Hard Times in Geezerville

When I am alone, I am not truly alone. I have come to believe that there is a spiritual dimension, whether we believe that God is real or not. When things get really difficult and somehow, we emerge OK, we often look back and “see” that something or someone “happened” to us when we most needed it.

It’s easy to think this when the river is high, and all is well. But what happens when the river runs dry in a crisis? Is it better to conclude that our faith in the previous season of good fortune was not real? Or do we stick with thinking we are not alone and there will be a beneficial resolution in our coming days? If we choose the latter, it will at times seem difficult, not possible, yet we persevere. And that is where the resolution declares itself, in our choosing to persevere. It may feel like pain from muscles aching from way too much exercise, but the effort we put into keeping hope alive strengthens those perseverance muscles, which eventually strengthen our character.

When I wax philosophical like this in my writing, it makes me question my “credentials,” my right to speak as if I am some kind of wise guru. Clearly, I am not. Everything I say originates from others more learned and wiser than I. But those of us who must deal with chronic paralysis and other disabling conditions have our own brand of wisdom — hard-earned, borne of daily struggles that may not even be visible to others. We need to speak out in ways that teach others we are worthy and deserve respect.

This attitude, worldview — whatever we call it — is indispensable, especially in the midst of a health crisis. In my previous blog, I wrote of my current medical battle, my urgent trip to an ER, or any ER. After being turned away from two hospital emergency treatment centers that were already over-capacity, I was admitted to the third and operated on within a few hours. Now as I write this, after six days of continuous strong antibiotic IV doses in the hospital, I am home again with my family, having escaped being sent to a skilled nursing facility for weeks or months, and my feelings of gratefulness are welling up, like a spring of life-giving waters replenishing itself.

And so, begins another trial of forced downtime in my hospital bed with who knows how many weeks ahead of wound packing and dressing changes done by … whom? Trained wound care nurses with degrees, certificates, and years of experience? No, my daily care is now mostly in the hands of my 73-year-old wife and 37-year-old daughter, both with busy lives and limited time, yet once again, they answer the call. They know that “skilled nursing” can be an oxymoron for those of us with complicated daily situations stemming from paralysis that is poorly understood by SNF nurses who are inexperienced in SCI care, directed by doctors similarly unprepared who have never set foot in our homes or rolled an inch in our wheelchairs.