“Call my kids,” I yelled to the EMTs. “Tell them what happened.”
Everything went blurry.
I was told later the EMTs were following right behind my Sweet Al and me and one of them gave me CPR. All I remember was blacking out and our vehicle plunging down 55 feet before hitting a 4-foot-by-4-foot red rock that stopped the fall.
Our kids arrived on the scene quickly and spoke with the police and the insurance company.
They followed through with everything from that moment on.
My Sweet Al and I were flown to a hospital in Colorado Springs. That is where the fun began.
Al was bumfuzzled with the unfamiliarity, not knowing what was going on. The hospital staff moved me from my room to his to settle him. Our beds were 10 feet apart. A curtain hung between us.
With seven broken ribs, a banged-up knee, a long gash, black and blue, and a broken ankle, I could not move. Al yelled from the other side of the curtain, “Honey, get me some stool softener.”
The room was full of staff and family. I heard giggles.
“Not now. Wait. I can’t move.”
Heavens. I didn’t realize that would be a cry from every patient in a hospital bed — the “Stool Softener Warrior Cry.”
A nurse came to the side of my bed and said, “Your husband asked me to send a memo to his wife. He wants to tell her that he loves her.”
All night long, Al tried to get out of the bed. I’d tell him, “Stay in bed. They don’t want you to get up without their help.”
“I don’t need any help.”
I couldn’t find the phone. I yelled, “Al is getting out of bed.” I woke up the whole hospital.
With the morning light, Al was entertaining the staff with his hunting stories. I sighed. Not now, Al.
Al had two broken ribs and a collapsed lung. By the end of the week, Al had regained strength and our son took him home. Again, the children moved in to help and shifted schedules to take care of us.
For me, it was surgery and gaining mobility. I spent many hours on my back praying and gaining new insight as to what the days would look like for us. This hiccup is temporary, not terminal. It will bring a different day.
When I woke up from surgery in the recovery room, I stared at the clock. It seemed the hands on the clock kept changing. I asked the Lord what that was all about. In my spirit, I heard the words, “I’m resetting the clock for you.” Wow. What does that mean? Was he generous to give me more time? Who knows.
I felt like He said, “You’re in the third act of the play. The third act is about resolution and wrapping up the story. It can be quick, or tying up loose ends could take years to finish.
At this moment I have many things to wrap up. First of all, get someone to tie up Al’s open hospital gown.
I believe this whole thing was to get my attention and know what needs to be done in these last few years I have on this earth.
Final brushstroke: I felt so much love in your prayers. Thank you for all the support you’ve shown. I’m going to be around for a while. I’m in a wheelchair at the moment learning how to drive it.
Views expressed do not necessarily represent those of The SUN.
