Abstract
Waking up in the hospital, with excruciating pain throughout my body, I was unable to move, and barely able to breath. The date, March 13, 1986, will be forever imbedded in my soul. I was all alone in that sterile, dimly-lit room hooked up to several continuously-beeping monitors. The bed was cranked to a forty-five degree angle, the shades on the windows drawn shut. Unaware of the time, I noticed that the sun had gone down as darkness peeked through the outer edges of the blinds. There were crisp white linens on the bed and an IV firmly attached to each arm. Muffled voices drifted in from the brightly lit hallway as the nurse’s station was just outside my door…so close I could almost touch it.
A nurse came quickly as I began to stir, and quietly asked, “How are you doing?” while she explained, “You are in the Intensive Care Unit at Doctor’s Hospital.” What? I thought. But, that’s all she said as she continued to meticulously check monitors and IV’s. I was groggy and just coming to, however, her warmth, caring and compassion comforted me.
My breathing was shallow as I gasped for each precious breath of air that seemed to get stuck in my throat. The oxygen mask helped, but it was difficult pushing my chest up. Tears began to stream down my face as the fear crept in. It hurt to move, even the slightest bit. I did not feel safe. It seemed like a bad dream, as I vaguely remembered being shot; I was terrified.
It looked like someone had cut me in half and then closed me back up with huge metal staples, forty of them I was told, right down the middle of my abdomen. Moving was nearly impossible. The pain unbearable, and not like anything I had ever known. The orders were, “Nothing by mouth, not even water or ice.” I was doped up on Demerol, which flowed automatically from a drip, but even the opiates could not take the pain away.
I didn’t know where my kids were. They were my responsibility. What kind of mother would leave her kids alone? They must be wondering what is going on and where is mom? Is she alright? Did they even know what had happened? They were little. Were they scared? They must be scared, but I couldn’t do anything! I had no power to change what was.
Recently divorced, I had custody of my two small children. This was supposed to be a happy time. Just a few months earlier, the three of us moved in with my fiancé and his two little ones. He was already divorced, but we had waited for mine to become final before moving in together. I wanted everything to be perfect.
As I lay there, I prayed for God to help me, begging for sweet mercy, as the pain was almost too much to take. As I screamed silently in my head, I couldn’t help but wonder why this was happening. I was just thirty-three and barely hanging on to life. I couldn’t imagine who had done this horrible thing or why anyone wanted to kill me. My mind continued to race with unanswered questions as I drifted in and out of drug-induced consciousness, gladly welcoming the all-encompassing cocoon of the pain killers.
Waking up in the hospital, with excruciating pain throughout my body, I was unable to move, and barely able to breath. The date, March 13, 1986, will be forever imbedded in my soul. I was all alone in that sterile, dimly-lit room hooked up to several continuously-beeping monitors. The bed was cranked to a forty-five degree angle, the shades on the windows drawn shut. Unaware of the time, I noticed that the sun had gone down as darkness peeked through the outer edges of the blinds. There were crisp white linens on the bed and an IV firmly attached to each arm. Muffled voices drifted in from the brightly lit hallway as the nurse’s station was just outside my door…so close I could almost touch it.
A nurse came quickly as I began to stir, and quietly asked, “How are you doing?” while she explained, “You are in the Intensive Care Unit at Doctor’s Hospital.” What? I thought. But, that’s all she said as she continued to meticulously check monitors and IV’s. I was groggy and just coming to, however, her warmth, caring and compassion comforted me.
My breathing was shallow as I gasped for each precious breath of air that seemed to get stuck in my throat. The oxygen mask helped, but it was difficult pushing my chest up. Tears began to stream down my face as the fear crept in. It hurt to move, even the slightest bit. I did not feel safe. It seemed like a bad dream, as I vaguely remembered being shot; I was terrified.
It looked like someone had cut me in half and then closed me back up with huge metal staples, forty of them I was told, right down the middle of my abdomen. Moving was nearly impossible. The pain unbearable, and not like anything I had ever known. The orders were, “Nothing by mouth, not even water or ice.” I was doped up on Demerol, which flowed automatically from a drip, but even the opiates could not take the pain away.
I didn’t know where my kids were. They were my responsibility. What kind of mother would leave her kids alone? They must be wondering what is going on and where is mom? Is she alright? Did they even know what had happened? They were little. Were they scared? They must be scared, but I couldn’t do anything! I had no power to change what was.
Recently divorced, I had custody of my two small children. This was supposed to be a happy time. Just a few months earlier, the three of us moved in with my fiancé and his two little ones. He was already divorced, but we had waited for mine to become final before moving in together. I wanted everything to be perfect.
As I lay there, I prayed for God to help me, begging for sweet mercy, as the pain was almost too much to take. As I screamed silently in my head, I couldn’t help but wonder why this was happening. I was just thirty-three and barely hanging on to life. I couldn’t imagine who had done this horrible thing or why anyone wanted to kill me. My mind continued to race with unanswered questions as I drifted in and out of drug-induced consciousness, gladly welcoming the all-encompassing cocoon of the pain killers.