Week Eight-Turning the Corner

This week I sense that I am turning the corner. More and more joy is returning to my life. My right ankle and left shoulder continue to show improvement with range of motion. Laughing has become a pleasure again! The U-tube videos sent to cheer me up definitely did the job.
Thank goodness sneezing held off till now. I can handle it, but I'd rather not have to squeeze my face tight while placing a wrestler's hold on my left ribs to prevent a sneeze from coming fully out. Oh well....at least I am not having coughing fits.
The hardest day of the week was when I learned that I have a high grade ACL tear in my right knee. Now I am more accepting of that news despite knowing that my recovery could be prolonged. The results from my MRI indicate that the tear occurred due to my fall. I've been able to return to walking with the help of physio tape on my knee. I use my cane to make sure I don't fall.
I attempted getting in the pool for the first time on Christmas Eve. As the tears welled up, I felt hopeful for the start of a process that will eventually lead back to swimming laps. All I can do is walk and swing my arms for the time being.
The kitchen remodel is going well. The cabinets and new countertop are in as well as the plumbing. I only stayed away one night. I missed being home. The energy in our home gives me what I am needing-love, light and kitty kisses.

Week Seven-The Unmasking Of Pain

This is the week I stopped taking morphine. I had no idea how much my pain was being masked by the medication. As a result, I feel stripped down to the core: spiritually, emotionally, psychologically and physically. I can now feel every broken bone. I feel the rigidity and density in my left side compared to the right. Despite more tears this week, I do sense somewhere deep inside the rightness in the journey. That sense is my life line as I lose all of my identities. I can't be an athlete right now and expect to move through my discomfort. Since I did over do it with my walking; I am now dealing with a calf strain. I can't over work the way I did mid-week to get on top of my medical bills because my pain increases. I am being forced to be with myself in an entirely new way.
When I get out of bed, after a difficult night's sleep I come face to face with there is no way out of this place. I realize I can't run away. The more I resist, the harder my day becomes and the less I feel connected to humanity. Every step along the way becomes a choice point. Thank goodness for the moments when I feel my shoulders drop down and a softening of my heart. It is then I am able to find peace, patience and renewed faith in my ability to be strong in my mind.

I plan to continue the blog. I need to stay plugged in to all of you. It is also an easy way to keep family, friends and clients up to date on my progress since I am emailing on a limited basis. I feel a bit self conscious following in Linda's footsteps. I adore her writing and aspire to be as equally capable down the road. She did a wonderful job. I am eternally grateful and appreciative of her.

The Story of Beth's Rescue... and a Farewell

Once Beth was out of danger, I found myself wondering about her rescue, and what that looked like. About a week after her fall, she told me that a Rocky Mountain Rescue Group member involved in her evacuation had visited her in the ICU and filled in some of the missing pieces. Sensing a story, I contacted him to get the details. Greg answered a zillion questions and was very patient with my desire to flesh out the details. He did underline more than once that he was just one player on a large and complex team that executed Beth’s timely removal from the canyon, and I assured him I would communicate that. Rocky Mountain Rescue sounds like an amazing organization—we are so lucky to have their expertise and their talent in our own beautiful back yard.

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Greg Norton, a volunteer for eight years with the Rocky Mountain Rescue Group (RMRG), was enjoying a Nepalese lunch at Sherpa’s on a sunny Sunday afternoon when he was paged. “Rocky Mountain Rescue, Sugarloaf Fire, Boulder County Emergency Services, Pridemark Paramedics respond to the Bihedral climbing area for a technical rescue of a climber who fell 20 feet. Patient is on the wall. Conscious and breathing.” Because of Sherpa’s location – essentially at the base of Boulder Canyon – he was among the first on the scene of Beth’s accident. Other RMRG members also responded from Nederland, Boulder, and Louisville.

Greg, 26, was one small part of the effort; a complicated rescue like this involves a massive coordinated response from the above agencies as well as the Boulder County Communications Center, the Boulder County Sheriff’s Office, and Flight for Life. RMRG had about 15 members in the field to help Beth (additional members of the group were involved in a simultaneous rescue in Gregory Canyon).

Greg became interested in Search and Rescue when he witnessed a climbing accident a number of years ago. He was climbing in Castlewood Canyon when a sixteen-year-old fell from about 60 feet and landed next to him. He and his friend cared for the injured climber as best they could until the local fire department evacuated him. Greg found himself wishing he could have done more for the patient and subsequently took an EMT class. It was only a matter of time, given circumstance and location, before he heard about RMRG and began training with them. It was a great way to combine his interests and outdoor hobbies, while giving back to the Boulder community. He enjoys medicine and now works in an ER as an EMT.

A sense of urgency always exists en route to a climbing accident, but the RMRG members respond to enough calls that they know the importance of staying calm. In addition to participating in the communication among parties responding to the page, as Greg drove up the canyon he began running through different scenarios such as where the patient was, what equipment might be required, what additional resources to request, etc. Boulder Canyon is a busy area for RMRG, especially the Bihedral and Happy Hour Crag. These are both top-rope areas, and a surprising number of accidents occur after people have gotten off the rock and let their guard down. Reminder to all of us: let’s be vigilant about safety until we are back at the car with our gear safely stowed! As you know, Beth fell after both she and Karla were off the rock and closing up shop for the day – she was attempting to retrieve a pinched rope.

Karla was waiting for Greg by the road and quickly communicated all the important information about Beth’s fall. They had to wait for the RMRG rescue truck to show up (they call it “1970”) with the necessary gear. Greg said it took about another minute but he could tell from Karla’s face that she felt like years were passing as those seconds ticked by. When 1970 arrived he grabbed a medical pack, another member, Jake, got climbing equipment and a rope, Katie grabbed her paramedic’s bag and they all followed Karla to the base of the Bihedral, roughly 1000 feet away.

Karla had told them that Beth was critically injured, and because the climbing was not too difficult, Greg and Jake decided to climb the 30 feet directly to Beth and make sure she was secured to the rock. They believed time was of the essence, and the benefit of climbing to her outweighed the risk.

Beth was very pale, lethargic, and in shock. She was covered in blood and managed to clearly tell them that she was having trouble breathing.

Greg immediately began medical care, while Jake worked on setting up an anchor above them. Because of the extent of Beth’s injuries, Katie also climbed up to the ledge to provide additional medical care. Beth’s lung had been perforated by her ribs (14 were broken), and they had to insert a 10-inch needle to release trapped air so it could re-inflate. She also had a broken clavicle, humerus, and ankle, as well as upper and lower spinal fractures. A Flight for Life helicopter was requested and while they waited for it to arrive, Katie and Greg continued a number of medical procedures to stabilize Beth on the rocky outcrop.

RMRG began in 1947, and is one of the busiest volunteer teams in the nation, responding to approximately 140 calls per year. They specialize in vertical or "high-angle" rescues because of Boulder County's topography. Engineers, physicians, lawyers, EMTs, and students make up their membership. Because many members have a comprehensive understanding of physics and engineering, RMRG conducts independent testing of their equipment and climbing gear, which they adapt for mountain rescue, on their test tower. They are a 501(c)(3) tax-deductible organization and operate on roughly $60,000 annually, much of that from donations (all rescues are free).  If you are interested, check out further details at www.rmrg.net.

While Beth was being stabilized, other rescuers were securing an anchor above her and preparing to bring down a “litter” – a specialized backboard designed by RMRG members for mountain rescues. Other members below were preparing an evacuation route to the road for when the litter came down off the cliff face, and still another group was coordinating the combined rescue effort from the base of the cliff.

Greg said the most challenging part of the rescue was carefully yet quickly loading Beth into the litter. In an ideal situation they use eight people to do this, but there was only room for five of them on the ledge that had broken her fall. It's a difficult and awkward process. On a small, crowded ledge, with Beth clearly in distress, they assembled the litter, placed a beanbag body splint inside it, and then set the litter down next to Beth. They then lifted Beth as a unit, being careful to protect her spine and other injuries, and positioned her in the litter. Once that was completed, they sucked the air out of the beanbag to create a custom full-body splint. Beth was then secured to the litter and a helmet was placed on her head. The litter was attached to the anchor and she was lowered to the ground. RMRG refers to this kind of steep, non-vertical evacuation as a "scree evac."

Prospective RMRG members complete approximately a year of training to learn necessary skills and gain the trust of fellow members.  Skills range from medical training to technical rope systems to avalanche rescue to mountain weather to navigation. All members are required to have basic first aid and CPR training. Multiple levels of membership exist and, once a member, individuals are required to make a certain number of trainings per year, plus complete an annual skills competence check-off. Medical professionals in the group include first responders, EMTs, paramedics, nurses, physician assistants, and physicians.

During the time that they were treating Beth, the Flight for Life helicopter flew over them. As it prepared to land in the middle of Boulder Canyon, it hovered right beside them for a few seconds and they could look in and see the pilot, the nurse, and the paramedic. Kind of an amazing visual, isn’t it? Meanwhile, the firefighters and sheriff's officers closed down the highway so that the helicopter could land, and the paramedic and nurse immediately hiked to the base of the Bihedral to help with medical care once Beth was on the ground. The total elapsed time from Beth’s fall to lift-off in the helicopter to St. Anthony’s Central was two hours. Astounding that all that was coordinated in such a short time frame!

Greg confirmed that Beth's life was absolutely in danger, and a longer delay without medical care would very likely have resulted in a different outcome. The trauma physician said that because Beth is so healthy and strong, she was able to survive a level of injury that most would not have. Let’s hear it for Masters swimming, long runs, organic food, and healthy living!

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Beth and I talked about this blog a few days ago, and it seems like the perfect time to hand the torch to her. I was honored to be her voice when she couldn’t speak and her hands when she couldn’t type. And now I'm happy, given her recovery, to be no longer necessary in that regard! It has been an amazing experience to be part of this virtual community, and I thank you for reading and for joining me on this unexpected journey. Beth will continue to post weekly updates, so don’t retire the link just yet—the story marches on... 


Warmly,
Linda xoxo

The Best Birthday Gift Ever

For my 53rd birthday, I received the gift of truth. For as long as I can remember, I believed I was unlovable. Since my accident, I have been shown differently. People's goodness continues to flow towards me. The relief in their faces when they see that I am alright. The heart felt notes. Weekly breakfast and dinner drop offs, chicken soup deliveries and flowers galore. A new bonding with my mother and youngest brother. It's amazing the levels of healing that can take place at this time for me. In the face of this much love and support, I can no longer say to myself I am unlovable.
Thank you Linda and Maura for the wonderful meal in celebration of my birthday. Thank you Vince for the vibrant bouquet of flowers. Thank you Julie for the dozen red roses. Thank you Karla for the photo of my climber self in the Tetons. Thank you Mom for all your gifts. Thank you Matt for my MonkeyMan statue. Thank you Dotty for the music and money. Thank you Joanne and Jerry for the new journal and music. Thank you all for your help, cards, flowers and sincere concern for my well being. It also takes a village to create and heal a person.

On Her Own Two Feet

I visited Beth this week on a beautiful sunny morning. She got up to greet me and walked across her living room--in two running shoes. YES! The doc took her out of the boot-cast, and she is on her own recognizance. For those of you with children: remember how, as your kids grew, you moved on from all the contraptions? A methodical letting go of the bouncy seat, the high chair, the stroller, the crib, the car seat, etc.? It feels a bit like that with Beth--each week she discards something else no longer needed on her way back to her own freedom. She said at first her knee and calf felt strange, almost like they didn't belong to her, and she had to get used to bending her foot again.

In other great news, she saw the surgeon who did her ankle and her clavicle and he took numerous x-rays and then told her she could expect a full recovery. Hallelujah! He said he can't often say that about someone as beat up as she was, but that her surgeries were healing beautifully. However, her cervical fracture (C6) still hasn't healed, so she is in the collar for another five weeks. She went to the trauma doc the next day and he predicted roughly 2-3 months before she is fully recovered, with all the ligament and tissue damage she sustained. She has had seven CT scans in the last month, so he didn't want to do another one at this point, but will do one in January to get a look at her lung.

In terms of pain control, Beth's goal is to be totally off the morphine in four weeks and then to scale back the Vicodin as needed after that. She still has a lot of pain on her left side, mostly at the chest tube site. PT started this week and the therapist did some work on her ankle, which has already started to improve it. She walked for an hour yesterday as a result. She is excited to have exercises to do (at last! some action!) to help along her healing. Her scapula is completely frozen in place, so that will need some attention down the line.

What else? She and Matt are about to undergo an entire kitchen gut and re-do, as they had been planning to do over the holiday break. Matt is contractor, cupboard hanger, tile guy, electrician, and general all-around laborer on that job, and Beth will relocate for a bit. And it's her birthday on Saturday; sending wishes that this next year of her life is full of light, love, and great adventures--but ones that don't include any helicopter rides unless they're part of the fun!

The Slow Lane

As you all know, Beth is back at home adjusting to life in the slow lane--doesn't come easy for someone like her! It definitely is a combination of ups and downs. Today, she cooked her breakfast and then did the dishes and was wiped for the rest of the morning. She tried to cut back on her morphine a few days ago but it was too soon, so she still takes the recommended dosage. She naps as much as she can and takes one or two walks outside--yesterday for 46 minutes--per day. She is coming up against some frustration around her limitations and her inability to do certain things. Often, she waits for Matt to get home to either get something for her or perform a task. She says that she is having to work harder to keep her spirits up and her attitude in the positive realm, and that that definitely came easier at the beginning of the process. I can appreciate that--at four weeks and counting, it must be getting seriously old by now. But the way I see it, it's only a matter of time before she'll be doing stuff like running endlessly along beautiful, pristine beaches and conquering canyons in a single bound. In the meantime, she's doing some writing, some visiting, some self-care, and a lot of resting up for the day when she's ready to be back out there with the sun on her shoulders, doing what she loves most...

(Even though this was taken years ago, I imagine the title of this photograph to now be: "Beth, on the Road to Recovery")

My first week at home

Since Linda is en route to Maine today to spend Thanksgiving with her family and children, I offered to write this post. I still find writing challenging, mostly due to the pain medications I am on. I can't find the right words or stay focused long enough to fully express myself. That's hard for me. It felt wrong to not have a post before Thanksgiving. So, I will give it my best shot-
To my community of support, please know that every note, email, gift, prayer, thought and assistance continues to help me. I feel carried and held by many.
Since I've been home, I took my first shower alone and washed my hair with my right hand. Courtesy of the Elk's loaner program, I have a sturdy shower chair and bath bar to keep me steady and upright. My entire week of meals were provided again by dear friends. I have been able to prepare two breakfasts for myself. Otherwise, I still rely on Matt to heat my meals and do the dishes. At least he does not have to use his camping stove anymore! I am walking twice a day. Yesterday, I managed to stay out for 30 minutes. I loved feeling the warmth of the sun on my face, hearing and seeing so many birds head south and feeling the beat of my heart. I am sleeping soundly now compared to the two hours a night at the hospital. Putting myself down to sleep gets easier every day as long as I have my body pillow ready to support my left side and the blue ugly doll under my left armpit. Getting up continues to be challenging.
Mostly, I spend my days resting. It takes a long time to do any real kind of work as in pay bills. I am learning how to pace myself. I struggle with not being able to bend over or stand up very long. I broke down in tears this morning when I realized I had finished the roll of toilet paper and would not be able to replace it myself. I would have to call Matt who was already on his way to work. A few hours later, flowers from work arrived to lift my spirits.
Next week is a big week. I see four different doctors to find out how well I am healing and what to expect in terms of my recovery.

Every day, I acknowledge my gratitude for being alive so tomorrow will be no different except I will think of all of you and feel my gratitude for the multitudes of ways my heart has been touched and altered.

Parallel Lives: The Story of Stephen King's 1999 Accident by Stephen King

I wasn't a fan of Stephen King's until I read his non-fiction book On Writing. It's one of the best books I've ever read on the subject and a lot of it has stayed with me over the years. A few years back Beth listened to the audio version while on a road trip and she and I talked a lot about how insightful King is--and what an excellent writer he is. In it, he writes about a terrible accident he was in when he was hit by a car while walking. Many of you know that Beth is in the nascent stages of her own book and, like King, her writing has been derailed by her injury. Just today I was thinking about the similarities in their stories, and so looked it up again to check it out. I thought some of you might be interested in it. It's a long excerpt, but pretty fascinating. And King, whom I always spurned as a B-grade horror writer, tells a compelling, layered, and deeply felt story. The lesson? Never judge an author by his genre!

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When we're at our summer house in western Maine, I walk four miles every day, unless it's pouring down with rain. Three miles of this walk are on dirt roads which wind through the woods; a mile of it is on Route 5, a two-lane blacktop highway which runs between Bethel and Fryeburg.

The third week in June of 1999 was an extraordinarily happy one for my wife and me; our kids, now grown and scattered across the country, were all home. It was the first time in nearly six months that we'd all been under the same roof. As an extra bonus, our first grandchild was in the house, three months old and happily jerking at a helium balloon tied to his foot.

On 19 June, I drove our younger son to the Portland Jetport, where he caught a flight back to New York City. I drove home, had a brief nap, and then set out on my usual walk. We were planning to go en famille to see The General's Daughter in nearby North Conway, New Hampshire that evening, and I thought I just had time to get my walk in before packing everybody up for the trip.

I set out on that walk around four o'clock in the afternoon, as well as I can remember. Just before reaching the main road (in western Maine, any road with a white line running down the middle of it is a main road), I stepped into the woods and urinated. It was two months before I was able to take another leak standing up.

When I reached the highway I turned north, walking on the gravel shoulder, against traffic. One car passed me, also headed north. About three-quarters of a mile farther along, the woman driving the car observed a light-blue Dodge van heading south. The van was looping from one side of the road to the other, barely under the driver's control. The woman in the car turned to her passenger when they were safely past the wandering van and said, 'That was Stephen King walking back there. I sure hope that guy in the van doesn't hit him.'

Most of the sightlines along the mile of Route 5 which I walk are good, but there is one stretch, a short, steep hill, where a pedestrian walking north can see very little of what might be coming his way. I was three-quarters of the way up this hill when Bryan Smith, the owner and operator of the light-blue Dodge van, came over the crest.

He wasn't on the road; he was on the shoulder. My shoulder. I had perhaps three-quarters of a second to register this. It was just time enough to think, My God, I'm going to be hit by a school bus . I started to turn to my left. There is a break in my memory here. On the other side of it, I'm on the ground, looking at the back of the van, which is now pulled off the road and tilted to one side.

This recollection is very clear and sharp, more like a snapshot than a memory. There is dust around the van's tail-lights. The licence plate and the back windows are dirty. I register these things with no thought that I have been in an accident, or of anything else. It's a snapshot, that's all. I'm not thinking; my head has been swopped clean.

There's another little break in my memory here, and then I am very carefully wiping palmfuls of blood out of my eyes with my left hand. When my eyes are reasonably clear, I look around and see a man sitting on a nearby rock. He has a cane drawn across his lap. This is Bryan Smith, 42 years of age, the man who hit me with his van. Smith has got quite a driving record; he has racked up nearly a dozen vehicle-related offences.

Smith wasn't looking at the road on the afternoon our lives came together, because his Rottweiler had jumped from the very rear of his van into the back-seat area, where there was an Igloo cooler with some meat stored inside. The Rottweiler's name is Bullet (Smith has another Rottweiler at home; that one is named Pistol). Bullet started to nose at the lid of the cooler. Smith turned around and tried to push Bullet away. He was still looking at Bullet and pushing his head away from the cooler when he came over the top of the knoll; still looking and pushing when he struck me.

Smith told friends later that he thought he'd hit 'a small deer' until he noticed my bloody spectacles lying on the front seat of his van. They were knocked from my face when I tried to get out of Smith's way. The frames were bent and twisted, but the lenses were unbroken. They are the lenses I'm wearing now, as I write this.

Smith sees I'm awake and tells me help is on the way. He speaks calmly, even cheerily. His look, as he sits on his rock with his cane drawn across his lap, is one of pleasant commiseration: Ain't the two of us just had the shittiest luck? it says. He and Bullet left the campground where they were staying, he later tells an investigator, because he wanted 'some of those Marzes-bars they have up to the store'. When I hear this little detail some weeks later, it occurs to me that I have nearly been killed by a character right out of one of my own novels. It's almost funny.

Help is on the way, I think, and that's probably good because I've been in a hell of an accident. I'm lying in the ditch and there's blood all over my face and my right leg hurts. I look down and see something I don't like: my lap now appears to be on sideways, as if my whole lower body had been wrenched half a turn to the right. I look back up at the man with the cane and say, 'Please tell me it's just dislocated.'

'Nah,' he says. Like his face, his voice is cheery, only mildly interested. He could be watching all this on TV while he noshes on one of those Marzes-bars. 'It's broken in five I'd say maybe six places.' 'I'm sorry,' I tell him - God knows why - and then I'm gone again for a little while. It isn't like blacking out; it's more as if the film of memory has been spliced here and there.

When I come back this time, an orange-and-white van is idling at the side of the road with its flashers going. An emergency medical technician - Paul Fillebrown is his name - is kneeling beside me. He's doing something. Cutting off my jeans, I think, although that might have come later.

I ask him if I can have a cigarette. He laughs and says not hardly. I ask him if I'm going to die. He tells me no, I'm not going to die, but I need to go to the hospital, and fast. I ask Fillebrown again if I'm going to die, and he tells me again that I'm not. Then he asks me if I can wiggle the toes on my right foot. 'My toes, did they move?' I ask Paul Fillebrown. He says they did, a good healthy wiggle. 'Do you swear to God?' I ask him, and I think he does. I'm starting to pass out again. Fillebrown asks me, very slowly and loudly, bending down into my face, if my wife is at the big house on the lake. I can't remember. I can't remember where any of my family is, but I'm able to give him the telephone numbers of both our big house and the cottage on the far side of the lake where my daughter sometimes stays. Hell, I could give him my Social Security number, if he asked. I've got all my numbers. It's just everything else that's gone.

Other people are arriving now. Somewhere a radio is crackling out police calls. I'm put on a stretcher. It hurts, and I scream. I'm lifted into the back of the EMT truck, and the police calls are closer. The doors shut and someone up front says, 'You want to really hammer it.' Then we're rolling.

Paul Fillebrown sits down beside me. He has a pair of clippers and tells me he's going to have to cut the ring off the third finger of my right hand - it's a wedding ring Tabby gave me in 1983, 12 years after we were actually married. I try to tell Fillebrown that I wear it on my right hand because the real wedding ring is still on the third finger of my left - the original two-ring set cost me $15.95 at Day's Jewelers in Bangor. That first ring only cost eight bucks, in other words, but it seems to have worked.

Some garbled version of this comes out, probably nothing Paul Fillebrown can actually understand, but he keeps nodding and smiling as he cuts that second, more expensive, wedding ring off my swollen right hand. Two months or so later, I call Fillebrown to thank him; by then I understand that he probably saved my life by administering the correct on-scene medical aid and then getting me to the hospital at a speed of roughly 110mph, over patched and bumpy back roads.

Fillebrown assures me that I'm more than welcome, then suggests that perhaps someone was watching out for me. 'I've been doing this for 20 years,' he tells me over the phone, 'and when I saw the way you were lying in the ditch, plus the extent of the impact injuries, I didn't think you'd make it to the hospital. You're a lucky camper to still be with the program.'

The extent of the impact injuries is such that the doctors at Northern Cumberland Hospital decide they cannot treat me there; someone summons a LifeFlight helicopter to take me to Central Maine Medical Center in Lewiston. At this point my wife, older son, and daughter arrive. The kids are allowed a brief visit; my wife is allowed to stay longer. The doctors have assured her that I'm banged up, but I'll make it.

The lower half of my body has been covered. She isn't allowed to look at the interesting way my lap has shifted around to the right, but she is allowed to wash the blood off my face and pick some of the glass out of my hair. There's a long gash in my scalp, the result of my collision with Bryan Smith's windshield. This impact came at a point less than two inches from the steel, driver's-side support post. Had I struck that, I likely would have been killed or rendered permanently comatose, a vegetable with legs. Had I struck the rocks jutting out of the ground beyond the shoulder of Route 5, I likely also would have been killed or permanently paralysed. I didn't hit them; I was thrown over the van and 14ft in the air, but landed just shy of the rocks.

'You must have pivoted to the left just a little at the last second,' Dr David Brown tells me later. 'If you hadn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation.'

The LifeFlight helicopter lands in the parking lot of Northern Cumberland Hospital, and I am wheeled out to it. The sky is very bright, very blue. The clatter of the helicopter's rotors is very loud. Someone shouts into my ear, 'Ever been in a helicopter before, Stephen?' The speaker sounds jolly, all excited for me. I try to answer yes, I've been in a helicopter before - twice, in fact - but I can't. All at once, it's very tough to breathe.

They load me into the helicopter. I can see one brilliant wedge of blue sky as we lift off; not a cloud in it. Beautiful. There are more radio voices. This is my afternoon for hearing voices, it seems. Meanwhile, it's getting even harder to breathe. I gesture at someone, or try to, and a face bends upside down into my field of vision.

'Feel like I'm drowning,' I whisper.

Somebody checks something, and someone else says, 'His lung has collapsed.'

There's a rattle of paper as something is unwrapped, and then the someone else speaks into my ear, loudly so as to be heard over the rotors. 'We're going to put a chest tube in you, Stephen. You'll feel some pain, a little pinch. Hold on.'

It's like being thumped very high up on the right side of the chest by someone holding a short sharp object. Then there's an alarming whistle in my chest, as if I've sprung a leak. In fact, I suppose I have. A moment later, the soft in-out of normal respiration, which I've listened to my whole life (mostly without being aware of it, thank God), has been replaced by an unpleasant shloop-shloop-shloop sound. The air I'm taking in is very cold, but it's air, at least, air, and I keep breathing it. I don't want to die. I love my wife, my kids, my afternoon walks by the lake. I also love to write. I don't want to die, and as I lie in the helicopter looking out at the bright blue summer sky, I realise that I am actually lying in death's doorway. Someone is going to pull me one way or the other pretty soon; it's mostly out of my hands. All I can do is lie there, look at the sky, and listen to my thin, leaky breathing: shloop-shloop-shloop.

Ten minutes later, we set down on the concrete landing pad at CMMC. To me, it seems to be at the bottom of a concrete well. The blue sky is blotted out and the whap-whap-whap of the helicopter rotors becomes magnified and echoey, like the clapping of giant hands.

Still breathing in great leaky gulps, I am lifted out of the helicopter. Someone bumps the stretcher and I scream. 'Sorry, sorry, you're okay, Stephen,' someone says - when you're badly hurt, everyone calls you by your first name, everyone is your pal.

'Tell Tabby I love her very much,' I say as I am first lifted and then wheeled, very fast, down some sort of descending concrete walkway. All at once I feel like crying.

'You can tell her that yourself,' the someone says. We go through a door; there is air-conditioning and lights flowing past overhead. Speakers issue pages. It occurs to me, in a muddled sort of way, that an hour before I was taking a walk and planning to pick some berries in a field that overlooks Lake Kezar. I wouldn't pick for long, though; I'd have to be home by 5.30 because we were all going to the movies. The General's Daughter , starring John Travolta. Travolta was in the movie made out of Carrie , my first novel. He played the bad guy. That was a long time ago.

'When?' I ask. 'When can I tell her?'

'Soon,' the voice says, and then I pass out again. This time it's no splice but a great big whack taken out of the memory-film; there are a few flashes, confused glimpses of faces and operating rooms and looming X-ray machinery; there are delusions and hallucinations fed by the morphine and Dilaudid being dripped into me; there are echoing voices and hands that reach down to paint my dry lips with swabs that taste of peppermint. Mostly, though, there is darkness.

Bryan Smith's estimate of my injuries turned out to be conservative. My lower leg was broken in at least nine places - the orthopaedic surgeon who put me together again, the formidable David Brown, said that the region below my right knee had been reduced to 'so many marbles in a sock.'

The extent of those lower-leg injuries necessitated two deep incisions - they're called medial and lateral fasciatomies - to release the pressure caused by the exploded tibia and also to allow blood to flow back into the lower leg. Without the fasciatomies (or if the fasciatomies had been delayed), it probably would have been necessary to amputate the leg. My right knee itself was split almost directly down the middle; the technical term for the injury is 'comminuted intra-articular tibial fracture'. I also suffered an acetabular cup fracture of the right hip - a serious derailment, in other words - and an open femoral intertrochanteric fracture in the same area. My spine was chipped in eight places. Four ribs were broken. My right collarbone held, but the flesh above it was stripped raw. The laceration in my scalp took 20 or 30 stitches. Yeah, on the whole, I'd say Bryan Smith was a tad conservative.

Mr Smith's driving behaviour in this case was eventually examined by a grand jury, who indicted him on two counts: driving to endanger (pretty serious) and aggravated assault (very serious, the kind of thing that means jail time). After due consideration, the District Attorney responsible for prosecuting such cases in my little corner of the world allowed Smith to plead out to the lesser charge of driving to endanger. He received six months of county jail time (sentence suspended) and a year's suspension of his privilege to drive. He was also put on probation for a year with restrictions on other motor vehicles, such as snowmobiles and ATVs. It is conceivable that Bryan Smith could be legally back on the road in the fall or winter of 2001.

David Brown put my leg back together in five marathon surgical procedures that left me thin, weak and nearly at the end of my endurance. They also left me with at least a fighting chance to walk again. A large steel and carbon-fibre apparatus called an external fixator was clamped to my leg. Eight large steel pegs called Schanz pins run through the fixator and into the bones above and below my knee. Five smaller steel rods radiate out from the knee. These look sort of like a child's drawing of sunrays. The knee itself was locked in place. I entered the hospital on 19 June. Around the 25th, I got up for the first time, staggering three steps to a commode, where I sat with my hospital johnny in my lap and my head down, trying not to weep and failing. You try to tell yourself that you've been lucky, most incredibly lucky, and usually that works because it's true. Sometimes it doesn't work, that's all. Then you cry.

A day or two after those initial steps, I started physical therapy. During my first session, I managed 10 steps in a downstairs corridor, lurching along with the help of a walker. One other patient was learning to walk again at the same time, a wispy 80-year-old woman named Alice who was recovering from a stroke. We cheered each other on when we had enough breath to do so. On our third day in the downstairs hall, I told Alice that her slip was showing.

'Your ass is showing, sonnyboy,' she wheezed, and kept going.

I came home to Bangor on 9 July, after a hospital stay of three weeks. I began a daily rehab program which includes stretching, bending, and crutch-walking. I tried to keep my courage and my spirits up. On 4 August, I went back to CMMC for another operation. When I woke up this time, the Schanz pins in my upper thigh were gone. I could bend my knee again. Dr Brown pronounced my recovery 'on course' and sent me home for more rehab and physical therapy. And in the midst of all this, something else happened. On 24 July, five weeks after Bryan Smith hit me with his Dodge van, I began to write again.

Beth's Address and Quick P.S.

Some folks have contacted me to ask where they can send things for Beth, and she wanted me to put her home address up:

Beth Davis
228 South Cleveland Ave.
Louisville CO 80027

Also, Matt called to say she was home and she went up and down the stairs with her boot cast on but no cane or any other assistance. Woot woot--it's only a matter of time!

Homeward Bound

Today Beth got the official notice that she will be sent home tomorrow at 4 p.m. to continue her healing on her own turf. How great is that? Her posse is busy gathering things she will need for the transition, like a shower stool, a back rest, a recliner (thanks, John!) and a cane. She said that today was the best day she has had since the accident; when she woke up this morning she could really feel the healing energies at work in her body. It's a long road, but it gets shorter every day.


It's time to wind down this blog--Beth has asked that I post weekly updates, and I will do so starting next week for a while, and then that will be that. Thanks for coming along on this ride and for all your words of support, love, caring, and encouragement for Beth--it has made an incredible difference in her journey back to health. 

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

Call for Recliner--Done! That Was Quick!

It looks like Beth may be sprung from BCH tomorrow or Wed. latest to head home for the final phase of her process. She's just too "able" to be in there, even though she has a lot of healing left to do. One thing she is looking for as she makes this transition is a recliner--the La-Z-Boy style with the flip-up footrest and reclining back. Does anyone have one/know of one that might be looking for a good home in Louisville for the next couple of months? Beth would prefer not to buy one for such a short-term investment unless absolutely necessary. Please let us know.

As much as everyone is impressed with Beth's rapid-fire progress, she still has a long way to go. Her pain level is high and she gets easily overwhelmed and fatigued. She is going to need continued support in this next phase, and many thanks to all who are offering their time, their help, their cooking skills, and their general shoring up--none of it goes unnoticed and all is deeply appreciated.

Two Weeks Ago Today

I realized today as I was heading over to the hospital that it was two weeks ago that Beth had her fall--what a long way she has come since then. Today she did stairs on her own, test-drove a cane, and was released to "independence" from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. (doesn't have to call a staff member to help her get around). Freedom can't be far away.

I know you're all on tenterhooks wondering what ended up happening on the hair front. I went back yesterday afternoon and resumed my combing and dousing and tugging. We were finally reduced to one angry rat's nest about a tenth of the size of the original host, and Beth had to undergo yet another surgical procedure--this time with my nail scissors. Suffice to say that she was left with an (almost) full head of beautiful locks by the time our session was complete.

Beth has really noticed the positive impact of the notes, cards and comments she has received since this whole adventure began, and would love to keep hearing that chorus of encouragement if we have the time to sing it. She draws a lot of strength and determination from our belief in her power to heal. Feel free to comment here, or if you want a less public forum to drop her a note, her address at the hospital is:

Elizabeth Davis
Boulder Community Hospital, Room 408
1100 Balsam Ave.
Boulder CO 80304

And speaking of being grateful for support: sincere thanks for the kudos about the blog--I really appreciate the feedback.

I hosted the toasting circle at Beth's 50th birthday party three years ago and read a poem as part of my piece that night. I had recently undergone a huge life change, and this poem was my touchstone during some pretty dark nights of the soul. I thought at the time that it was also a good one for Beth...

...but these days, I think it's even better.

The Journey 

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice --
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save. 

 

Gratitude

It is with such a warm heart that I sit down to write this post this morning. I just had breakfast with Beth--the first time in a while that we've eaten together!--and the first time in a loooonnnnggg while that I've seen her in Boulder. The minute I entered Boulder Community's doors and walked along the slate entrance tiles, I had a good feeling. (I'm guessing that it helps that it involves a five-minute commute from home with the blue sky and the mountains in view the whole time!) Then seeing her in her room, with the green and yellow paint scheme, the art on the walls, the comfy easy chair, the almost-view of the Flatirons, the sun pouring in her window--and you really get the feeling that she is home. The healing is just oozing out of the place. And as great a job as they did in Denver, they are focused there on trauma and fixer-upping. Now she is in a place focused on care and on getting her home. It feels so right.


After Beth and I ate our oats, we got down to the real reason I was there today: the rat's nest she has been cultivating for the past 12 days, formally known as her hair. OMFG. That girl has serious dreadlocks going on. I came armed with a plus-size bottle of leave-in conditioner (at first I was putting a little in my palms and working it in; by the end I was just dousing her in it) and a wide-tooth comb. Yes, I took photos before  starting because I knew she would never believe that her head could actually look like a study in modern art. I spent 45 minutes on it and each lock freed was a massive victory. We didn't get through the whole thing because the occupational therapist came in to prep her for a shower, so will tackle it again later. The OT had to "waterproof" Beth beforehand--ankle, toe, arm, clavicle, chest tube site--with plastic but there was still some skin left over to clean by the time she wheeled her off. 


Beth had some great rest last night and seemed really settled and ready to tackle what is ahead; wonderful, because her dance card is full these days. She has minimum 3 hours of therapy per day--physical and speech (the speech part is just to check for possible neurological damage, of which there appears to be none, but they have to make sure). She has to get dressed every day and start living more "normally" than she has been. No more slumming it in her open-backed gown. They will be teaching her how to shower, walk stairs, do things around the house, etc., so that she can be released to her home without any professional assistance (except Matt, of course--the consummate professional assistant these days!) Her nurse talked about upping her pain meds somewhat, because unless her pain is low-grade she won't be able to do the therapies. And also starting to use ice as part of her healing.


Beth and I have been talking a lot about gratitude lately, and how much we truly have if we only are willing to focus on what is there, instead of what isn't. I have been doing some research on the science of gratitude for a project at work this past while (funny how these things always seem to converge), and I read an essay the other day in which the author said that her practice of gratitude is such that before she opens her eyes in the morning, she thanks her bed for a good night's sleep. It flows out from there. Another woman, sitting with her dying mother who was in pain, asked her how she was feeling and her mom said something along these lines: "I can see the roses in the garden. The sun is coming in the window. And I'm having a delicious cup of tea with my daughter. Sometimes, you get it all."

Welcome Back to Boulder

They should be loading Beth up right about now into the ambulance for transport to Boulder Community Hospital, in-patient rehab. Her chest xray was clear and she is outta there! More details to follow...

"This Accident Is the Best Thing That Has Ever Happened to Me"

Beth shared something with me tonight that really stopped me in my tracks. She had originally written just to say thank you, and this is what it became:

"I feel so blessed, and deeply grateful for the outpouring of love, support, sacrifice, and care. Please convey this in the blog. I feel a level of gratitude I have never known. My heart has been cracked open. I am connected to the hearts of so many. Energies in the universe are healing me. There is no way I am doing all of this on my own. This accident is the best thing that has ever happened to me in my life. It has ripped away the veil of a reality that is unimportant and put in its place a reality I have yearned to know. I can no longer be the Beth I was and if this is how I get to become the new Beth (and who that is I don't know yet) then I consider myself blessed and fortunate. 

I don't know if this makes sense to you. I hope so."

Grab a Cold One for a Good Cause

Here's something cool: the Walnut brewery has brewed up a batch of Mountain Rescue Ale, and tonight is tapping night in conjunction with a fundraiser for Rocky Mountain Rescue--our friends who brought Beth down safely, and quickly, from her fall. FREE FIRST PINT between 6 & 6:30 as the evening kicks off. Cheers!

http://www.rockymountainrescue.org/walnut.php

Disconnected

I visted Beth this morning and, let me tell you, Room 239 is like a subway station, with people coming in, going out, interrupting, prodding and poking, asking the same questions over and over, and generally creating chaos. No wonder she's too fried for visitors. I hope rehab is a more peaceful ride!

The big news of the day is that the chest tube is out. The med student we were talking to was saying that Beth's chest xray yesterday looked fantastic, with the pleural effusion on the R side gone, and just a little fluid left on the L side. They will take another chest xray in a couple of hours and if she is still clear, then she's cleared for takeoff to Boulder. The surgical PA came in to discuss that air pocket in her lung (pneumohydroseal?) that they're still concerned about--he said it's the biggest one he's ever seen, surely a dubious distinction--and said that there's really nothing they can do about that except see if the body resorbs it and hope it doesn't get infected. He said it usually shows up in car accident victims from taking a big breath in right before impact, as Beth likely did right before she hit the ground. Urgh.

Beth looked better than I've seen her in this entire process. Her eyes were bright and we had a few laughs about some of the things she said when she doing those shots of Fentanol last week. It was great to see her smile and feel her rushing back into herself again. While I was there she got up without help, grabbed her walker, and wheeled herself off. She says she's getting restless and ready to do more--doesn't that sound just like her? Her rash has abated somewhat and the new pain meds seem to be doing the trick; she's at a "4" on the scale, with most of it centered on that L side that got such a walloping. This afternoon she is looking forward to a sponge bath--or, maybe a shower now that the tube is out--and a fresh gown. Life is good.

Not sure when she'll be moved to Boulder, but tomorrow could be the day we've all been waiting for...

"Go into yourself,

and see how deep is the place

from which your life flows."

~Rilke

Leaps and Bounds

Just got a great update from Matt about Beth's day. Holy. He actually said she is moving "with ease" and now buzzing around with her walker without any hovering from him or the nurses. Ambitious as ever, she tried to convince him to let her try walking without it and, although tempted, he held his ground--and she held the walker. Probably not a great day for a fall! Crutches come next. She slept four beautiful, uninterrupted hours last night--heaven!--and the CT scan this morning showed a fully inflated lung, without any more trapped air, so the punctures have healed. They plan to take the chest tube out tomorrow and, all going swimmingly, move her to Boulder on Friday. Yippee!


He also asked me to let all of know how touched Beth is by the cards, drawings, gifts, and blog messages she has received during these last 10 days, and how each one lifts her spirits. She says, "I feel the power of love and prayer and appreciate how important it is to be there for one another. It is the community that has come together from all over on my behalf that has shown me how deeply connected we are and the power and love of that connection." 


Amen, Sister.

Calendar Suspended for Now

You may notice that the calendar has been removed from the sidelines--it's a temporary measure, and one that Beth decided would be best for the next little while until she is healthier. A group of us are still coordinating food and various logistics/support for her, but she has asked that visitors sit tight until she feels more up to, well, visiting. She looks forward to seeing everyone when she is a little stronger. When that happens, I'll post the calendar again.

More later on how she is faring today once I get caught up with Matt.

The Art of Movement

In his message tonight Matt said, "I don't know how far Beth traveled today," suggesting a lot of distance was covered. Talk about music to the ears! He said she is really moving around a lot, and today is the first day she stopped using the nurse for assistance on her journey with her rolling walker from chair, to bed, to hallway, to... bathroom! Yes--they took the catheter out today, and any reader who has ever experienced that lovely moment in life can truly appreciate the unique joy of greeting the toilet like a long-lost friend. The doc visited and said, depending on the CT scan in the morning, that they may remove the chest tube TOMORROW, so that is the one last link in the chain holding her in Denver. They have to monitor her after they remove it, but even so she could be back in Boulder in a couple of days, likely at the Mapleton hospital (she told me last night she couldn't wait to get into the pool there.)

I really have a deep sense that Beth is going to be one of those miracle recovery stories--she has come so far in such a short time. If you see her rolling her walker up the Sanitas trail on Saturday morning, be sure to give her a high-five on your way by!

Thinking About Beth on a Rainy Afternoon...

Welcome Difficulty

by Rumi

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary

Awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and attend them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows, who violently

Sweep your house empty of its furniture, still,

Treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

Meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each

Has been sent as a guide from beyond.

Welcome difficulty.

Learn the alchemy true human beings know:

The moment you accept what troubles

You've been given, the door opens.

Welcome difficulty as a familiar comrade.

Joke with torment brought from the Friend.

Sorrows are the rags of old clothes and jackets

That serve to cover, and then are taken off.

That undressing,

And the beautiful naked body underneath,

Is the sweetness that comes after grief.

Reduced Visiting Schedule for Now

Beth has decided to cut back on visitors for the next few days, as she is now really keyed in on her healing, so she has requested that there only be two visitors per day and that they sign up for 10 and 12. It's tough because while she loves seeing people, she is noticing how much it drains her and she is very focused on getting the chest tube out and getting back to Boulder soon to rehab there.

Jack and I visited Beth tonight in her new set-up on the ICU floor. She is in a larger room with fewer alarms and beeps and screens, but just as many tubes and wires. She turned out to be allergic in a full-body-rash way to the meds she was on, so they switched her to Lortab and Delotid--jury's still out as to whether or not they will work for her. Her pain is pretty high still but she walked three times today--amazing. When I was there she moved from the chair to the bed and it was so good just to see her standing up. A lot of the swelling in her arms and legs has gone down and she is much more alert than she was when she was sipping on that potent cocktail delivered by epidural. We got her tucked in for the night with Karla's yummy blanket and all the pillows arranged just so--hoping for a night of dreamless rest and more milestones reached tomorrow...

New Digs: Room 239

Beth was indeed moved from her old haunt at the end of the ICU area to another room on the ICU floor, which is quieter, and Matt said she slept better last night than she has for the last couple. Also, the trauma doc indicated that they may take the chest tube out in the next few days, in which case she could be transferred to Boulder. As much as we've all been enjoying exploring the various routes to the hospital in Denver and trying to figure out which one makes the most sense given the time of day... it will be great to have our girl back in the 'hood--for a lot of reasons other than traffic! She had another CT scan this morning which showed increased inflation of the lung and there is less fluid being collected from the chest cavity. Her oxygen was decreased from 4 liters to 2.5, so things are really looking up in this second week of her recovery.

Matt also said that Greg Norton, a member of Rocky Mountain Rescue and the first person on the scene of the accident, visited Beth today. Thanks, Greg, for all you did in getting her stabilized and to the hospital. We are so grateful for all the efforts of you and your team on her behalf!

Letter from a Friend

One of my colleagues took a few swim lessons with Beth earlier this year. Other than that, he has spoken to her once or twice when she and I have met up for lunch at my office. Although he doesn't know Beth well, he was moved to write her this letter, which I read to her on Saturday. She was so touched and inspired by it that she asked if I would put it up on the blog because she felt that it could help other people, too. I asked him, and he agreed. So here it is. Thanks for sharing your words and your eloquence, Carl!

***************************************************************

Dear Beth,

I am so sorry to hear about your recent mishap and want you to know that my heart goes out to you. I’ve only taken a few of your swim classes, but in that short period sensed that you have a kind heart and a big soul. (And Linda might have mentioned some of your kind attributes also. ;) After hearing the news, and following the blog, I have thought and felt much about what you are going through. I wanted to throw out some words in hopes that they might help. Please take care and be strong.

I’ve only read / heard stories about your lifetime career of feats and accomplishments. But I get the feeling that you have the will to take on any obstacle and enjoy overcoming it. You have worked and struggled harder than you ever thought was possible. You have trained your mind, body and soul to endure immense pain, to keep moving when your body screams to stop, and to win. Not to defeat others. But to find you. To truly see who you are. You have seen that beautiful, quiet space that exists between pain and happiness, success and compassion. This is a glorious place that few people know.

And now you have been thrust into what probably feels like the world turned completely upside-down. It is the beginning of the hardest challenge / obstacle that you have ever faced. The course unfolding in front of you winds through strange and scary landscapes, the equipment cold and unfeeling, the language bizarre to say the least, and your training beyond excruciating. But don’t forget, please don’t forget, this is what you have trained for. You have been here before. You have looked out over the chasm and felt the pain and fear that you are feeling now. Remember, your mind, body and spirit know what to do. They have overcome this chasm before. They know hope, and they know how to heal. They know how to find their way back to that glorious space.

And in time you will also begin to see through all of these new markers. The street in front of your house will take on the dimensions of a football field. Every little success will transform into a massive accomplishment. You will rejoice over things that you once took for granted. And most importantly your new heroes will become the world around you. It will be the woman in the grocery store at midnight, bags under her eyes, getting her medicine. You don’t hear cheering or clapping, but if you look deeper, you will see the immense crowd reflected in her eyes. Friends, loved ones, and sometimes even total strangers. And that smile you give her, will be the best medicine she has ever been given. After all of these illusions melt away, you will find that beautiful space again. But this time, since you have changed and grown and endured, you will stay in that wonderful space. That is when you will know, we are all here with you. I look forward to seeing you in the pool and out on the trails again soon.

Carl

“You can survive 30 days without food and 3 days without water, but you won’t last 30 seconds without hope.”

Sean Swarner (First cancer survivor to summit Everest)

"Something Better" (with thanks to Mary Oliver)

Matt checked in a while ago to report a "very good day." He said that when he arrived at the hospital Beth was already sitting up and had a good breakfast. He had been advocating to get them to remove the soft cast on her left arm--from palm to shoulder--because she had developed an angry rash underneath it and since the surgery is done, it seemed superfluous. They took it off today and Beth was much relieved. And then... drum roll... wait for it: Beth walked about 20 feet down the hall to the center of the ICU and back to her room. I can't even imagine the strength, will power, motivation, determination, rising above, and pure cojones that took. It just seems that that kind of attitude and grit is going to contribute hugely to her recovery. Matt said he also planned to get her outside for a few minutes of sunshine in the afternoon. We all know how much it means to Beth to be outside in nature; if it can't be the Sangre de Cristo mountains, the Pawnee national grasslands, a pristine lake discovered on a day-long hike in Montana... then let it be the hospital parking lot with the roar of Colfax nearby--amazing how everything gets redefined and reassigned in these circumstances, isn't it? The last piece of good news was that they planned to move her to another room on the same floor late today to reduce the amount of nighttime disturbance. The ICU is super noisy, with people constantly coming into your room, various machines beeping, endless conversation among caregivers, and a general sense of being "on" all the time. I don't know if that means she is out of the ICU (fingers and toes crossed) or if she's just in a slightly different location, but let's hope it bodes a night of sweet dreams for Beth, and that she sleeps "as never before"--at least in the last week.

Sleeping in the Forest 

by Mary Oliver

I thought the earth remembered me,

she took me back so tenderly,

arranging her dark skirts, her pockets

full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,

nothing between me and the white fire of the stars

but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths

among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms

breathing around me, the insects,

and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,

grappling with a luminous doom. By morning

I had vanished at least a dozen times

into something better.