’ll look when they get there, I thought. I wondered how it would all play out. And hoped I wouldn’t be in the hospital long enough to find out. 

But days stacked up like legos to weeks, and two things happened: 

1. Secret Sally was arrested. 

2. I was released to a rehab facility. 

This happened at 9:30pm, via a one hour dark and bumpy ambulance ride while my wheelchair was precariously strapped into place. My still unworking hands tried their best to steady my neck-braced broken neck for the duration. 

I arrived at my new home close to midnight, and was wheeled to the Brain Damaged Unit. Really? Brain damaged? Apparently when you’ve been in a coma and had head trauma you’re labeled as such. If I could feel my hands enough to write, I’d insert “slightly” in front of that. Makes it seem better. Just a bit brain damaged, thank you. 

As the staff traded paperwork with my ambulance Uber, I tried to get comfortable in my room before they helped me into the bed. The Velcro holding my neck brace in place had loosened on the ride. Loosened enough for my useless hands to grip it enough and then take off for just a minute of relief from that uncomfortable feeling of being choked 24/7. 

Success! I took it off and placed it on the wheely bedside table in front of me. Ah, sweet release felt so good! But, what were those flashes of red lights in the hallway? And why did it appear a SWAT team of nurses were charging full-speed toward my room with terrified looks of concern on their faces? 

“Stop! You can’t do that! Your neck is broken! You’ll be paralyzed!” they shouted. 

A nurse nearly dove across the bed to get the brace and quickly choked me with it once again. I thought maybe one would swing in through the window too like you see in movies. No such luck. 

They all breathed a collective sigh of relief. Wow, these nurses were dedicated. They pressed the alarm as soon as one noticed what I had done, and immediately sprang into action. 

That earned me a place on the unit’s “Restricted” list. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without supervision. I think there may even have been a mug shot behind the nurse’s station with my picture and “Mocks Safety!” above it. Look at all I accomplished in only a few hours in Rehab! 

The next morning, I opened my eyes, and was immediately met by another pair of eyes and a hand with a large needle that swiftly stabbed my stomach. I screamed. He screamed. My 92 year old brain damaged roommate screamed. Nurses ran into the room. 

“Oh my God I’m so sorry! I had to give the daily injection! I thought I could do it while she slept!” nurse Stabby explained. He was clearly new ‘round here. 

“Did you honestly think I’d sleep through it??” I high-pitch gasped so dogs could probably hear it (if they were also rooming in the Brain Damaged Unit) as I held my throbbing stomach. 

“Um, yes?” he whispered, then backed out of the room as the other nurses tried to explain why that was not the best idea. 

Wide awake, the nurses got me dressed, washed, and wheeled to therapy. Time to learn to walk again! And, time to train my hands again to feel and move and go back to working like hands. I still couldn’t text, hold a brush, brush my teeth, or write my name holding a pen. My fingers felt tingly pins and needly, and I had little strength to do much of anything. 

Fast forward: Months of physical therapy finally got me back to walking. Armed with my shiny silver walker and a nice dose of pain meds, I was able to lap Betty around the therapy gym. Betty was my third rotation of roommates, and had a stroke, but she was no match for me. Was I decades younger than her? Yes. But the car that leveled me also leveled the playing field there.  

“Hey Betty, you better keep working hard in therapy so I don’t smoke you doing laps in the gym again!” I teased her. 

“What? Oh sorry, I haven’t smoked since ‘92! My doctor said knock it off unless I want those cancers going around from them!” Betty replied. 

“Good for you Betty!” I didn’t correct her, and she smiled. 

Slowly, I started to make progress feeling again too. Repetitive exercises of squeezing things, moving beads around wires, and all sorts of other ostensibly silly tasks began to help. The numb tingles remained though, even as strength slowly came back. I’d gotten used to the feeling of unfeeling. 

I sat in my wheelchair one morning as usual, staring down at my “lucky llama” socks my sister had brought me. We had a theory that socks with llamas could be lucky, and help me walk again and get out of rehab. 

“Come on already!” I impatiently chided them. 

“I’m sorry, it’s your turn now!” a sweet therapist replied. 

“Oh! No, I was talking to…” Don’t say the llamas on your socks, they already have you in the Brain Damaged Unit, I told myself. 

“Nevermind, I’m ready!” I finished instead. 

And now, for the amazing part. Are you ready? Out of nowhere, it’s as if the Lucky Llamas expanded on their territory and not only lucked my walking, but lucked my hands too. 

           As the therapist took my hands when I stood, I felt it. Stunned at feeling feeling again, I looked at her wide-eyed and mouth agape. 

“Are you ok? Are you in pain?” she panicked. 

“No! No not at all! It’s the OPPOSITE of pain! I can feel you squeezing my hands! I can feel your fingers wrapped around my hands pressing down! I can feel how warm your hands are!” I rambled as a smile swept up my lips. 

“Alyssa! Come here!” she shouted, and my Occupational Therapist dashed over. 

“Squeeze my hand!” I challenged her. And she did.

“Feel this?” she asked, barely able to hide her excitement.

”Yes!”

And as if her warm squeeze was directly connected to my tear ducts, I started to cry the happiest tears. Then she cried. Then we were all just standing there squeezing and crying. Because it had been the longest road to get there. And because there were so many tears before that, tears not of joy. And then I told Alyssa to grab my phone. I held it and tapped the screen, tapped the green message icon, and watched it open through blurry watered eyes. I made a new group message with everyone on it that was in my heart, typed “I love you”, and hit send. My feelings, from finally feeling.