THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH

THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH


So there I was, driving home from Albuquerque, having seen Melissa, my daughter and 
only child, off at the airport. As she headed back to Michigan, I wept, knowing how much I would miss her. Otherwise, all seemed normal as I returned to the Santa Fe home to which I had moved three years ago. That was a major journey when I chose to move in with the man I love. It was a good decision and following major adjustments, I was settling into a rich and love-filled life with Robert.


The following day I wondered why I needed to grab hold of the furniture as I moved through the house. Yes, I am 73 years old and certainly not in great physical condition. I would much rather read or talk with a friend than exercise. Yet this felt much different. By the end of the day I mentioned it to Robert, who took note, but didn’t seem concerned. However, when the next morning the clumsiness continued, he gently suggested I call the doctor. I called. No appointments  were available till late afternoon. “OK. I’ll be there,” I said with more than a little trepidation. 

Immediately upon hearing my story, the doctor sent us to the emergency room at Christus St. Vincent hospital and before I could settle into the waiting room, I was whisked off in a wheel chair. Deposited in what passes for a room in ER, I began a very long journey indeed. I had had a stroke! 

The next days are a blur. I was taken here; I was taken there. Chest x-rays, a CT scan, a cardiac ultrasound, a coratid artery ultrasound; finally an arterial CT scan. Hours passed and eventually I took up residence in a semi-private hospital room. A bedside commode was my toilet, that being as far from bed as I was allowed to travel. My left hand looked like a claw, the fingers curled up and unable to move. Hospital food came on schedule. My minister came and prayed with me. I couldn’t pray. 

The one constant was Robert. If he wasn’t there beside me, I knew where he’d gone and when he would return. He notified my daughter, my sister, and several close friends that I had suffered a ‘small, but serious” stroke.
 
How can I do this, I thought? I have no control. I am being “done to” and all I can do is float along. As when I went into labor with Melissa, I desperately wanted to turn back. But the only way out is through, one of my favorite spiritual teachers used to say. 

In three days I was admitted to the hospital’s in-patient rehab unit, where I would reside for two weeks, two weeks that felt like two years...in a prison. Yes, a nice prison with kind and capable staff, but a prison nonetheless. 

I would emerge from that prison a different person, one who not only had to regain the use of her left side, but her self-confidence, her identity, and her faith.