Joni (4 page)

I smiled. “I’m sorry. Guess I was just thinking of mom and dad down there. Dr. Sherrill just told us that my injury is permanent—that I’ll never walk again. I know they’re down there talking about it. And crying. And I’m up here crying. It’s just too much to handle, I guess.”

Alice ran the back of her hand along the side of my face. Her concern, her gesture, felt good. It was reassuring and comforting to feel something.

“I’m going to walk out of here, Alice. God will help me. You’ll see.”

Alice nodded and smiled.

During the weeks following surgery, I didn’t get stronger as I had vowed. Still fed intravenously or by liquids, my weight began to drop. The thought of solid food made me nauseous, and I just couldn’t eat food brought on trays to my room. I could only drink grape juice. The nurses stocked up on it and brought me glasses to sip.

One day a stranger in a hospital uniform came into my room. “I’m Willie, the chef,” he explained. “I came to see why you don’t like my food,” he added.

“Oh, it’s not your food. I just get sick thinking about food in general,” I apologized.

“What did you like best? Before the accident, I mean?”

“Before? Well, my favorite foods were steak—baked potatoes—”

“Vegetable?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Corn, I guess.”

“Salad?”

“I liked Caesar salads.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do.” Then he left.

That evening a nurses’ aide brought my tray as usual. As she lifted the cover, I saw a big steak, a huge baked potato with butter and sour cream, sweet corn, and a magnificent Caesar salad. But when she put the tray down in front of me, somehow the smell made me nauseous again.

“Please. Take it away. I’m sorry—I just can’t eat it.”

She shook her head and took the tray back, and I turned away in frustration and sadness.

I never knew whether the nausea was typical or just a side effect of some medication. I was used to the hallucinations by now, and I believe even some of my dreams, or nightmares, were drug-induced. Lately I had sensed ugly “beings” standing around my hospital bed, waiting to carry me away, and this daydream or nightmare or hallucination, whatever it was, depressed me further. I couldn’t really see them, but I knew they were there—terrible and fierce, waiting for me to die—or maybe just fall asleep. I fought sleep for fear of being carried off by them.

I was glad when visitors came, for to some extent, their presence kept me in touch with reality and gave me something to look forward to. But I never really knew how difficult it was for them to come back day after day.

When friends came to visit for the first time, they were awkward and uncertain of how to act in a hospital room. As they began to be somewhat at ease, they all asked the same questions.

“What does it feel like?”

“Does it hurt?”

“How do you go to the bathroom?”

Many visitors were squeamish and uncomfortable; some were particularly upset to see the tongs pressing into my skull. It often seemed they had more difficulty coping with my situation than I did.

One day two girlfriends from high school came to visit. They had not seen me since before the accident, and I was as unprepared for their reaction as they were. They came into the room and slowly looked around at the Stryker frame and other paraphernalia. Then they stopped hesitantly beside me. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they came toward me.

“Hi,” I smiled. “I’m sorry I can’t turn my head to see you, but if you’ll—”

“Oh, Joni!” choked one of the girls.

“Oh, my God—” whispered the other.

There was an awkward silence for a moment—then I heard them run for the door. Outside the door, I heard one girl retch and vomit while her friend began to sob loudly.

I felt a twinge of horror sweep over me. No one else had acted that unusual. Were they particularly squeamish around hospitals—or was there something else?

For awhile I didn’t want to know. Then a few days later when Jackie came to visit, I looked up at her and said, “Jackie, bring me a mirror.”

She had been reading some cards and other mail and looked up abruptly. “Why?” she asked.

“I want you to get me a mirror.”

“Uh—okay. I’ll bring one next time I come.”

“No. I mean now. Get one from the nurse.”

“Why don’t we wait. I’ll bring you your pretty dresser set from home.”

“Jackie!” I was getting angry at her. “Bring me a mirror! Now!”

She slowly edged toward the door and was back shortly with a mirror. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes blinked nervously as she held it up before me.

I screamed and Jackie jumped, nearly dropping the mirror. “It’s ghastly!

“Oh, God, how can You do this to me?” I prayed through tears. “What have You done to me?”

The figure in the mirror seemed scarcely human. As I stared at my own reflection, I saw two eyes, darkened and sunk into the sockets, bloodshot and glassy. My weight had dropped from 125 to 80, so that I appeared to be little more than a skeleton covered by yellow, jaundiced skin. My shaved head only accented my grotesque skeletal appearance. As I talked, I saw my teeth, black from the effects of medication.

I too felt like vomiting.

Jackie took away the mirror and began to cry with me. “I’m sorry, Joni,” she sobbed, “I didn’t want you to see.”

“Please take it away. I never want to look in a mirror again!

“Jackie—I can’t take it any more. I’m dying, Jackie. Look at me. I’m almost dead now. Why do they let me suffer like this?”

“I—I don’t know, Joni.”

“Jackie, you’ve got to help me. They’re keeping me alive. It’s not right. I’m dying anyway. Why can’t they just let me die? Jackie—please—you’ve got to help,” I pleaded.

“But how, Joni?”

“I don’t know. Give me something—you know—an overdose of pills?”

“You mean you want me to kill you?” Jackie asked wide-eyed.

“Yes—I mean no—you won’t be killing me. You’ll just be helping me die sooner. Look, I’m already dying. I’m suffering. Can’t you help me end the suffering? If I could move, I’d do it myself!” I was angry and frustrated. “Please—cut my wrists—there’s no feeling. I’d have no pain. I’ll die peacefully, Jackie. Please! Do something.”

Jackie began to sob. “I can’t, Joni. I just can’t!”

I begged her, “Jackie, if you care for me at all, you’ve got to help. I’m dying anyway—can’t you see? Look at me! Just look at me.”

“Joni, you don’t know what you’re asking. I just can’t. Maybe you
would
be better off, I don’t know. I’m so mixed up! I want to help. I love you more than I love anyone, and it kills me to see you suffer like this. But—but I can’t do it!”

I didn’t say anything more then. Several other times, though, in similar spells of depression and frustration, I begged Jackie to help me commit suicide. I was angry because I couldn’t do it by myself.

I fantasized about how it could be done. Pills would be easiest, but the nurses would find me and pump my stomach. I could have Jackie slash my wrists. Since I had no feeling there, I’d have no pain. I could hide them under the sheets and—no, that wouldn’t work either. All I could do was wait and hope for some hospital accident to kill me.

Jackie became more conscious of my appearance after these bouts with depression. She tried to help me “look good” to people and to interest me in things that might take my mind off my situation.

“You’ll be better soon, Joni,” she promised. “Remember, the Lord says He will never allow us to suffer more than we can humanly bear.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grunted.

The medication and paralysis also left me with an acute sensitivity to light and sound. I made Jackie and the nurses keep the shades and blinds drawn and the door shut to keep out light and noise. Dr. Harris said it was evidence of nerves beginning to heal, but I was dreadfully discomforted by it. I could even hear conversations clearly from adjoining rooms. The usual hospital routine turned into a harsh, discordant cacophony.

One hot summer day, Jackie was moving a fan for me, and she accidentally dropped it. It sounded like a painful explosion going off inside my head as it clattered on the tile floor.

“Jackie!” I screamed and cursed at her. The ugly words that came out of my mouth were strange and obscene, dredged up from some dark recess of my mind. I called her awful names.

Then guilt washed over me. “I’m sorry, Jackie. It’s so easy to cave in.” I cried softly. “I know God must have some purpose in all this. Please call Dickie before you go. I need him. Tell him to come up tonight.”

Jackie nodded and started to leave.

“Jackie—wait. There’s something I have to say before you go.”

She stood near me. “Jackie, you’re such a close friend—I’m taking you for granted. I yell at you all the time—especially since I can’t scream at anyone else! I feel like being mad at God, at mom and dad, at Dickie. Y’know? It kinda gets to me sometimes, and I have to let off steam. But you’re the only one I can safely scream at. Mom and dad are already suffering so much—I have to make a special effort to be pleasant when they come. It isn’t fair for me to be critical, demanding, and mean to them. And I can’t take a chance on losing Dick by taking things out on him. I need him; I don’t want to lose him, maybe forever, by hurting him now. So, Jackie, I’m sorry. You’ve been my scapegoat. You get the brunt of every ugly emotion I let go.”

Jackie smiled warmly and shrugged. “That’s okay, Joni. I know you don’t really mean it. Besides,” she grinned, “what are friends for?”

She came over, smoothed my hospital gown, and kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll call Dick for you.”

Dick came by the hospital later. Quietly I lay there listening to the comforting words of Scripture he read to me from a J. B. Phillips New Testament paraphrase. Many of the verses were alive with contemporary meaning.

“Listen to this, Joni,” Dick said excitedly. “ ‘When all kinds of trials and temptations crowd into your lives, my brothers, don’t resent them as intruders, but welcome them as friends! Realize that they come to test your faith and to produce in you the quality of endurance’” (James 1:2-4).

“What do you suppose it means, Dickie?”

“I think it means just what it says—that God has allowed your accident to happen for a purpose, not as an intrusion in your life, but to test your faith and spiritual endurance.”

“Oh, wow! Have I ever been letting the Lord down.”

“Listen to the rest of it, Joni. ‘And if, in the process, any of
you does not know how to meet any particular problem he has only to ask God—who gives generously to all men without making them feel foolish or guilty.’”

“My problem is one
I
can’t meet. Let’s ask God to heal me. Just like it says.”

Dick put the book down and began. “Father, we thank You for Your care and concern. We thank You for Your Word, the Bible, and the promises You have there for us. Your Word says, ‘If any of you does not know how to meet any particular problem, he has only to ask God.’ Well, Lord, we’re asking—please hear our prayers, in Jesus’ name, amen.”

I prayed next. “Lord Jesus, I’m sorry I haven’t been looking more to You for help. I’ve never thought of my accident before as something for testing my faith. But I can see how that’s happened. Lord, just like Your Word says, I believe my accident came to test my faith and endurance, but I also feel that You really want me healed. Thank You for this lesson. With Your help, I’m going to trust You. Thank You that even this accident ‘works’ together for good. I pray that others around me will see You through me. In Your name I pray, amen.”

After that, I began to see more positive aspects about my accident. During the following days I shared with nurses, doctors, and visitors the thought that God had allowed my accident merely to test my faith and endurance. “Now, with that lesson learned, I can trust Him to get me back on my feet. You’ll see!”

I took this attitude with everything.

The doctor told dad, “You should know that your insurance probably won’t begin to cover the expenses of Joni’s accident. Her hospital bills will likely be $30,000 or more before she leaves.”

I said simply, “Don’t worry, God will provide us with what we need.”

When Dr. Sherrill explained, “Joni, paralysis is generally a lot harder on an athletic person than ordinary people. I want you to know that when depression sets in, you’ll really have a struggle with it.”

“God will help me,” I replied glibly.

When a nurse commented, “I was reading about your accident. You know, if your break had occurred an inch or less lower, you’d still have the use of your arms. Sad, isn’t it?”

I answered, “Yes. But if the break was an inch higher, I’d be dead. God knows best, doesn’t He?”

Just after Labor Day, Dick stopped by with a present. My room was overflowing with stuffed animals, posters, pictures, cards, and other get-well mementos. One of them was a green and white plush bear that I doused with British Sterling shaving lotion and named after Dick. The familiar scent reminded and reassured me of Dick when he was absent.

This time, Dick gave me a huge study Bible—one with print large enough to read when it was laid on the floor below my Stryker frame. I could read it by myself if someone turned the pages. In the front, he wrote:

To my dearest Joni, with hopes that Christ will always remain in our relationship, and that Christ might give us the patience to wait for each other. With all kinds of love,

Dick

Sept. 9, 1967

Romans 8:28

Not long after Labor Day, Dick, Jackie, and all my friends went away to college. Dick hitchhiked back as often as possible to be with me. I didn’t know how difficult this was for him—or that his grades suffered as a result of his concern for me. I just took it for granted that he should be there. In my selfish little world, I didn’t care how he managed it; I just wanted him to be there with me. After all, I needed him. Without knowing it, I began to use my accident as a device to keep him interested. I even resorted to blackmail one evening.

“Hi, Joni,” Dick grinned as he bent over to kiss me.

“Where have you been? It’s nearly eight o’clock.”