The last thing I'd considered while I progressed from intensive care to a rehabilitation program was how poorly I'd sleep in the coming days.
This wasn't anyone's fault other than the person whose car plowed into mine on July 15th. But it was challenging nevertheless to fill the time during the midnight hour--and several hours thereafter--until there was more to do and more people to talk to and more therapy to wrestle through en route to getting back home again.
I broke 18 bones in all, across my face, my shoulder blades, my ribs, and within my neck and vertebrae. I incurred severe traumatic brain injury to boot, putting half my face functionally to sleep, with a droopy eye and mouth and numb tongue to show for it. And it all made me have to urinate about 73 times a day.
Turns out that broken ribs and incessant peeing aren't conducive to satisfying sleep.
I found some good in the long nights nevertheless. And it was mostly stuff to eat.
About twenty lost pounds distinguished me from the time of the accident to how I was composed on those long nights at Ohio State's Dodd Hall. I couldn't eat for most of my time in intensive care, and lost plenty of muscle mass as well. I don't remember much with precision from that time, but I remember distinctly when I failed a "swallow" test once I'd come to in the ICU--it'd be a few more days until I could even attempt drinking water, let alone eating.
By the time I did pass the test, I developed a particular affinity for fruit--especially watermelon and clementines--and weirdly, copious amounts of ice.
But not regular ice. Hospital-nugget ice, which I'd forgotten about since the last time I'd spent an inordinate amount of time in a hospital--my father's six-month sojourn fighting esophageal cancer over twenty years ago. Hospitals have abundant, easy-to-chew ice, and it's just the most refreshing and comforting and always-delicious thing they can give you for free. And unlike whatever you might request from the cafeteria, the nugget ice is usually just around the corner, along with an assortment of single-use juices with a tinfoil top, like the kind you may have enjoyed in elementary school.
I'm not sure if it was the nostalgia or the convenience or the fact that I couldn't eat much else on demand, but chewing through tons of that ice at all hours of the evening was about as comforting to me as could be. I'm fairly certain the people at the nurses' station quickly tired of me buzzing at 3:45 AM, requesting another two cups of ice.
And no, this didn't decelerate my hyperurination, either. But whatever. There wasn't much I could do about the fact that any movement whatsoever was painful; but by golly, that crunchy ice was scrumptious.
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I don't miss that ice one iota, having been recovering at home for one month now. And as of about a week ago, I'm sleeping better, too--it isn't super ouchy to roll from one side of my body to the other at long last.
But my physical recovery has a very long way to go.
And that's why I'm writing here today--with enormous humility and appreciation to the 900 of you who have inexplicably chosen to receive yet another email in your overflowing inbox, so you can read my meandering words as my brain and my body slowly but surely go from where I'm at two months into my recovery to where I'd like to be as quickly as possible.
I'm exceedingly fortunate that I've come as far as I have already. Most of that is due to extraordinary humans who have been taking care of me from the last thing I can remember--a car barreling toward us while our son Teddy and I were stopped in traffic in I-670. Those humans include not just first responders and medical professionals, but dear friends and family--none more so than my superhero of a wife, Lori.
But I still have a very long way to go, with physical therapy, and occupational therapy, and neurological therapies. And that's the journey I'll humbly and happily take you on with me, while interspersing some of these little essays with some meanderings on some things that interest me--politics, gardening, sports, etc. But there are two things I won't be delving into here: Anything work-related--I'm eager to return to writing about that plenty later this year; and my and my family's journey through grief. Those words are for another time and place altogether.
So thank you for being part of my quest to be functional again. To being able to play basketball with our six-year-old Elijah, to being able to unload the dishwasher even if the dishes are up high on a shelf; to being able to give and receive big bear hugs again; to being able to drive a car again.
Nothing's proven better for me than the kindness of others. So let me close with something extraordinarily kind. Every year, The Columbus Foundation brings together thousands of thousands of people for thousands and thousands of conversations. It's called "The Big Table." And this year, it's not only scheduled on Teddy's birthday--it's being held in his memory.
