I do not know where this whole modesty thing came from. Generally speaking, I was not modest about my body before. I wasn’t overly showy about it either. I mean I was married three times and had two kids. My body had certainly been through some things. So, I didn’t think it was about being modest. I’m pretty sure this whole experience was more about not being in control.
I’ve always been independent. Fiercely so, and proud of it. Even as a little girl.
I was born in the 1960s, grew up in the 1970s and disco danced my way through the 1980s. I was too young to be a hippie, but I was right smack in the middle of the Women’s Movement of the 70s. “You’ve come a long way, baby,” was the Virginia Slims slogan. “I am woman; hear me roar,” were the lyrics the of 1972 Helen Reddy song. “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” Feminist activist Gloria Steinem was famous for saying. My sister and I even joined more than 100,000 people to march on Washington, D.C. on July 9, 1978, in favor of ratifying the Equal Rights Amendment. The year before, on my 16th birthday, my parents gave me a necklace with a pendent that said, “I am me.” They always knew.
I knew too. I knew I would have a career. I knew I could do anything I wanted to as long as I worked hard enough at it. I didn’t need a man. I liked men, but I didn’t need one to accomplish my goals. I had me. That philosophy over time would prove not to always benefit me. That, and the choice to keep my maiden name, adding my husbands’ names to it. Having two last names turned out to be way more of a hassle than it was worth.
***
When morning came, I did exactly what I said I was going to do. I got up and showered even before the nurse made her morning rounds with my meds. I was clean, dressed and ready for whatever the day would bring.
Around 7:30 a.m. a young women appeared at my door. Her name was Melissa. She was the physical therapist. Melissa asked if I needed help bathing and I said, “Nope. Already done.” She was surprised. She asked if I could do what she did as she went through the motions of bathing oneself and I copied her. It felt stupid but she was just doing her job. And I had done mine.
Then, she moved onto the next thing. She walked with me to the fitness center on the third floor. It was huge. It had multiple floors. The walls were glass and overlooked downtown Miami. It was bright. All the equipment looked shiny and new. We sat down on a low padded table where she reviewed the rules again of healing after spinal surgery.
“No bending, lifting or twisting,” she said.
“BLT, yes I know,” I confirmed.
“Good,” she said. “If you drop anything, don’t bend down to pick it up. I will get it. At home, you can get a device called a gripper. Let me get one for you to practice.”
She went to get this device that looked like what people use to pick up garbage in the street. It had a long pole with a gripper on the end.
“You just pull the lever, and the gripper closes around whatever you need to pick up,” she said.
It seemed kind of silly to me, but I tried it anyway. Most of the things I tried to pick up slipped off the gripper’s end. It wasn’t very grippy.
I finally said, “I won’t be alone much at home, so I don’t really have to worry about not being able to reach things or pick things up. Leslie will be home when I need help, and my son will be home. I’ll have help.”
That was the first time I had imagined being home and I liked the feeling. Home meant normal. No pain.
That was not to be, but it was nice for a moment to think about.
***
Melissa was a joy. She was the first person I met in the hospital that didn’t feel like I was meeting her in a hospital. She was young and joyful. Smart and ambitious. She was good at what she did and loved doing it. We had a good time. She probably would have enjoyed anyone who could engage in a conversation. Remember, I was on the brain injury floor. Not many patients were very lively or even chatty. She said I was a welcomed change.
Melissa had me do modified squats over the low, padded table, to strengthen my quads. She said that they would be doing a lot of the work while my back healed in the brace. Then we tackled the stairs. She knew that we had 17 stairs in our house. There were stairs in the gym that connected the first floor of the gym to the second floor. There were easily twice the number that were in my house. She put a chair on the landing halfway up the staircase in case I needed to rest. Then we started up. When we got halfway, I didn’t need or want to rest. Moving felt great. Fully breathing made me feel alive and hopeful for the first time in a while.
The light and airiness of the gym was sustenance for my soul. I didn’t want to leave, but after 90 minutes, I really did need a rest. My back hurt and I was tired. She walked me back to my room. I thanked her and we hugged. I asked when I was going to see her next. She said Monday. She was off on Sunday. I reluctantly said goodbye and laid back in bed, putting a full sleeve of ice on my back. Therapy was only half over. I still had 90 minutes of occupational therapy in the afternoon.
***
After lunch around 1 p.m., Another young woman knocked on my door. She introduced herself as Brittany the OT. She was blonde with a kind face and sweet smile. She assessed my ability to stand and walk. Then she told me even though I was capable of walking on my own, she had to take the wheelchair that was tucked under the credenza with us just in case. I forgot what floor she pushed but it was definitely the occupational therapy floor. It had a whole car on it, a full kitchen and laundry room. Today’s OT was to navigate the kitchen. My task was to make cafecito. Cafecito is rich, delicious and sweet Cuban coffee. In Miami, it’s usually served around 3 p.m. in professional offices as a pick-me-up.
She had me measure the correct amount of coffee, add water, screw the silver moka pot together. Put it on the stove. Turn on the stove and wait to capture the first part of the coffee that brewed. I mixed that with sugar to make a frothy syrup. Then added the rest of the coffee and poured it into little thimble-sized cups. We each drank a shot.
We chatted while we made the cafecito. We talked about how I could cook and do the laundry at home. I explained that our washer and dryer were front loaders so I wouldn’t be able to do the laundry for a while. We also talked about reorganizing the kitchen to suit my limitations like moving the pots and pans from a low drawer to leaving them on the counter so I could get to them. Putting the cats’ food and water on the counter so I didn’t have to bend down. Most of the adjustments I was going to have to make were common sense things that just had to be thought through. At the end of our session, she walked me and the wheelchair back to the room and said she’d see me again on Monday afternoon.
I was tired but exhilarated. I had a productive day. I felt pretty good. My back hurt, so I iced it again. But my spirits soared. I was on my way back. I was going to put this misery behind me and not look back.
Chapter Eight – Tuesday, May 7 – Thursday, May 9, 2024
Over the next three days, we learned that the next steps toward my recovery was to transfer me to the Christine E. Lynn Rehabilitation Center for The Miami Project to Cure Paralysis at UHealth/Jackson Memorial next door. The two facilities, although separate, were connected by a hallway tunnel on the first floor.
In order to transition to Lynn, I was not allowed to be on any heavy pain meds and no meds via IV. I had to start being weaned off. I was allowed to have oral pain killers, Tylenol, nerve and muscle relaxers plus the nighttime Melatonin and Xanax. But I had to function like an outpatient in order to be transferred to Lynn Rehab.
I was not sure how it was going to go, but I was thrilled to be getting out of the hospital even though I was just moving into a different place. It was all about taking the next step in the healing process.
I researched Lynn. It had a fascinating story. It was also inspiring. It epitomized the lesson for anyone in recovery or life, never, never ever give up.
Nearly 40 years in the making, Lynn stood tall as an eight-story building with beautiful views of downtown Miami. It was designed to be one of the country’s elite facilities for patients recovering from traumatic brain injury, spinal cord injury, cancer treatment, and other complex conditions.
As a near-native Floridian, I knew the backstory well. In 1985, Marc Buoniconti, son of legendary All-Pro and Hall of Famer linebacker and former Miami Dolphins Nick Buoniconti, sustained a spinal cord injury while playing football for The Citadel in South Carolina. It left him paralyzed from the shoulders down at 19 years old.
Born out of that tragedy was the Miami Project to Cure Paralysis. World-renowned neurosurgeon Barth A. Green, M.D. with the University of Miami Miller School of Medicine joined the Buoniconti’s in their quest for new treatments for traumatic spinal cord and brain injury and neurodegenerative disorders, including Parkinson’s disease, Multiple Sclerosis, ALS, and Alzheimer’s disease.
In case you were wondering, yes, that was the same Dr. Green who called me out for my obnoxious behavior on Facetime. He was also the one who greenlighted our medivacked trip from Cozumel to the Ryder Trauma Center and Jackson Memorial Hospital for the lifesaving neurosurgery. Dr. Urakov was his protégé from UM’s Miller School of Medicine. How embarrassed was now that I realized who he was?
Almost 40 years later, on March 20, 2022, Lynn Rehab Center opened.[1] And two years after that on March 10, 2024, I was admitted.
I am not an especially religious person. But someone somewhere was looking out for me. Truly, “there by the grace of God go I.” For the rest of my life, I will look back on these events with wonderment and gratitude.
The night we learned about our upcoming transfer to Lynn, Dr. Green came to my room in person. He sat in the chair opposite us; Leslie in one bed and me in the other. He told us about Lynn and how intensive their therapy program was.
“Three hours every day,” he said with enormous pride.
I was told earlier by the PT ladies that I had reached the maximum of what they could do for me on this side of the hospital. That’s why I was being transferred. Dr. Green and Dr. Urakov both insisted on this intense therapy for me and fought with my insurance company to get it.
I have often thought about this man and his life’s work. I remain humbled and in awe.
While he sat with us, I had the chance to ask him why me? What was the story behind how he came to find me? Why did he do what he did? He didn’t know me. Yet, it was his decision and his alone that saved my life.
He simply said, “I don’t know how to say no.”
Chapter Nine
Friday, May 10, 2024 at 10 p.m.
The order finally came.
After 10 days on the spinal floor of Jackson Memorial Hospital, I was moving to Lynn Rehab Center. A bed had finally become available. I was not allowed to walk there. Instead, an orderly arrived to take me by gurney. He packed up our suitcases, my walker and whatever miscellaneous stuff we had accumulated over the past 10 days and at 10 p.m. took us down the elevator to the first floor and wheeled me through the connecting hall into the Lynn. It was beautiful. White walls, modern furniture, very state-of-the-art.
The first floor had an aquatics center.
I was really hoping to be able to use it. I’m a pisces. I love the water. But with the new wound, I was unable to be submerged in water.
Regardless, Leslie and I had been looking forward to this day since we first learned that the plan was for me to have intensive physical and occupational therapy there. It was cause for a celebration. There was a restaurant in Miami that I used to go to all the time when I worked in Public Relations and had many law firm clients in Miami. It was called Perricone’s. It actually had a large tree growing through it. I wasn’t sure exactly how close it was to the Jackson Hospital complex, but thanks to whatever delivery service they used, we were able to order a wonderful meal as we embarked on the next leg of this journey.
My room was on the eighth floor. It was the brain injury floor. There were no rooms available on the spinal neurosurgery floor.
The room had one bed in the center, a big bathroom with a handicapped shower, a large credenza and cabinets. The bed for Leslie was pretty crappy. It was a flat couch with hard cushions. I knew that it wasn’t going to work for him, but we’d have wait to see what we could do for him in the morning.
We settled in and had our dinner. We had a charcuterie board of delicious meats and cheeses. I had lobster ravioli, a perennial favorite, and Leslie had chicken marsala. It was a total joy not to be eating hospital food. The only thing missing was the wine, but given the drugs I was still on, that wouldn’t have been a very safe option. I did try, however.
While we were eating, the night nurse visited us. She informed us that tomorrow I was to learn how to bathe.
“I know how to bathe,” I said. “I’ve been bathing myself for 60 years, including the last five days.”
She seemed unfazed. “They’re going to teach you.”
I paused for a moment, remembering that when I needed help bathing, Leslie helped me. I wouldn’t let a stranger help me bathe then and I wasn’t about to let one help me now. I was perfectly capable of grooming myself. I don’t care if these people see hundreds of naked bodies all year long. Mine was not going to be one of them.
So, true to form, I said, “Over my dead body they will.” Then thought, here we go again. More stupid rules for the lowest common denominator to follow.
Early in the morning on day five I had a breakthrough.
Dr. Tyler Cardinal was the neurosurgeon who assisted Dr. Urakov with my spine surgery. Tyler, as he asked to be called, made rounds very early every morning, before or just at sunrise. The morning after I was cut off from the narcotics, I was depressed. I was hurting. I was frustrated and felt stuck. Mentally, I was in a bad place.
No one really sleeps in the hospital. They bother you all night long, so I was up. It was still dark outside when Tyler walked into my room, carrying his usual backpack. He set it down on the chair and approached my bed. He asked me the same thing every morning.
“How are you today?” he asked.
Usually, I’d describe some progress I made the previous day. This time I answered, “Not good. I am in a lot of pain. It’s constant. I can’t get comfortable because I can’t stop lying where you operated. It hurts and I’m getting really tired of it.”
He thought for a moment and replied “You did just have back surgery. Of course it’s going to hurt.”
I looked at him with disdain. That was not the answer I was looking for. I asked him to do something. Prescribe something. Knock me out. Make me sleep until the pain went away.
He offered nothing but said he would speak with Dr. Urakov.
First off, I knew Head Guy Dr. Green told Dr. Urakov that he had spoken to me about my obnoxious attitude. I knew Dr. Urakov knew not to give me any more drugs that would make me mean. And I knew that Tyler was not the guy in charge. None of this improved my mood.
***
After he left, I spent a lot of time thinking about what he said. I didn’t like it at all. I felt betrayed. The doctors told me my prognosis was for a 100 percent recovery. What they didn’t tell me was how much it was going to hurt until I recovered and how long I had to suffer. That was when the realization hit me. While Leslie was lying next to me uncomfortable in his makeshift bed, there was nothing he could do to make the pain go away. I was in this by myself.
No one was going to help me any more than they already had. I could beg for more pain meds, but I wasn’t going to get them. I could scream and holler at the nurses but that was only going to make matters worse for me. I’d been spoken to already by the man in charge. He was not going to tolerate any more shit from me.
I had a choice to make. The only thing I had any control over was my attitude. My perspective. My way of thinking. I could not bend anyone here to my will. That jig was up. I threw as many fits as they were going to tolerate. It was time for me to come to terms with my predicament and make things better for myself.
I had one objective: get better and get the hell out of there. Even if I had to fake it. It was suck it up time.
I started to think about the progress I had made, enumerating the positives. I no longer had a catheter. I was no longer chained to the bed. I could move about. I had a back brace. I had a walker. I had Leslie. I could shower. I could wear my own clothes. I had the PT ladies every day, teaching me to do things with this brace on. I had a pic-line in my arm, so I didn’t have to get stuck every time they drew blood or gave me a shot.
The choice was clear. I could wallow in my pain, or I could just figure out how to make myself as comfortable as possible until I was discharged.
I started using ice bags on my back. Long, thin, white hospital-grade bags that held one layer of cubes. I laid on it in bed and had some relief. I tied it to the brace and walked around with it.
I asked for melatonin to help me sleep. I asked for Xanax to help keep my anxiety at bay. Then I asked if I could be allowed to go down to the hospital cafeteria for food. All my requests were granted. In fact, it was Tyler who granted those requests.
The pain was still there but my attitude toward it was different.
***
Day five was a big day for Leslie too…
Not only was he seen in the ER two days ago, gotten a legitimate diagnosis from our now-shared neurosurgeon and was fitted for his very own matching back brace. He also had a specific plan of care and a timeline to mend his compression fracture.
After all those days in the hospital, we had sort of settled into a routine. I was able to shower with minimal supervision. The PT ladies took me for a walk. Some days they arrived while I was still drying my hair and gave me pointers on how not to bend the wrong way or twist while doing it.
Each day, Leslie and I put on fresh clothes, our braces and had breakfast together. The nurses were kind enough to have ordered him a tray for every meal. Then we’d go for a walk in the hall.
After a very rough start, yelling and cursing at everyone, I made amends. I apologized to all the nurses I bitched at. Pretty soon after that, they came to enjoy us. I had gotten significantly stronger and was walking pretty well. We still kept the walker with us as a precaution as we buzzed around corners and sped down the hall straight aways.
On this day, we walked the entire hallway multiple times and met new people. Everyone knew our story. We were hard to miss. One of the people we met on that walk was Elena. She was the head nurse for the neurosurgical wing. She was very happy to see me out of bed. She was equally thrilled at how well I was walking. Seeing me in street clothes she remarked that I looked like a visitor rather than a patient. That made me feel very good. Progress! And progress noted from a professional. Elena became a wonderful person to know. She would prove to be instrumental in not only my well-being but Leslie’s as well when the time finally came for him to be taken care of.
In the meantime, she made our comfort and progress her business. She heard how uncomfortable Leslie’s previous hospital bed was with the deflating air mattresses. So, she ordered one of her staff to do some redecorating. That night, a lovely woman came to our room wheeling a real, freshly made hospital bed for Leslie. She moved things out of the way. Set up the room so we could get around and asked if we needed anything more. It was a definite bright spot in our long stay.
Thanks to Elena and her staff, Leslie was finally comfortable. With all the focus on me and my recovery, it was hard to remember that Leslie was hurt too. Thank God his injury was not life threatening, or we’d be in an even worse situation.
It was Cinco de Mayo. A day I usually celebrate with tacos and Margaritas but not this time. Today, the big deal was that I got the first look at my back. The nurse changed the bandages, and Leslie took a photo with my phone. The incision was about 12 inches long. It started at the top of my back about the same height as my shoulders and went down to the middle of my back, centered between my shoulder blades. I had had my share of skinned knees and minor procedures to remove benign skin cancers and blemishes, but this was serious shit.
Everyone who saw it said it “looked beautiful. Very clean.”
To me it looked angry and horrible. The neurosurgeon said the scar would be minimal. I couldn’t imagine that. It was so long. He said the angry red/purple color was the glue they used on the top layer. The stitches were underneath the skin. There were two layers of internal stitches. One that stitched together the muscle and the other that stitched together the lower layers of skin. The glue was the last layer of protection that kept everything intact. The stitches would dissolve, and the glue would eventually wash off when I started showering without the bandage.
An added bonus was that I also had a tube stuck into my left shoulder that connected to a suction cup that drained the blood from the surgery site. It was Frankenstein-creepy the way a tube was stitched into my back. The drain container had to come with me wherever I went. The nurses drained the blood and measured it every day. The more mobile I became, the more I hated that thing. Eventually we named it Urakov, after my neurosurgeon. It was a reminder that despite the inconvenience of having it, it was instrumental in saving my life.
Dr. Urakov would visit every day at different times. I later found out that he did his rounds in between surgeries and teaching. He chatted with me and then looked at the drain. He didn’t even hold it in his hands. He knew what he was looking for from afar. I was always happy to see him even when I wasn’t happy. I saw him as a symbol of hope. Yet as nice as he was and as pleasant as he was to talk to, he was all business. He wouldn’t budge on the pain meds or the time the drain stayed attached to me. Each day, I greeted him hopefully. I held up the drain, asking if it could be detached, and every day he stood at the foot of my bed, arms folded and said, “One more day. It’s not the right color.”
Still, as days in the hospital went, this was a decent day. I was stuck with Urakov (the drain) at least one more day, but I had the catheter out. I had the back brace and the walker. I was able to move around more and getting better at it. The next order of business was to get a shower and wash my hair. I also had to ditch that hospital gown! It made me feel worse than I was. Well, emotionally, anyway.
Throughout my stay, I refused sponge baths. They were too much of an invasion of my privacy. If anyone was going to wipe me down, it would have been Leslie, and I would rather have died than leave him with that memory. I was resigned to be dirty and waited to shower on my own.
Now that I was pseudo-mobile, I decided it was time. I didn’t ask for permission. I refused to be denied. I just asked Leslie to help me get set up. I wore the brace over the gown and used the walker to get to the bathroom. The bathroom was handicapped accessible so there were handrails everywhere. There also was a portable medical shower chair already in the shower.
Leslie had consulted with the nurse to learn how to tape up my back with plastic so the dressing wouldn’t get wet. It was like a 12” x 12” see-through, waterproof plastic sheet that adhered at every side. It felt weird every time I had to get taped up, but nothing was going to spoil my mood. I was taking my first shower in five days!
Leslie had raised two boys, so he hadn’t had any practice washing a woman’s hair. But now was his chance to learn. I will add that by the time I no longer needed his help to shower, he had gotten really good at washing my hair. He could have opened his own salon.
Here’s what my first shower was like. I had the vest on and made my way with the walker into the bathroom. The bathroom was a decent size, but with the rails that guarded the toilet and navigating with the walker, it was a tight squeeze for two people. Every move had to be choreographed. We started in the shower. The shower head was attached to the back wall. We placed the seat toward the front of the shower. The plan was for Leslie to be behind me with the shower head and direct him with it while I cleaned myself. We lined the seat with the pre-soaked Hibiclens wipes so I wouldn’t have to sit directly on the seat. It was like putting toilet paper down before sitting in a public restroom. Gross! We placed the shampoo and conditioner on the rail next to the seat so I could reach it. Now we were ready to begin.
We fit the walker around the sink. We lined the floor with towels so I wouldn’t slip. Slipping was the major fear for both of us. Leslie helped me take off the back brace and balanced it on top of the sink. I took off the gown and happily tossed it underhand onto the floor under the sink. I slowly made my way around the seat to the front of the shower and carefully sat down. Leslie was behind me for support. He took the showerhead off the wall, held it down and turned on the water. He checked the temperature then handed it to me. The warm water was glorious! I soaped up and rinsed. I wet my hair and handed him the shampoo. He washed it and I rinsed.
Leslie had to take care of my hair because I couldn’t reach my arms up very well. It pulled the incision on my back and hurt. The muscles on my back were also very sore. Plus, I had Urakov, the drain, that I had to hold in one hand. The tube wasn’t long enough to lay on the floor and when it slipped it would pull on the stitches, so I only had one hand to wash with. The whole process was very slow and methodical. After I rinsed my hair, I handed Leslie the conditioner. As he massaged it in, I started to feel human again. My first shower took a long time. We took every movement very slowly. We both were deathly afraid of me twisting or bending in any way so every movement was well thought out, discussed and intentional.
Finally, I was clean! My hair was washed. It felt great. And the best part? I put on my own clothes. Fuck that dreadful, ugly, ill-fitting gown with the back ass-side opened. I was almost a whole person again.
We reversed the process of getting into the bathroom to get out. First, I put on clothes, then we fastened the brace and then I stepped into the center of the walker. Leslie picked up the towels on the floor and I steered myself out.
However, I still had to dry my hair. First, we had to find a place to put Urakov, the drain, so at least I could attempt to use both hands. We discovered that it fit tucked into front of the brace. It was secure there. But I still had trouble raising my arms to reach my head to comb my hair and then blow dry it. The first time was clumsy, painful and I didn’t dry it completely. But still, I was clean! That was the main thing. And whatever hardship I had to overcome to be clean I would do it repeatedly every day. Feeling human was an attitude changer.
Now that I was clean and pseudo-mobile, I started sitting in the chair more with the brace of course, my constant companion. At least it was much smaller than the other. It closed at the waist and had front and back support where I needed it. The point of it was to prevent me from the three no-nos of post-spine surgery. No bending, lifting or twisting, also known by the BLT acronym to remember.
That night, Leslie and I had a very civilized dinner. It was hospital food, but it wasn’t awful. We wheeled both stands that hover over the bed face to face and it felt like we were across from each other at a restaurant. We had pasta and meatballs with a garden salad. Not too bad for a post-op day five.
Chapter Five – Friday and Saturday, May 3 & 4, 2024
The second and third days post-op, I only remembered bits and pieces. When I finally slept off the anesthesia, I was in a lot of pain from my mouth and even more from my back. I needed drugs. Better drugs. I wanted to be knocked out, but they wouldn’t give me enough for that. I was mean and nasty to everyone. I hurt so badly; I wanted everyone else to hurt too. I was hungry, but my cheek was so beaten up, I couldn’t eat. Leslie still fed me pieces of graham crackers that I could swallow with water. I also couldn’t quench my thirst. I was so confused as to why I was so thirsty because I had an IV drip that was supposed to be giving me fluids.
I wanted to die. I wanted to be anywhere but there lying in that pain. My back hurt so badly all I wanted to do was stop lying on it, but I couldn’t move. All anyone could do was roll me like a log toward one side or the other, but that relief was fleeting. No one wanted to move me too much.
The day after the surgery, some woman came in holding a walker and woke me. It was light out, but I had no idea if it was morning or afternoon. She introduced herself and said something about being a physical therapist. She had padded the lounge chair on the other side of my bed. She wanted me to get out of bed and use the walker to walk over to sit in the chair.
I thought she was crazy. But I knew medical professionals want you to get moving as soon as possible after surgery. I felt very weak. I needed help sitting up. I was unsteady as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The PT person caged me in with the walker. I put one hand on each side. My arms were like jelly holding on to the walker. Then I remembered I was in that horrible gown. The back was wide open.
“Leslie,” I asked. “Please get behind me and make sure the back of this gown is closed.”
I stood up and he tugged the sides to close the back of the gown. Looking down, I saw those horrible yellow socks with the grippers on my feet. Someone must have put them on me.
I was making quite the fashion statement, standing there inside the walker. I felt like I was 90 years old. I probably looked like it too. There’s a reason there aren’t any mirrors in the room. Like a shiva house after someone passes away. The mirrors are covered so you can’t see how bad you look while you grieve or in this case as you suffer.
Then, I realized my hair was dirty, hanging in my face. I hadn’t washed it since the accident. Since Mexico. I had to stop for a second to calculate the time that had passed. It was four days ago. My hair was greasy, stringy and felt awful. I made a mental note to do something about that as soon as possible. But first I had to be able to walk.
With Leslie behind me making sure I didn’t moon anyone and the therapist at my side, I very slowly made it to the chair and gingerly sat down. It actually felt good to be upright. It felt good not to be putting all that pressure on my back. I was still really groggy and foggy. My mind was mush. I was very slow to put things together. I remember people coming in to see me, remarking how great it was to see me sitting in the chair. I guess I smiled or acknowledged them in some way, but I don’t remember it. I think one of them was Kalen, too. I do remember thinking that as shitty as I felt and looked, it must have been reassuring for him to see me making progress.
I also knew he was going home soon. Back to his normal life and I was happy about that. I felt like having put my spine back together, life could go on. But, based on the pain I felt, I knew it was going to be a very long time till I got to healed.
And I made sure everyone knew it too.
Normally I’m a nice person. I take great pride in being memorable in a good way. Mostly I like to be funny. Make people laugh. But this wasn’t like most situations. This was war. It was me and my pain against the world. My goal was to get as much dope as I could to forget where I was and stop hurting. But they were very stingy with it.
I fought with everyone. I didn’t want to wait a nanosecond longer than I had to for the pain meds I was due. The second it was time, I asked for them. If the nurse was a second late, I was on that room buzzer demanding service or yelling into the corridor. I was horrible. Relentless. Cursing. Yelling. Bitching. I kept saying that the left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing. They gave me a pump to medicate myself every 10 mins. It wasn’t enough. I still felt pain. That’s when I got really nasty.
Then a man came into my room, carrying a big yellow and blue looking thing in a big plastic bag. He said it was my back brace. He unwrapped it, approached me and started fitting me for it. It was big. It went from my neck to my thighs. As he was measuring me, he was telling me that once it was on, I had to wear it 24/7. He said I could not take it off. Not even to shower.
Didn’t he know that was the totally wrong word to use at that particular moment? I had spent the earlier part of the day planning how soon I could bathe and there he was telling me that whenever I could bathe, I had to be further encumbered with that brace!
That was it. I broke.
I started to scream. “Nooooooo. This is not my life. I will not wear that thing. Get it away from me.”
I sobbed. Heavy body shuddering sobs.
I sunk so deeply into myself I feared I’d never make it back to the surface again.
I wanted to die.
I remember thinking of a scene in the movie The Horse Whisperer with a young Scarlet Johanssen and Robert Redford. In a freak accident, Scarlet got crushed by her horse and had her leg amputated. She was mad, angry and afraid just like I was. Redford told her about a native American boy who lost his legs and was confirmed to a wheelchair. He said he checked in on him from time to time, but he was no longer there. He said it was like he had gone somewhere else. Scarlet started to cry and said “I know where he goes.” As I was getting fastened into that yellow and blue brace that was to become an interfering part of my body for the unknown future, I knew where that wheelchair-bound kid went too. I was there.
Tears were steadily streaming down my face. I was wailing, asking anyone in earshot to just let me die. When he didn’t stop fitting me, I shot Leslie a look that in no uncertain terms showed exactly how I felt. I loathed him. I blamed him for doing this to me. It was not the first time I had looked at him like that in the past few days.
He finally looked at me, through my tears, and said “you have to stop giving me the death stare. I feel horrible enough.”
It took me a while to find empathy for him and that certainly wasn’t the time.
Just then Dr. Urakov walked in. He was probably doing rounds when he heard the wailing down the hall. Everyone had to have heard it. People probably thought they were tearing me apart limb by limb instead of locking me into a permanent brace like the Count of Monte Cristo.
“Stop!” he said. “That’s not the brace I ordered for her.”
“What?” I thought jolting myself back from the brink of darkness.
“Take that off,” he ordered. And suddenly I was free again.
“Thank God,” I said out loud, tears streaming down my cheeks. My eyes and face were red from crying.
I looked at Dr. Urakov. In that instant, he saw the deep despair I was feeling. He smiled. “That’s not the brace for you. The one I ordered; you only wear when you are out of bed. You can take it off and shower anytime you are ready.”
I felt such relief. Such gratitude. I was still in pain and dopey, but the deep despair had lessened.
“I can bathe?” I repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “Whenever you are ready.”
“I’m ready,” I said. And began to daydream about my first shower in days.
While I was in my reverie, the doctor explained to the brace guy which make and model back brace he had ordered. The man left and came back a little while later with the correct one. The one I wore religiously for 10 weeks after leaving the hospital. I did not have to wear it in bed. Only when I was out of bed. It was a huge pain in the ass to put on every time I got out of bed, including every time I had to pee. Especially in the middle of night. But true to his word Leslie helped. He got up every time I needed to use the bathroom and strapped me into that brace. Slowly, I started to find a way to forgive him for what he had done to me. I stopped giving him the death stare. At one point later on, I found the empathy I needed to forgive him completely.
While the neurosurgeon was still there, Leslie spoke to him about his problem. His L1 compression fracture needed attention. He was still in a lot of pain. The doctor arranged for Leslie to be seen in the ER that afternoon. He got an X-ray that confirmed the Mexico diagnosis, and he was issued a back brace too. The same one I had to wear.
As my strength improved, I was able to walk for longer periods of time still using the walker. I would walk with the physical therapist in the morning and then walk with Leslie in the afternoon. I was able to walk from one end of the hall to the other, which took us past the nurses’ station. They would remark how cute we were in our matching back braces. Word got around and people would stop by our room to comment on my recovery and check in on Leslie. We became the talk of the floor.
***
Nights were generally bad. There was nothing to do but lay in bed directly on my pain and count the hours till I could have more pain meds. Yes, I had the pain med pump that would allow me to click it every 10 minutes, but it wasn’t enough. Remember how I said I equated this to war? It was! Me and my pain against anyone who stood in the way of my getting relief. And that was exactly when I got really nasty. I was so nasty; the nurses couldn’t wait to get out of my room.
Just then, Leslie’s phone rang. It surprised both of us. It was a Facetime call from the director who had met me upon arrival. Dr. Green was the man who had the Trauma Center on call, awaiting my arrival. The same man who arranged for my emergency neurosurgery and the amazing neurosurgeon. But that’s not all he was. He was the Chairman of the Department of Neurological Surgery at Miami Miller School of Medicine at Jackson Memorial. He was the head guy.
He told Leslie that he had gotten three calls that evening from my nurses. They complained that I was obnoxious and mean. He told him he thought it was the narcotic drugs I was on that were making me that way and he wanted to stop some. I didn’t want that. I wanted more drugs. It turned out that the call was just a formality. He had already discontinued the narcotic that he thought was making me aggressive.
The doctor asked to speak with me. Leslie handed me the phone. The head of this prestigious department had called us on Facetime to tell me to stop verbally abusing his staff. He told me there was no reason not to be civil. He said he had changed my pain meds and wasn’t expecting to get any more calls. He wished me a good night and hung up. I was not happy. I was embarrassed. But I was still in a lot of pain and now I was fucked. What could I do? I felt defeated and quietly cried.
At 8 a.m., I awoke to find that my older son Kalen had arrived from Tallahassee. He took a 6 a.m. flight to Miami and then got an Uber from the airport to the hospital. Kalen and Leslie apparently had coordinated this. I knew Kalen was coming but I didn’t remember when. Leslie knew. They had already made the plans. Leslie was going to give Kalen his car so he could stay at our house for the few days while Leslie stayed with me.
Kalen and Corey are nine years and five days apart. I already noted that Corey was in college. Kalen was a lawyer in Tallahassee. The hardest calls I had to make when I found out just how hurt I really was to them. Both handled the call well I thought. Though I later found out that Corey was terrified of losing me. The idea still haunts him to this day. He and I are very close. He is studying to be a writer, so we have a lot in common.
Kalen on the other hand was born to be a lawyer. I knew when he was four years old that was his career path. He had unusually well-developed negotiating skills even at that age. He knew how to deliver a cogent argument when he thought he was wronged. Some 30 years later, he loves what he does and that makes me very happy.
Kalen is now very happy about my relationship with Leslie. He thinks Leslie is very good for me. He is notorious for reminding me to “Be nice to Leslie.” Or “Don’t be yourself. Think about Leslie.” Kalen thinks Leslie is the “normal” one, which by default makes me the crazy one. Over the years, that has changed somewhat. He has softened his critique of me a bit. While I loved seeing him from my hospital bed, I also hated myself for being in the situation that made him come for this little visit in the first place. Under his professional analytical exterior, I knew he was worried sick, and that it was my fault.
***
One of the strange things about being in the hospital is the total lack of privacy. Aside from the nurses, administrators and doctors who just walk in, we had an unexpected visit from the hospital rabbi. He must get notified when a Jew is going in for surgery or something because he just appeared. We did not request a visit, though I could be wrong about that. I do remember something about a clergy visit and thought even if it would be a priest, it probably couldn’t hurt.
The rabbi was a not a tall man. He was wearing a beige corduroy sport jacket and kippah. (The small head covering that most male Jews wear mainly in synagogue to cover their head in deference to God.) My first thought upon him entering my room was that the jacket he was wearing seemed out of season. It was hot in Miami in May. Why was he wearing a jacket? But that thought quickly vanished. He introduced himself. He told me he came to offer a prayer for a successful surgery and speedy recovery. Then he saw Kalen sitting in the chair. Kalen stood to shake his hand, towering over him. The rabbi suddenly looked thrilled. He started taking something out of a small case. As he did that, he explained that during weekday morning prayers, observant Jewish men wear tefillin. They are small black leather boxes with scrolls of parchment inscribed with verses from the Torah.
Realizing what was happening, Kalen laughed and said, “Mom, only under this specific circumstance will I do this for you.”
Kalen stood still while the rabbi wrapped his arm in a black leather strap and placed the tefillin box on his forehead. Clearly uncomfortable, thinking most of religious or spiritual practices are “voodoo,” Kalen and the rabbi recited the prayer for me at the foot of my hospital bed. It was probably the kindest, most selfless gesture Kalen had ever made for me. I was not allowed to take a photo. He would never want any to see what he’d done. But at that moment, I understood just how deep his love for me was. It was one of the most memorable moments of my unfortunate stay and one of the silver linings I had mentioned earlier.
After the tefillin, the neurosurgeon Dr. Urakov came by. I introduced him to Kalen. He reiterated what to expect for the surgery. He said that they would take me down around 3 p.m. It would take about four hours. The first two hours, he said, he would reconstruct my T4 vertebrae and attach it to my spine with screws and rods. After that he would clean out the shrapnel that lodged in my spinal column.
“Anytime I have to work near the spinal cord, time stops,” he said. “That part takes as long as it takes.”
The very words “operating near the spinal cord” sent a chill down my spine. Once again, I couldn’t believe all this was happening to me. Kalen and I exchanged a very serious look. Trying to lighten the mood as Dr. Urakov started to leave I pointed to Kalen jokingly and said, “He’s a lawyer. Be careful.” He laughed, shrugging it off and said, “I’m not worried.” I felt like a schmuck.
***
I didn’t know what time it was. I didn’t know the time most of the time I was there. All I knew was how long it was until I was due for my drugs, especially the morphine.
I wasn’t happy that my surgery was scheduled so late. Under normal circumstances, I’d be pissed that I wasn’t the first surgery of the day. I hate waiting…for anything. I firmly believe I was born without a patience gene. I don’t like waiting for anything, especially for unpleasant things like medical procedures because I conjure up worst-case scenarios in my head. In Yiddish it’s called “dreying.” It means mulling something over and over in one’s mind until it makes you more worried than you should be. For me it makes me anxious. And then I get nasty.
Except this time, there wasn’t enough time for me to drey. Things happened so fast. I didn’t even realize I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything before the surgery. And I really had no idea what was going to be done to me. All I knew was that it was really serious. Life threatening. I did not have the luxury of putting it off. I was also on a lot of drugs. As I look back, I think the best way to describe my mood was resigned. I wasn’t flipping out. I wasn’t really even scared. I knew I had no choice. Without the drugs I was in unbearable pain and in that IV was Xanax, my second-best friend next to morphine.
***
Leslie had stayed with me overnight at the hospital. He slept in a reclining chair. It was very uncomfortable. Remember, Leslie was injured in the boating accident too, only he didn’t have a chance to get any help for himself. He was too busy getting us home and then dealing with me. Leslie wasn’t with us in the room when the doctor visited. I don’t remember where he went, but Kalen was with me and there was plenty of time before they came to get me for the surgery.
Or so I thought.
Leslie returned to the room around 11:30 a.m. At noon, the assisting neurosurgeon Dr. Tyler Cardenal came to get me. He said the surgery before mine had ended earlier than anticipated and they could take me now. Strangely, I didn’t feel freaked out. I was told to give Kalen my jewelry. Leslie followed me to the Pre-op. I don’t really remember him there, so much was going on. But if I think hard, I am able to recall images and flashes of him and things that he said.
Let me stop for a minute to say that I abhor all of this. I hate being a patient. I hate hospitals. I hate being poked, prodded, or anyone telling me what to do. I hate being naked under an ugly hospital gown. I hate the catheter and the IV. I despise large institutions and bureaucracies. I am convinced that the rules large institutions use were designed to cater to the lowest common denominator. Those rules exist for people who do not think for themselves or do their research. I do, so therefore those rules do not apply to me. I need specifics. Facts that apply to my specific situation. I question generalities. I must know why a rule or regulation is needed before I consider complying.
For example, when procedures require fasting, institutions state rules that there is no food or water after midnight before your procedure. That does not take into account the time of one’s procedure. Someone with a 7 a.m. procedure would have fasted for 7 hours and someone with a 3 p.m. procedure would have to fast for 15 hours. That makes no sense to me. That’s why I have to know exactly how many hours I need to fast based upon the time of my procedure.
Even in my extreme, no-choice situation, I felt no different. My bullshit antenna was up and on high alert. Fortunately, I was coming to this surgery from a hospital room. I was a patient admitted to the hospital the night before from the Trauma Center. I was doped and drugged throughout the entire pre-op stage, so everything had already been done. I guess they didn’t feed me that morning, but I really don’t remember.
The formality now was to meet the operating team and the anesthesiologist. I remember meeting him and Leslie said that he had done business with the guy; that he wasn’t very nice. Not a great foreboding for what was to come. But I didn’t think too much about it at the time. I had passed the point of no return. He said I had to be intubated. I sort of knew what that meant. I really didn’t want to know too much more. And thank God, I was really drugged. I had the IV. I had anti-anxiety meds. I had pain meds, and I was about to get even more. Plus, after the surgery, I was going to be out of pain. Or…so I was led to believe. My recovery was 100% guaranteed. Anything I could do before the accident; I was going to be able to do after the surgery. That was really good news, but what they didn’t tell me was that there was a lot of time between those two things and much, much more pain to get me through to that alleged 100% recovery.
I don’t remember saying good-bye to Leslie, but I knew I wanted him to be the first person I saw when I woke up.
***
“Leslie?” I managed to croak out loud the second I was alert enough to realize where I was. The surgery was over. I was in the recovery room. And I was alone. I was seriously doped up, but I knew enough that I did not want to be where I was. At that very instant, I panicked. My fight or flight response kicked in and I wanted out.
“Leslie,” I said louder this time with more urgency.
No one answered.
“LESLIE! I screamed. “Where are you?”
I don’t remember who came in, but it wasn’t Leslie.
“Where the fuck is Leslie?” I demanded to know.
No one could tell me anything.
The longer it took for me to get answers, the wilder and more agitated I became.
The memory of Leslie leaving me on the tarmac in the ambulance at Fort Lauderdale Airport came flooding back. Had it only been the day before? I had no sense of time. All I knew was that I was alone, afraid and Leslie was nowhere to be found…again.
I became belligerent. I demanded to know where my family was?
After what seemed like a few minutes of screaming, but was probably only seconds, a woman approached me and said that my family had gone for dinner.
“Dinner?” I screamed at her. “They went to dinner? Now?”
I was incensed.
“What the fuck is wrong with them?” I continued loud enough for everyone in the recovery room to hear me.
And then I realized that the inside of my mouth was raw.
“What is wrong with my mouth?” I asked no one in particular. “My cheek is ripped to shreds.”
No one answered me.
Then, all of a sudden, a bunch of people came over to me. They told me where I was, which I had already assumed. They told me that the surgery went well and at what time it ended. They told me how long I had been in recovery and asked me how I felt.
“Well,” I said. “The inside of my mouth is torn to shreds.”
“That’s the anesthesiologist,” someone said matter of factly like that was supposed to make it feel any better.
“And where is my family? They are supposed to be here!”
I had no idea what “that’s the anesthesiologist” meant. But I had no more strength left to pursue this line of questioning. I had exhausted myself. That’s when the orderly came to wheel me away. I was drugged. The inside of my cheek was ripped to shreds and it hurt to talk. I guess I dosed off.
I woke up when I was wheeled into my room.
“Where the fuck were you?” I demanded the second I saw Leslie. “I was down there the whole time screaming for you. You left me again! How could you do that a second time! How am I supposed to trust you? They said you went out for dinner!!!”
I knew that saying “you left me again” would hurt him. I was angry. I was afraid. My mouth hurt and I was tired. I knew he felt very bad for leaving me in the ambulance when we got off the plane in Fort Lauderdale. I knew he was second guessing that decision now even if he couldn’t think straight at the time.
But I didn’t care.
I was terrified and he was going to pay.
“I’ve been here the whole time,” he said. Kalen and Corey were here too. “We were waiting for them to call us to come down to you. They never called.”
“Well, who the fuck was responsible for that fuck up?” I spat out to no one in particular. I was livid. My mouth hurt badly, and I was really tired.
“I’m sorry,” he said so earnestly, taking my hand, stroking my face and looking into my eyes.
I managed to slur “My mouth hurts. They scraped the shit out of the inside of my right cheek. It hurts to talk. And I’m really thirsty.”
I was so tired, still under the effects of the anesthesia. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. But I knew I was no longer alone. Leslie was there. He would take care of me.
I was kind of propped up in the hospital bed. But I couldn’t sit up or move. Leslie put some water in a Styrofoam cup, bent down and held it near my left cheek with a bendable straw so I could get a sip of cold water. I drank some and swished some more around my mouth to ease the pain in my cheek. It didn’t work. It hurt like crazy.
Then I realized I was hungry. How long had it been since I’d eaten? I had no idea. But I couldn’t eat because the inside of my mouth was raw.
Leslie opened a package of small bear graham crackers from somewhere, broke them into small pieces and fed them to me in between sips of cold water. I dozed off again. I don’t remember much else. I was uncomfortable. Pain was everywhere, even in my delirium. But the worst was over.
Around midnight, we got the word that the plane had departed Fort Lauderdale International Airport for Cozumel. The ambulance arrived to get me. The paramedics came to my room to move me from the bed to the gurney for the drive. Fortunately, I was still hooked up to the IV, so I had constant pain meds running through my veins. I was not exactly sure what they gave me in Mexico, but most of the time I was not in extreme pain.
At the airport, one of the most incredible things happened. A small, eight-passenger plane was waiting for us on the tarmac. The team introduced themselves to us very briefly and then huddled to discuss how best to get me out of the ambulance and into the small jet. They decided to roll me from side to side to side on the gurney to slide a “sling” underneath me. It was like a heavy-duty, rounded parachute that had handles. Once inside the sling, it was like a cocoon. Each man held a pair of handles. They slowly slid me off the gurney. I was terrified they were going to drop me or let my back touch the ground. That would have been excruciating or worse…paralyzing. I kept telling them to be careful from inside the cocoon, but my voice was so muffled from all the fabric I was surrounded by that they couldn’t hear me.
The thing about pain is it’s multifaceted. There was the pain you feel when something happened and the pain you anticipate. The pain itself is horrible, but the pain that was anticipated was relentless. It never let up. I was always on guard.
Fortunately, these guys had done this before. They were methodical and careful. They talked to each other the entire time directing their efforts for my benefit and dare I say comfort. They walked me toward the entrance to the plane and very carefully guided me hand-over-hand through the small door and up the stairs into the plane. They gently curved the sling to fit in the narrow aisle and lowered me onto a stretcher that covered several seats, my feet toward the back of the plane. I was essentially flying backwards. One man hung my IV from the overhead luggage rack with a wooden hanger and the catheter onto the stretcher below me. Leslie came in and sat down.
I was soon to learn their whole story. This was a volunteer organization called Hatzalah. It was a Jewish volunteer emergency medical service run on donations. They rescued people all over the world who had spinal injuries. Their website said, “They get the right people with the right training to where you are in the fastest possible time.”[1]
The first man I met was Simi. He was a NYC firefighter who survived 9/11. He spent 15 years overcoming survivors’ guilt and now dedicated his time to saving people like me. Captain Jamie was an anesthesiologist. He oversaw my pain management. The pilot was retired Israeli military. And Itzy was a jeweler from Brooklyn. Not totally sure what he did. I spent most of my time with Simi and kept a very close eye on Captain Jamie with the drugs. After a few Q&A rounds about my medical history, Jamie started the morphine, and we took off. Once in the air, Jamie reassessed me. Based upon my injury, he knew I was in a lot of pain. He recommended Ketamine. I’d never even heard of it, but Leslie seemed to know all about it. He said it was powerful. I said, “Bring it on!”
Immediately after the first dose, I saw a brilliant array of colors. I felt happy and started telling funny stories, making things up about Simi and Captain Jamie being comics in the Borscht Belt of the Catskills. I had a whole routine. Then it started wearing off and I was back, lying on a stretcher on a private jet being flown from Cozumel to Florida because I had crushed a vertebra in my spine and could be paralyzed with any wrong movement.
So, I asked for more Ketamine, over and over again. Captain Jamie would only send me tripping periodically throughout the flight. But each time, I loved it and didn’t want it to end. I got funnier with each dose and was the star of my own comedy show. I had the final dose in time for the landing. After two hours in the air, we finally landed in Fort Lauderdale. But I still had to get to Miami to the Ryder Trauma Center at Jackson Memorial Hospital.
Again, an ambulance was waiting for me on the tarmac. I hadn’t realized it, but the sling was still underneath me. The men again pulled up the sides, grabbed hold of the handles and slowly navigated the narrow space in the aisle, the door and stairs to get me off the plane. At this point, I was so drugged up, I could hardly keep a thought in my head, except one. If they dropped me or dragged me on the ground, I was going to die. Thank God they didn’t. Instead, they gently placed me down on a very hard metal surface. Rolled me from side to side to get the sling loose while the Miami paramedic laced me up into this very uncomfortable, gurney-like thing.
Then chaos ensued.
While the volunteer airplane men said their goodbyes, told me how funny I was and that they would always remember me, I was starting to really hurt again. This thing they laid me upon was horrible. It was hard and unyielding. I needed Leslie. But the paramedic told me he had to go inside with our passports to get cleared to re-enter the U.S. My sister was there. I thanked her for coming to my rescue and asked her to find Leslie and get my little suitcase that he had packed for this exact situation.
Leslie’s son, who lived with us, had driven an hour to meet us at the airport at 2 a.m. so that he could take our other suitcases home while we went on to the hospital by ambulance. My assumption was that Leslie would handle the passports, hand off the luggage and meet me in the ambulance.
Not so.
After much noise outside the ambulance that was still sitting on the tarmac, it turned out that the airplane volunteers talked Leslie into going home with his son and our luggage. He did not come back to tell me. He did not kiss me goodbye, he simply left.
I was shattered.
I was more than just strapped to the gurney; I was laced onto it. I could not move my arms, legs or head. I was screaming at the top of my lungs.
“Leslie!”
“Leslie! Where the fuck are you?”
“I can’t fucking move. And my back hurts!”
“Leslie!”
I was beside myself, screaming in full panic mode and even worse, trying to move to get out of the contraption I was in.
The female paramedic sat on the bench seat next to me in the ambulance, trying to calm me down. She told me that Leslie had gone home to sleep. She said that he could barely even stand, so they all advised him not to get into the ambulance and instead go home to get some sleep.
I was furious. I was hurt. I was scared. And I was helpless.
Then it sunk in. He had abandoned me!
I had a broken spine. I was strapped to a gurney in an ambulance going to a hospital to have more pain inflicted on me. I was terrified. I was alone and Leslie had left me in this condition to fend for myself. I was crushed; devastated.
“I need drugs,” I said out of desperation to no one in particular. “Where’s my pocketbook?”
Outside the ambulance door behind my head where I couldn’t see, I heard my sister.
“I have your pocketbook, your suitcase and your passport,” she said.
“Where’s Leslie?” I asked, hoping beyond hope that he hadn’t left me this way.
“They made him go home,” she said.
“What the fuck is wrong with them,” I started again. “How could he just leave me this way? He spent the entire fucking day packing and unpacking, further hurting his back. He refused to sleep and now that he was so exhausted, he left me? To sleep! WTF kind of bullshit was that?” I cried.
“Give me my pocketbook,” I ordered.
“No,” she said.
“Give me my fucking bag!”
“He said not to give it to you,” she said. “He’s afraid you will take more Xanax.”
“He’s afraid!” I screamed. “He’s fucking afraid? Who the fuck is he to be afraid, Sleeping Beauty? I’m fucking afraid. My spine is crushed. I’m in pain, I’m freaked out that all the plans we discussed when we landed, he just threw out the window and left me to fend for myself, lying here completely helpless. Give me my fucking bag!”
She hesitated for one second to look at the paramedic at the same time as I managed to jerk what was left in the bottle of water I had in my hand and doused her with it. “Give me the fucking bag.”
Dripping from the water, she placed my pocketbook on me. I tried to get into it through the straps of the gurney but couldn’t, so I asked the paramedic to help me. Miraculously, she did.
I generally keep Xanax with me when I travel, in case I have trouble sleeping. I usually only take a piece of a .25 mg tablet to help me fall asleep. When I’m under extreme stress, I take a half. This time, I popped the whole damn thing into my mouth and swallowed it with the drop of water I had left in the bottle. Within minutes I had calmed down from hysterical to just terrified and pissed.
***
We drove south to Miami via I-95. After an hour or so of trying to find a position that wasn’t excruciatingly painful, we finally arrived. It was 3 a.m.
I was expected. The head of neurosurgery and his assistant were there to greet me. I thanked them profusely as I was rushed into the Ryder Trauma Center where even more indignities occurred. They wanted to cut my clothes off. I refused. I wiggled out of them and was covered with an ugly hospital gown.
“Hospital rules,” the trauma nurse on my right said.
Meanwhile, on my left another nurse was drilling into my forearm trying to start another IV.
“Ooooouch!” I shouted.
“Didn’t get it,” she said. She tried again and I screamed.
“What the fuck are you doing to me?” I yelled.
“I can’t find a vein,” she said.
“Well stop trying!” I demanded. “You are hurting me. Can’t you see how black and blue I am from the IVs in Mexico?”
She tried one more time. I exploded
“Get her the fuck away from me!” I commanded. “She obviously has no idea what she is doing!”
While all this was happening with my left arm, someone was trying to put a neck brace on me. Someone else was hooking my legs up to things. A third nurse came in, took my right hand where there still was an IV in place from Mexico and announced that he had found a good vein underneath all the bruising.
I was desperate for more Xanax. But my sister had my pocketbook. Thinking of how she refused to give it to me the last time got my heart racing again. My blood pressure was already astronomically high and rising. All I wanted was to be put out of my misery. I didn’t care how they would do it. Just that they fucking would.
The first nurse came back and spoke right into my right ear. Very calmly, she said, “You are badly injured. You have to stop moving or you are going to make matters worse. You need to wear this neck brace.”
I said, “I am in a lot of pain, and I am terrified. Until you give me something to knock me out, I cannot cooperate with you. My back hurt very badly and that idiot on my left stabbed me with what felt like a hammer and chisel three times in the same forearm with no result. I cannot take any more pain and that includes wearing the neck brace!”
The next thing I remembered was being in the Stanley Kubrick movie A Clockwork Orange. I had toothpicks holding my eyes open. My sister was standing next to me with wild grey hair and dark black circles around her eyes. I was strapped into some kind of metal hooped skirt that I kept pulling at while someone in the background kept telling me to “stop moving.”
The rest was a blur. I later read in the Trauma notes that the nurse did take pity on me and administered a push of Ativan in my IV to calm me down. That’s when they sent me for all sorts of tests. I had blood work done, X-rays of my chest and abdomen, CT scans of my entire body, including a scan of my brain and my legs, specifically to rule out blood clots because I had flown. I was aware of none of this. Hours later, the report stated, I went for an MRI. They scanned my brain, face, neck, cervical spine, chest, abdomen, pelvis, thoracic and lumbar spine, and liver. All of the MRI scans confirmed what the CT scans had said. I had a T4 compression fracture with retropulsion. In my delusion, the MRI I was in was the metal hooped skirt I thought I was wearing in the dream I had being in A Clockwork Orange.
I also learned that while I was waiting to be taken for the MRI, I was left in the hospital hallway for about two hours. The notes said that I was asleep and snoring. Before the MRI, they gave me an IV push of Xanax and Fentanyl to help with my late-onset claustrophobia. No wonder I had thought I was in a movie. I had no idea where I was or what was even happening to me. It is truly terrifying to think back on this. I was in a hospital hallway, alone, with a neck collar restraining my movement, unable to move due to extreme back pain in a semi-reclining position on a gurney, drugged out of my mind.
Around 1 p.m. I woke up in a hospital room. My sister and Leslie were there.
“Nice of you to show up,” I slurred and sneered at Leslie.
He looked like shit, but I didn’t care. He left me and I would never forget that.
There were all kinds of things going on, many of which I couldn’t track. I was exhausted and very drugged, which was a good thing.
They told me I met the neurosurgeon, but I don’t remember. He explained what the MRI found and what had to be done. I couldn’t even remember his name even though it was written on the white board right in front of me.
What I do remember, mostly because I have a photo of it, was my ex-husband Alan brought my younger son Corey to see me. He had just finished his spring semester of college. I had them bring me sushi. I wanted sake but they said no. They left around 10 p.m.
Leslie had been on the phone with my sister Stacey all night, hatching a plan to get me back to the States. Ironically, we took this cruise specifically because we did not want the hassle of having to fly anywhere. Flying used to be fun. Glamourous even. Not anymore. Now it’s awful, cramped, unfriendly and a big fat pain in the ass. So, we chose this cruise even though I had been to three of the four ports and Mexico many times, starting when I was 16 with my Spanish class. But it was an easy drive to Port Everglades from our house to board the ship.
We called our families as soon as we realized just how badly I was hurt and how royally we were screwed. All of our kids were shocked, scared and worried. We promised to update them as soon as we knew something. That’s when my sister sprung into action. In my dedication, I mentioned that my sister knows a lot of people. She has always had a lot of friends. Lifelong friends. Friends in every industry she had ever worked. Friends in high places who know others in high places who get things done with just a phone call. She also had an incredible soft spot in her heart for nonprofit organizations. All of her work almost always involved a benefit and/or donations to one charity or another. I can say for certain that this was the one and only time that she ever called in every one of her favors.
It took her 31 consecutive hours. She arranged a private plane to pick me up at Cozumel International Airport to fly me to Fort Lauderdale International Airport where an ambulance waited to drive me to Miami to the Ryder Trauma Center at Jackson Memorial Hospital for emergency spinal surgery with world renowned neurosurgeon Dr. Timur Urakov.
Poof! Mind blown.
Meanwhile Leslie was the liaison with the Cozumel hospital, the plane and Jackson Memorial, coordinating everything having to do with medical records, scans, and the ambulance to take me from the hospital to the airport in Cozumel. He paid all the bills, secured payment for the private plane, dealt with the passports, the Mexican government and schlepped the suitcases. I watched and listened to each new development. I was in awe of what both she and he had done. Grateful, blessed and very angry. I was seriously injured, tethered to the bed. I was paralyzed with fear of paralysis and pissed off that this had happened to me. Meanwhile Leslie still had a compression fracture in his spine that was going untreated because I needed so much care and his full attention.
While we waited to hear about the flight out, Leslie attended to the suitcases. In their haste, the cabin stewards just threw all our belongings into the suitcases. No folding. No order. It looked like they just wanted to get us out of there as fast as possible. So, Leslie started organizing the contents. Knowing I was going to the hospital in Miami, he packed one of the small bags for me to take with me. Then he arranged for his son to meet us in Fort Lauderdale to take the rest of the bags home. He packed and rearranged for hours. Bending and lifting the heavy bags till his back was screaming for him to stop.
The plane and volunteer staff were ready to come for me in the afternoon, but the Mexican government was holding up the plans. It took them six hours to finally give us the go-ahead to be released.
While we are waiting for clearance, I decide that I will be damned if I was going to leave the hospital naked in an ugly hospital gown to be somehow carried onto a plane with my ass hanging out the back of a gown. I asked Leslie to fish out some comfortable clothes. He refused. I started cursing at him. Every negative emotion I had, terror, fear, frustration, I unleased on him at that moment. Neither of us had much sleep. We were both in pain. Mine being treated with morphine. His untouched. Afraid of the known and unknown that I started to cry again. He finally acquiesced, but he was extremely alarmed that changing into clothes was going to further compromise my already dicey spine. As I started to dress, I realized I couldn’t do this alone. We had to thread the IV through my camisole and shirt. And then thread the catheter through the leg of my yoga pants. I begged him for help. He finally gave in, all the while protesting that I could hurt myself worse with this vanity. After we finally got it done, all there was to do was wait for the ambulance to arrive. At least I was presentable whenever the paramedics decided to arrive.
One important footnote here. Leslie refused to try to sleep. He even refused to rest. After several hours, he finally stopped packing and re-organizing suitcases, but he was exhausted. And, of course, still injured. Our entire world was truly on his shoulders. Our existence, 100 percent his responsibility. He was constantly stressed, worried and even when he would unintentionally doze off, someone needed his attention.
Our Western Caribbean Cruise getaway proved to be a trip we’d never forget…
And not in a good way.
We left the ship early for a half-day shore excursion. The morning was overcast but it was not raining. It was a relief that the sun wasn’t beating down on us. We were going off-roading in a Polaris 4×4 then motorboating in a 14-foot, two-seater, 30-horsepower outboard engine followed by an authentic Mexican lunch on the beach in Cozumel.
We didn’t make it to lunch.
There were 18 of us on this shore excursion. All couples. The tour started with off-roading. Two couples were assigned to one Polaris. Halfway through the ride, off road, we swapped spots and took pictures. We went from being passengers in the back to a driver and navigator in the front. Off roading ended at a beach club where we were to go motorboating. I texted the off-roading photos to our friends Bo and Suzanne. I captioned them that we were “channeling Bo” by off roading on this trip. Bo drives his Jeep off roading in Mississippi whenever he can and has shared his muddied photos with us. We had never been off roading before, and we were so proud of ourselves for doing it.
At the beach club, the tour guides sat us down to watch a short video on how to use the throttle on our motorboat. Then we were assigned to a boat. Somehow, we ended up in the lead boat behind the tour guide. All the other boats were behind us, following in a line. The boat was small, only 14 feet. It was orange and white with a wooden bench seat. The bench was so low that we couldn’t tuck our legs under us. The bow of the boat narrowed to a point like a woman’s high-heeled stiletto. It wasn’t very comfortable. The only way to sit at all was to stretch our legs out in front of us and sit kind of sideways, angling our hips toward the center of the boat. The steering wheel and throttle were on the right side. My husband drove. I was a passenger on the left. There were two rope handles: one in front of me and one to my left.
The water was calm, but the ocean was crowded. There were two big 25-plus-passenger party boats speeding around in deeper water about 50 yards offshore. They turned the calm water rough, leaving big wakes as they passed by. We bobbed up and down as the waves rolled toward shore, waiting for our tour guide to give us the sign to throttle forward.
When we got the sign, my husband pushed the throttle forward and we started to speed up. At the exact same time the packed party speedboat’s wake hit us.
Our little boat hit the wave head on. It flew up in the air and crashed down hard on the water. We both heard a crack… It was my back.
“Are you ok?” he asked and stopped the boat.
“No. I can’t sit up,” I said. “Did you hear that crack?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I think something broke,” I said, my breath ragged. “Get me to a hospital,”
“Can you move your arms and legs?’ he asked. That was the first of many times I would be asked that question.
“Yes.” I said.
“Ok,” he said. “We’re going back.”
Leslie waved frantically to the tour guide ahead. I couldn’t straighten up. I sat hunched over on that bench with my head tilted down. I was trying to make sense of what had just happened to us. And figure out what was going to happen next.
I knew I was hurt. It was the kind of hurt you instinctively know could be life changing. I just kept holding onto the thought that I could still feel both my arms and legs. I could wiggle my fingers and toes. All I wanted to do was go back to the ship into that idyllic stateroom and order room service for the rest of the cruise.
My husband’s back hurt too. But he seemed to be able to move. One of the guides idled over to our boat and tied a rope to our boat while my husband continued to steer as they towed us back to shore.
It seemed like it took an eternity. All I could do was listen to the hum of the engine as we slowly made our way back to shore. I had to keep my head down. It hurt to lift it up. When we got to the shore, I was told that I had to get myself out of the little boat and walk up the beach on my own. I had no idea how to do that. Should I even be moving? Will I hurt myself even more?
It quickly became abundantly clear that no one was going to get me out of the boat. I was frozen. Afraid to move. Terrified that I would hear a snap and crumble to the ground, paralyzed, losing the feeling in my limbs. Slowly, gingerly and very painfully, I hoisted myself up with my arms off the bench seat and slid onto the top of the back of the boat. I had to slowly swing my legs around over the side of the boat and slide down into shallow water. Then I had to walk up the sandy hilly shore toward the beach club. To this day, I have no idea how I did that. But I did it. As I got to the entrance to the beach club, someone brought out a white plastic chair for me to sit on while they called an ambulance.
Thirty minutes later, three paramedics introduced themselves. They apologized for their poor English as I tried in my very rusty Spanish to explain what had happened and where I was hurt. They placed a gurney at my feet.
We all agreed I needed to get to the hospital, but how was I going to get out of this flimsy chair and onto the gurney? Again, not knowing exactly what we heard crack or how bad it was, I feared any kind of big movement would do more damage to myself. The chance of being paralyzed never left my mind. My heart raced while the pain in my back was excruciating. I didn’t want anyone to help me for fear that they’d jerk me somehow. I took a deep breath and pushed myself out of the flimsy chair, again using my arms. Standing hunched over, I steadied myself. Then slowly turned toward the gurney, shuffling my feet in the sand. I lowered myself into a sitting position on the gurney and the paramedic adjusted my legs.
Throughout this entire experience, the terror I felt would be expressed in varying emotions. There I was on a gurney in the sand on the beach in Cozumel. I was supposed to be enjoying myself on vacation at a Mexican beach club luncheon. Instead, I was on a gurney, trying to figure out how they were going to get me to the ambulance parked outside the beach club. Every little bump hurt! So, how did they do it? Seven men lifted me and the heavy metal gurney onto their shoulders like the Queen of Sheba and walked up the beach to where the ambulance waited. I am pretty sure that’s not a sight one usually sees on the seashore. I thought it was really funny and started laughing. But that hurt too. Then they put the gurney down on the asphalt to slide me into the ambulance. I screamed in pain.
Once I was in the ambulance, the paramedic told me she could give me something for the pain. About time! But to reach my upper arm, she had to cut the sleeve of the white swim shirt I was wearing that protected me from the sun. She had no idea how much time I spent trying to find that swim shirt, in the right color and size to fit under my bathing suit. I even had it tailored because the sleeves were too long. At that point, it didn’t even matter. Nothing mattered except to stop the excruciating pain I was feeling. Not to mention the growing anxiety I had, knowing I was headed to a Mexican hospital for emergency care.
Even after the shot of Toradol the medic gave me, every bump the ambulance hit was painful.
“Despacio!” Rita, the female paramedic, would shout every time she saw me wince.
The ride probably took 15 minutes. The meds kicked in quickly and I was more comfortable than I had been. That is until they had to move me from the ambulance into the hospital and change gurneys. I screamed. They gave me another shot in the arm that they called Mexican morphine. They said it was not the same as American morphine, but I never understood the difference. All I knew was that it worked.
After that shot, and still in the emergency room, I had a chance to settle down and found a relatively comfortable way to be still. It was the equivalent of lounging on a chaise though obviously not by any hotel pool.
The doctor saw us quickly and ordered X-rays. Mine was first. Still feeling the effects of the shot, the X-ray wasn’t terribly painful. They didn’t have to move me much. But the doctor didn’t like what he saw, so, he ordered a CT scan. By that time, the pain meds were wearing off. When they moved me from the gurney onto the table for the scan, I screamed so loud my husband heard me from his gurney in the emergency room. He was being examined now as well.
The CT scan showed something. They had to consult with another doctor they called a traumatologist. He ordered an MRI. Unbeknownst to me, the MRI cost $1,000. Before they went through with it, my husband had to approve the charge, which of course he did. Meanwhile, I got another shot of Mexican morphine. But when they moved me from the bed to the MRI table, I screamed out in pain again. Plus, the room was freezing cold. and I was still wet and sandy from the wave that hit the boat. To take the MRI, I had to lie flat on the scanner table. Flat was bad. Even with morphine, the pain was unbearable. I tried to find a position I could lie in that hurt less, but nothing worked. I couldn’t stay still. I had to keep adjusting my back to get some kind of relief. That MRI took an hour and twenty minutes! The morphine wore off and I was shivering from being in pain, wet and cold.
Finally, they returned me to the ER room with my husband. I got another shot of Mexican morphine, and I was finally stationary. One look over at Leslie and I knew something was very wrong. Leslie’s X-ray showed that he had a compression fracture of his L1 vertebrae. That’s the first vertebrae in his Lumbar spine. Up until that moment, I had no idea what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. Then the doctor came in to see me.
“You have a broken back,” he said.
“A what?” I said. “I walked up the beach after climbing out of that tiny boat and sat in a rickety plastic chair before the ambulance arrived. How could I have a broken back?”
“Fractured,” Leslie said. “Your spine was fractured. Bad translation.” Apparently, he knew before I did that this was the stuff nightmares are made of.
The doctor went on to explain that when the wave launched us into the air, we both landed on that hard bench seat with our spines. My fourth Thoracic vertebrae absorbed the impact and shattered. That was the cracking sound we both heard. I slowly learned that the nerves in the T-4 vertebrae are responsible for the upper chest and arms. It also monitored the gallbladder. An injury to the T4 spinal cord could cause paralysis from the chest down, which included not being able to control the bowel or bladder.[1] My worst fear!
This was what I was thinking about when the doctor showed us the MRI image and explained what happened.
The impact of the crushed T4 sent shrapnel into my spinal column. It did not pierce my spinal cord, which is why I still had feeling in my arms and legs. But as he continued to explain, any movement could change that.
That’s when it hit me. I was being admitted to a Mexican hospital because I had to be immobilized. I was not going back to the ship to order room service while I convalesced in our lovely mini suite with full bathroom and gorgeous sunset-laden balcony. We were not going to toast each other with Champagne and canapes on that sunset balcony. Our seven-day getaway cruise was over on day three. That’s when I started to cry. I cried. And cried. I cried those wailing cries of loss for the rest of the time I was in the ER until they wheeled me to a room.
Leslie, on the other hand, although hurt, was able to move around with somewhat manageable pain. He refused his hospital admission so that he could get back to the ship to get our luggage.
I got more Mexican morphine.
Then we got even worse news.
There was no spine doctor on Cozumel. It’s an island. The closest doctor was in Cancun, three hours away by plane. Then the other shoe dropped. I would not be able to fly home by commercial airline.
First of all, I wasn’t even thinking about having surgery in Mexico, assuming I needed surgery. But holy shit!
“What did it mean I can’t fly commercial?” I said. “How am I going to get home? How long am I going to be in pain? What are we going to do?”
An infinite number of questions flooded my brain. It was so surreal it was hard to take it all in. A few hours ago, I was on a fabulous cruise with the love of my life to get my mind off being unemployed. A wave hit us in a little boat on a shore excursion and I was stuck in a bed in a Mexican hospital afraid of being paralyzed from the chest down. WTF.
Fortunately, Leslie was way ahead of me absorbing this.
He contacted the cruise line. They sent a representative to meet us. In all the chaos, I don’t think I caught his name. And with all that was going on with me, Leslie handled all the details with this guy anyway. Between them, they arranged for our cabin to be packed up. Leslie went with the rep to retrieve our bags and met me back at the hospital. I was admitted and by the time he got back, I was in a room.
It was a very nice room. It was big. It easily fit two hospital beds. One part of the wall had a floor to ceiling window so we could see outside. There was a tropical mural painted on another wall with a porthole on a ship looking out over the water. Ironic, right? Just a few hours ago, I was on a real cruise ship looking out over the real ocean and now I’m looking at a mural on the wall of my hospital room of a porthole on a ship looking out over the water.
My lips were very dry, so I asked for some Chapstick. It took some charades between the two language barriers, but one of the attendants figured out what I was asking for and was kind enough to get me the Mexican brand from the gift shop. Labello. I still have it. It’s pretty good stuff.
I settled myself into my surroundings as best as I could when I realized that I was still wet and sandy. Then suddenly, it occurred to me that I had a new problem. I had to go to the bathroom. I guess with all that was happening to me, I didn’t realize I had to go. But now that it was quiet, I had to go badly.
I called the nurse to help me to the bathroom.
“Lo siento senora,” the nurse said. “I’m sorry ma’am, you can’t leave the bed.”
“Well, I have to go,” I said.
“You can try to use in a bed pan,” she said.
“Well, first of all, that’s gross,” I countered. “And secondly, I can’t lean on my back to prop myself up.”
“Otherwise, you will have to have a catheter,” she said.
“Whoa? A catheter? No way,” I said.
“Your spine is fractured,” she reminded me. “You can’t leave the bed.”
“Shit,” I said, feeling completely defeated.
I was defenseless. I had zero options. I was truly stuck and hated every second of it.
I was not comfortable being dependent; not being in control. And that was putting it mildly. I also don’t like my person or personal space invaded as both were about to happen to me in the most intimate way imaginable.
Fortunately, I still had my Louis Vuitton bag next to me. I slipped my hand in. Pulled out the little round pill case and secretly swallowed a Xanax. My savior. Those little pills would prove to be my most trusted source of solace.
The nurse hooked me up to an IV. Then I was catheterized. The realization of this situation hit me, and my mood plummeted. I started to cry again. It was another full-on body heaving, tears flowing, all out cry, complete with an accompanying level of screaming and cursing over this disaster of a situation I was in. The only positive I could find at that moment was that at least the pain meds I was getting through the IV had kicked in. I was in almost no pain. But, from all the Mexican morphine shots I had been given, the skin on my left upper left arm was deeply bruised in black and purple.
To be fair, I am very fair skinned. In general, I bruise like a peach if you looked at me wrong. But this was something I had never seen before. And it never really went away. It faded but you can still see the shadow of where it was.
Leslie finally arrived with our suitcases; two big and two smaller ones. In addition to getting dressed up for the specialty dinners and having a professional photographer take portraits of us every night, we also had a total of four shore excursions. They included horseback riding on the beach in Honduras and visiting ancient ruins in Tulum and Belize. Instead, of enjoying that and the Thermal Spa we both dreamed of using every day, I was propped up in my hospital bed, staring at all of our suitcases that lined the wall of my hospital room in Cozumel. I was in constant fear that if I moved in any way, my spinal cord would be pierced, and I would be paralyzed.
For a little background, my thoughts on being paralyzed are equivalent to those of Hillary Swanks’ character Maggie Fitzgerald in the movie Million Dollar Baby. When she woke up in the hospital and realized she was paralyzed from the neck down due to accidentally falling in the corner of the ring and breaking her neck on the stool, she bit her tongue hoping to bleed to death.
As day turned into night in my hospital room, I wanted a giant Margarita with a Cuervo floater, chips, guac and salsa. My stateroom would have been aglow with a golden sunset as we sailed away from Cozumel. The smells, the sounds and gentle rocking of the ocean from my 10th deck balcony would have been glorious. We would be getting dressed up again for our next fantastic dinner and photo shoot on Deck 6…
None of this happened.
And it wouldn’t happen again for a long time. But first, we had to figure out how to get off this island.
Leslie and I met in February of 2017. I was in my fifties, and he was in his sixties. If we had met earlier, we probably would be celebrating something close to our 35th wedding anniversary. Instead, we’ve spent a glorious eight years (and counting) together but actually haven’t gotten around to getting married yet. We got engaged December 21, 2022. We call each other husband and wife but never got around to corralling our kids for a wedding. Still, these continue to be the best years of our lives for both of us.
Then came November of 2023.
November 12 was my company’s Thanksgiving Potluck Lunch. I woke up at 5 a.m. to make the sides for the noon event. I signed up for five. I had been reading Good Housekeeping, Allrecipes and Better Homes and Garden, clipping Thanksgiving recipes to try. I made spiced carrots, sauteed asparagus, a sweet potato quiche, baked apples and another dishe I don’t remember.
I arrived around 10:30 a.m. The office was beautifully decorated and already smelled amazing. The Potluck Lunch was sure to be a hit. Our office manager Isabel had a gift. She had impeccable taste in holiday décor and made the best slow-cooked Spanish Pork I’ve ever tasted. As usual, it was a big hit and there was so much delicious food that by the time I got home, I couldn’t even eat dinner. After telling Leslie all the details, I said good night and went up to bed early.
Around 9 p.m. Leslie startled me. He yelled up from downstairs that he needed to go to the hospital.
“What? Now?” I asked.
“Yes!” he yelled. “I have a kidney stone. I need to get to the hospital.”
I had no idea anything was brewing. I wasn’t even sure he did either. He was prone to kidney stones and was acutely aware of what was happening.
I was not.
Nor was I prepared to take him to the hospital.
I had popped a sleeping pill when I got to our bedroom so I could sleep through the night because I was so super charged from the fun day.
Therefore, we had to enlist help from his son Adam who was living with us at the time to save money to buy a house.
He drove us to the hospital. They put Leslie in a room and put him on IV pain killers while they ran tests.
I was slumped in a chair, slurring my words, trying to stay awake. The sleeping pill had seriously kicked in. After about an hour of trying not to fall out of the chair, I asked Adam to take me home. Leslie was out of pain and promised to give us an update in the morning.
That was the start of it all…
What should have been a simple few-days procedure took two grueling months. Everything that could have gone wrong, did.
***
On December 1, 2023, I woke up at 5 a.m. excited to welcome the winter season by changing the décor of our house from Thanksgiving and fall to the holidays and wintertime. At 8 a.m., I saw on my work calendar that I had a meeting with my boss, the Chief Marketing Officer. It was the exact same time as it was last year when he met with everyone individually to discuss raises and bonuses. He had been talking about it for the last six months. This felt like a special day. We were still working remotely. I jumped into the shower and got dressed up for the Zoom call scheduled for 9:30 a.m. I was so excited. I had done my best work so far and I knew he thought so too. My husband and Adam wished me luck, kissed me goodbye and went to work.
I sat down at my computer ready to start this great day when I saw the message that would change my life.
“It’s bad news,” my CMO wrote.
“And an HR representative would be joining us on the call.”
The panic hit me first. I was getting fired.
Instantly and as fast as I could, I texted all my friends aka co-workers to ask them if they knew what was happening. I told them that I was sure I was getting fired. And asked if they knew anything about this. I also wanted to make sure I had their contact information to stay in touch if the worst was true.
Then I called my husband.
“I’m coming home,” he said.
“No. I’ll call you once I know the details,” I insisted.
“We are going to get through this,” he said. “I promise. I am here for you. Whatever it is, we are in this together.”
My company had been going through some restructuring for about a year or so post-Covid. There were two rounds of firings management said were to “trim the fat.” I was still there. I loved my job. I loved the people I worked with. It was a very special place. The marketing team would regularly get together after hours just to hang out. That’s how much fun it was. I worked there for five years. I made friends. I looked forward to every day. I always said I was going to die there because I never wanted to leave.
At 9:30 a.m. I logged into the Zoom call. The HR rep was there. The CMO, the man who hired me, mentored me, advised me on how to succeed, fired me unceremoniously within seconds of starting the call.
Still shocked despite assuming it was coming, I said flabbergasted, “But you’re the one who hired me. Five years ago,” as if that mattered.
“I know. That’s why I am personally delivering the news,” he said as if that would somehow soften the blow.
Completely devastated, scrambling for something to say to somehow help myself get another job, I said. “Can I use you as a reference.”
He said, “All I can do is confirm your employment.”
Wow, what a shithead.
“I am going to mute Zoom so HR can answer all of your questions,” he said.
Ten minutes later, I was locked out of my laptop. The one that had all of my information, both professional and personal, on it. Five wonderful years of my life were over. I had no idea what to do. Where to go. I was devastated. I buried my mother when I was 29. And my father in 2019, but I had never experienced this level of loss before. The depth of grief that enveloped me seemed insurmountable. It felt like my life was over. My future was gone. I started to cry. I cried and cried and cried. I felt that grief from the bottom of my soul.
I called my husband back, wailing into the phone. The crying was uncontrollable.
“I’m coming home,” he said again.
“Wait an hour please,” I asked between sniffles. “I have to pull myself together.”
It didn’t work. I cried that entire day. I cried getting gas. I cried buying wine. I cried when we went to buy a new laptop.
I cried and drank wine all day while responding to hundreds of texts once word got out about what had happened. The love and support were so overwhelming that it made me cry even more.
When night finally came, my husband said, “Let’s get you out. Change the scenery. Let me take you to your favorite restaurant. Hang out with different people who love you.”
I said, “Ok.” But when I stood to get off the couch, I could barely walk. I had tried to bury my grief in wine and had too much.
“I think I’ll just go to bed,” I said. “But I never want to forget what happened today because I couldn’t bear to relive it again tomorrow.”
I was 62 years old and had to find a way to start all over again.
***
The days, weeks and months that passed were a blur. My days were filled with completing job applications, interviews and taking writing tests, but nothing materialized.
It turned out that about a dozen or so people were let go on that third round of firings. I worked closely with six of them. We started a group text to have someone to check in with at the start of the day. It ended up being a great place for moral support and encouragement.
On February 5, 2024, my company closed its doors. Unbeknownst to many of us, there were some shady dealings going on. The SEC had been investigating and indicted three individuals. The remaining people were either let go or absorbed into other companies under the corporate umbrella. I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I almost felt grateful. At least I got a decent severance package and had my 401K.
Leslie and I continued with our life. I sought employment and interviewed regularly while he supported us. The longer it took for me to find a job, the more unproductive, saddened and useless I felt. I have worked since I was 15 years old.
Leslie’s job description expanded to include cheering me up on a daily basis. He encouraged me when I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm myself and supported me unconditionally. That’s when he had the brilliant idea of taking us on a mini vacation. A hassle-free, seven-day cruise out of Port Everglades, an easy drive from our house that surely would get me out of my funk, clear my head and rejuvenate my job search.
I was thrilled. Finally, I had a job! Planning a trip.
I love vacation planning. It has been a lifelong avocation. And I dive deep. By the time we leave on any trip, I know as much as possible about the places we are going to visit. What to see, where to eat, souvenirs to buy. All of it. I drilled down. Get granular. Every second is planned, including when to relax.
This trip was all about luxury. Effortless exploring on the ship and fun half-day shore excursions. We were to hit four ports and had two days At Sea. Leslie won an upgrade to our room from a balcony to a mini suite. We bought the Thermal Package to luxuriate in the giant whirlpool, waterfalls, steam room and sauna. We had specialty dining and top-of-the-line drink packages. All of the professional photos were included. We packed four suitcases for seven days. Each day had two themes. One for the days. The other for photos and dining in the evenings. I was in my glory.
The ship didn’t disappoint. It was spectacular. Living in Florida for 50 years, I have been on many cruises. But on this one, Leslie went all out. We wanted for nothing.
We embarked on the ship at noon so that our vacation could start as soon as possible. We basked in the Florida sun shining off the ocean, toasted with Champagne and canapes on our balcony. We watched the pink, orange, red and gold sunset from our room before heading out to a fabulous meal. And that was only day one.
Day two was At Sea. It started with Room Service for breakfast. Lounging poolside. Speedwalking on the top deck of the ship. We talked about playing ping pong and shuffleboard later. We participated in Origami, a Trivia Contest and a Lottery game. Then we spent an hour in the Thermal Spa, melting away any muscle soreness and tension before dressing for dinner at the ship’s steak and seafood specialty dining restaurant.
We ate fresh oysters, lobster, steak and a chocolate souffle for dessert. The premium drink package included one of my favorite new wines; Belle Glos Pinot Noir with a hand-dipped, seductively curved red wax seal around the top of the bottle. We took in one of the evening’s Broadway-style Musicals before retiring for the night.
Day three we docked in Cozumel. It was our first shore excursion.
The Reddy Life 