48 Hours

(continued from "A Small Act of Defiance")

It was the beginning of January, shortly after the second half of my spinal fusion. I was slowly emerging from my “controlled coma” and the transition was incredibly hard on me, both mentally and physically. My dream world and reality were at war with each other – it was scary. I remember literally going through withdrawals, thinking and saying some crazy things. I told one nurse, “to just stick your needle in my arm and kill me! I know you can! Just kill me!” I wonder what she must have thought of me.

I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid to sleep, my body wouldn’t let me. I watched movies over and over; mostly White Christmas and Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Twenty-four hours passed – scene after scene, song after song. As soon as a movie ended I asked them to rewind it and play it again.

I was becoming more aware of the people around me, especially my mom. I never wanted her to leave my side, not even for one moment. I didn’t want her to eat. I didn’t want her to use the restroom. I was terrified and completely self-absorbed.

Now my father was far from perfect, and was often verbally abusive when I was growing up. I followed my mother’s lead, spending many years walking on eggshells around him, watching every word and movement, afraid he would “blow up”. Even today I must fight this tendency, despite knowing that, in most cases, the only power someone has over you is the power you allow them to have. I also have a deeper understanding of where anger comes from, having developed a short-temper of my own. Therefore I have forgiven much of my father’s past behavior. We have a much better relationship, although it’s a relationship that we are still trying to figure out.

Maybe it’s the co-dependency in me speaking, but even as a child I could see him wrestling inside himself when he tried to talk to me or spend time with me. I could feel his disappointment when an activity or conversation didn’t go as he had planned. Unfortunately he would usually outwardly blame me, my mom or, heck, women in general. We were “all the same”. But the fact is, despite his flaws, I hope my father is happy to hear that I’ve always known he loves me and that he was doing his best.

During my stay in the hospital my father continued commuting each night to work in San Francisco. During the day he’d sleep in whatever hospital space was available. He would spend some time with me, stepping outside frequently to smoke a cigarette. My mother quit her job to spend every day (and most nights) caring for me.

But there was one night – my second night of no sleep – that I asked my dad to stay with me. And, to my surprise, he called his work and took the night off. He stayed right at my side as my body waged war against the chemicals inside of me. I hadn’t felt so comforted by him since I was a toddler. That’s actually how old I felt, lying there, watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarves with him. Like a little baby. I’d nod off to sleep, then jerk awake. He’d still be there. I’d ask “How long did I sleep that time?” He’d answer calmly “Just three minutes. Try to go back to sleep…” This continued throughout the night.

Finally, after being awake for 48 hours, I fell asleep, assured by my father’s presence that I would be okay.

(to be continued)