Guest post by
Lenihan
I met Lorrie Jones, owner of
and author of this blog, a little over a year ago. A gifted woman with
much to share, by knowing her, I have had the privilege of learning what
living mindfully truly means. Lorrie is the strongest, most resilient
person I have ever met and I am honored to be her friend. Over the past
year, I have witnessed some of Lorrie’s triumphs and struggles, and I
am continually humbled by her unending generosity of spirit, her
compassion for others and her ability to always stay in the present
moment. No matter what the situation, Lorrie bravely faces it with
courage and selflessness. I can truly say that this woman walks her talk
– this year, just before Christmas Lorrie’s life was turned upside
down and all of her mindfulness training was put to the toughest test
yet. Following is an update on Lorrie’s condition, written on December
27th, by her son Andrew:
It’s odd to think that only a
week ago my mother was severely injured in a freak accident. She had
been run over by a minivan which beat up and broke nearly everything on
the left side of her body. Her first night in the hospital, the docs had
to “go in” to stop some internal bleeding (when I say some, I mean she
was given 12 units of blood — I’m told the body has 14 total) that we
learned days later was a little closer to life-threatening than anyone
wanted to admit. Since then, she has endured three surgeries to repair
her leg, hip, and face. All surgeries required general anesthesia and
were performed with only a day of rest in between.I open with
this grim recount in order to juxtapose properly the unbelievable
recovery that is underway (the good news). I have hardly a sense of time
at the moment. I’ve been in the ICU with my mom and family for a week.
It feels like I arrived yesterday, yet I would not be shocked if someone
told me I’d been here a month. The days are defined in my memory by
medical events: surgeries, tubes, awake days, breathing tests.It
was not until Thursday that I even heard my mother utter a word when the
breathing tube was removed for a brief period of time. Before Thursday,
there were actually few moments when my mom was conscious for more than
a few minutes at a time. I remember (I think it was
Tuesday-Wednesday-ish) when my mom would wake up from her sedated
slumber and open her eyes really wide, almost as if she had just
regained sight from a life of blindness. She’d look around the room,
curious and confused. Her eyes were glossy and wet with small wells of
tears in the corners. We’d whisper to her and she’d gently look to our
voices. It was hard to tell if she could actually see us or not. She
gave us very unfamiliar stares at first, but her eyes quickly warmed and
her forehead wrinkled. It looked like love. She did not look in pain or
discomfort. Her face simply looked like love. I don’t think she had the
energy to raise her arms to hug us (not to mention they were strapped
down to keep her from touching the breathing tube), but the look in her
eyes said more than any physical contact could communicate.There
is only so much you can say to someone who is in this condition. You
know they are not 100%, so it’s not the best time to recount the
details of the accident. They also cannot respond, so it’s an equally
terrible time to ask a lot of questions. All there is to say is “I love
you”. Which we did, over and over again. But, what’s more interesting
is what happens when the words stop. Sometimes she’d stay awake for a
few more minutes and we’d just stare at each other. Directly. Eye to
eye. Blinking was the only movement either of us made. We could sit
there for what felt like an hour simply staring into each others
eyes.When was the last time you tried that? To look into
someone’s eyes for a really long time, comfortably? I tried to have
staring contests when I was a kid, but they would end in giggles seconds
later. I think all the other times ended with one person needing to look
away or to say something to bridge the inevitable discomfort. A deep,
uninterrupted stare into someone’s eyes is a remarkable experience.
Words become unimportant and thoughts become vague. Your sole focus is
on their eyes which contain their present and more personal feelings.
Feelings that don’t need to be said out loud.That’s one of the
many important lessons I gained this week — it’s important to stare.
Not in a rude way, of course, but in an uninhibited, unassuming way.
It’s an important, unfiltered means of connecting. We use too many
words sometimes. I’m not sure we even posses the right words to express
ourselves in every situation. We worry about what others will THINK
about what we SAY! Eyes don’t lie. They don’t need to. In fact, most
of the time, they can’t. Have we lost this form of intimacy? Why is it
hard sometimes to simply look at the people we love without saying a
word? What makes it uncomfortable? Is it because we want to the other
person to SAY something? Will TALKING make the feelings clearer? Maybe.
Maybe not.As the week progressed, my mom’s alertness improved.
Even the day of her fourth surgery she was really quite alert before and
after the procedure. I wrote earlier that she went into the third
surgery (pelvis) with a brave face and I think by the fourth she was
nearly wheeling herself into the OR. Remarkable, truly remarkable. Her
time awake was sometimes limited in the post-op phases, but when her
eyes were open, my mom was more and more “on” each day.On
Christmas, the day after my mom’s last surgery, the recovery really
picked up pace. Gone were the days of drifting in and out of
consciousness. There were no surgeries left to prepare for or recover
from. She was alert, alive, and very much herself. She was also armed
with a pen. She had gained enough trust to have her arms unshackled
(after the last experience of not being able to breathe without the
tube, the docs were fairly convinced she had no interest in pulling it
out) and with a pen and paper in her lap we talked, laughed, and cried
all afternoon. If this was not enough evidence, I was FULLY convinced
that my mom had regained her senses when she requested her Bumble &
Bumble shampoo because she HATED the stuff they were using in the
hospital. A manicure was also on the list of requests (though
ironically, the manicure was the ONE thing on the left side of her body
not damaged). I say this not to make my mom sound vain, but rather
human. When you’ve been run over by a car, operated on four times in a
week, and not seen even a glimmer of hope of leaving your bed, the LEAST
you can have is good hair and nails.In some ways it was the best
Christmas possible. Certainly the best Christmas given the circumstances
dealt to us. There we no songs, no decorations, no parties, no meals,
and not any gifts (yet, I am still expecting them). There were no trips
to the mall, no waiting in line at the post office, and not a single
worry about whether or not we gave “the right git”. . . . Christmas was
focused on the most important things we have: love and life. Fortunately
for my family, we got both. I could not have asked for a richer
experience (however, as I said, I never want to do this again). There
were certainly some people we encountered this week in the ICU who might
not have this experience, which makes me feel fortunate and incredibly
sad.The day AFTER Christmas got even better. By the time I
reached the hospital this morning, my mom’s breathing tube was out and
she and my sister Angie were sitting in her room gabbing away. My mom
does sound a bit like an R&B singer who has done perhaps one too
many shows (maybe just a bit like Whitney when interviewed by Diane
Sawyer), but I’m happy to listen to her all day. In fact, I think I
better be prepared to do so because either the pain killers or the fact
that my mom has not spoken for a week has made her quite possibly the
chattiest person I have ever met. And, if you know my mom, you know she
was ALREADY CHATTY. I’m trying to figure out if she’s releasing all
her pent up desire to talk or if during that week of silence I had
simply forgot how chatty she is.Tomorrow she is moving to acute
care. We’ll say good bye to some amazing nurses in the ICU who have
seen one more broken person leave in a better state. I wrote earlier how
we’d one day be that family who moved out of the ICU with smiles on
their faces. Well, our day has arrived. The ICU bed next to my mom’s is
empty tonight. I just wonder for how long.
I am happy to
report that Lorrie is out of ICU, out of the hospital, and is now in a
rehabilitation center working on her recovery. Not one to be slowed
down, she’s already posted to Facebook, emailed loved ones, and
followed up on a few work details! Not surprisingly, Lorrie has turned
this experience into one of joy and gratitude. You can read it more
Andrew’s blog.
Get well soon Lorrie, you are loved and
missed.
xoxo
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