This afternoon, a startling fatal accident happened close to my work and as usual stirred memories from when I was struck by a car, reminding me how grateful I am to still be here. And I realized, I still hadn't posted the third part of my series.
Possibly due to the lack of proper rest...and due to being trapped in the editing cave for months!
During my time in the acute care ward of Royal Columbian Hospital, the nurses insisted on waking us (the four of us in the room) up around 630am every morning. They'd check vitals to update the charge and give a sponge bath to have you ready for breakfast. It never mattered how tired I was, or how little sleep I'd get due to either the pain and discomfort, the wall-shaking snorer or the disoriented person yelling overnight coming off some drugs they ended up rolling into the tv room. It was up and at 'em. For the life of me, I will never understand how they expect anyone to recover and heal without providing them an environment to SLEEP!
Possibly due to the severe traumatic experience of being hit by a car and broken. I was nineteen when I was hit by that black Saturn and seven weeks from going travelling on a train through all the States with my best friend. We had already begun preparations including selling furniture and belongings, intending to start on our adventure on January 1st, 2000. Seemed like a good a time as any for one! But as reality finally sunk in, I was exceedingly upset knowing that the trip we had spent so much time planning and saving for, wasn't going to happen.
Behind the curtains I insisted to be kept closed, I'd sit propped up on the bed with the lunch tray across me and tears streaming down my face. Every single day during lunch, sadness seeped from me. During one of these quiet sobfests, my family physician visited; he took one look at me and was immediately concerned.
He diagnosed me with PTSD.
It didn't help that, after spending three weeks in the hospital, I was sent home wheelchair bound and quickly learned that everything had changed. As if it weren't already glaringly clear that things weren't going to be the same. My best friend and roommate moved out while I was in the hospital. Three other suites in our building, friends from Toronto, Alabama, Mexico had also moved away.
As a stubbornly independent Capricorn, I adjusted to physically not being able to do things for myself while adjusting to my new environment. My mom, bless her heart, came to stay with my from the island to help me. With her, the medical aide that visited three times a week, and the physiotherapist that visited twice a week, and friends from school and work stopping by, they kept me busy and helped to eliminate extra time to dwell in the sadness.
It took another two months to get out of my wheelchair, and ten months in total before returning to work. That accident changed my life. It caused rifts between some friends, while reconnecting with others. It gave me a glimpse into a possible career path, which previously I had no idea what I'd be interested in pursuing: physiotherapy; which I ended up attending college for (long story for another day). But it also gave me first hand experience of the difficulties people living with mobility issues deal with on a day to day basis: access is the obvious one but also doors to things like bathrooms.
I learned a lot of myself, my friends, family, appreciating everything they did for me, from keeping me company, breaking me out of my apartment, to assistance in shopping and such. From learning they were going to have to amputate my leg from just above the knee, to making a full recovery (minus reoccurring pains) is enough to make a person appreciate everything life has to offer. I know I do, and I encourage you to do so too.
Possibly due to the lack of proper rest...and due to being trapped in the editing cave for months!
During my time in the acute care ward of Royal Columbian Hospital, the nurses insisted on waking us (the four of us in the room) up around 630am every morning. They'd check vitals to update the charge and give a sponge bath to have you ready for breakfast. It never mattered how tired I was, or how little sleep I'd get due to either the pain and discomfort, the wall-shaking snorer or the disoriented person yelling overnight coming off some drugs they ended up rolling into the tv room. It was up and at 'em. For the life of me, I will never understand how they expect anyone to recover and heal without providing them an environment to SLEEP!
Possibly due to the severe traumatic experience of being hit by a car and broken. I was nineteen when I was hit by that black Saturn and seven weeks from going travelling on a train through all the States with my best friend. We had already begun preparations including selling furniture and belongings, intending to start on our adventure on January 1st, 2000. Seemed like a good a time as any for one! But as reality finally sunk in, I was exceedingly upset knowing that the trip we had spent so much time planning and saving for, wasn't going to happen.
Behind the curtains I insisted to be kept closed, I'd sit propped up on the bed with the lunch tray across me and tears streaming down my face. Every single day during lunch, sadness seeped from me. During one of these quiet sobfests, my family physician visited; he took one look at me and was immediately concerned.
He diagnosed me with PTSD.
It didn't help that, after spending three weeks in the hospital, I was sent home wheelchair bound and quickly learned that everything had changed. As if it weren't already glaringly clear that things weren't going to be the same. My best friend and roommate moved out while I was in the hospital. Three other suites in our building, friends from Toronto, Alabama, Mexico had also moved away.
As a stubbornly independent Capricorn, I adjusted to physically not being able to do things for myself while adjusting to my new environment. My mom, bless her heart, came to stay with my from the island to help me. With her, the medical aide that visited three times a week, and the physiotherapist that visited twice a week, and friends from school and work stopping by, they kept me busy and helped to eliminate extra time to dwell in the sadness.
It took another two months to get out of my wheelchair, and ten months in total before returning to work. That accident changed my life. It caused rifts between some friends, while reconnecting with others. It gave me a glimpse into a possible career path, which previously I had no idea what I'd be interested in pursuing: physiotherapy; which I ended up attending college for (long story for another day). But it also gave me first hand experience of the difficulties people living with mobility issues deal with on a day to day basis: access is the obvious one but also doors to things like bathrooms.
I learned a lot of myself, my friends, family, appreciating everything they did for me, from keeping me company, breaking me out of my apartment, to assistance in shopping and such. From learning they were going to have to amputate my leg from just above the knee, to making a full recovery (minus reoccurring pains) is enough to make a person appreciate everything life has to offer. I know I do, and I encourage you to do so too.
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