100%

It was exactly six months ago today that I was waking up from a drug-induced slumber in a place I’d never seen before and a bed that was not mine. It took me just a moment to realize where I was, but with just that small effort, I was overcome by fatigue. Some time later (I don’t know how long; time passed differently in that place), I opened my eyes again. I saw my doctor standing over me, and I was happy to see him. I remember looking up, smiling, and asking, “Did you fix me?” Later I learned that he had put my wrist 95% back to the way it used to be.

He left me to rest. I was in and out of sleep for the next several hours – sometimes for mere minutes, sometimes for longer. Little by little, I became more and more alert. My nurse came by and showed me how to use my morphine button; I could press it every 10 minutes. I didn’t need it yet, though; I felt absolutely no pain, just fatigue. I fell asleep again.

And then, all of a sudden, my eyes shot open. For the first time, I felt pain, like fire gradually making its way up my arm. Yes, it felt like it was burning. I pressed my morphine button. The pain started at my fingertips, and before my first 10 minutes had passed, the fire was in my shoulder. I pressed my morphine button again, but to no avail. I was too weak to call out to my nurse, but I started to cry, to moan. Someone came to my bedside, said, “Did you press the button?” Through gritted teeth, I replied, “Seven minutes ago.”

That night in the hospital was awful, and it was only the beginning of a grueling four months of pain pills, doctor’s appointments, hand therapy, and vulnerability. I can’t ever remember being so reliant on anybody; and all of a sudden, I was reliant on everybody. This was incredibly frustrating at times, but it was also a beautiful study in trust.

I trusted the doctor, who put me to sleep and then cut open my arm. I trusted the nurse, who took care of me throughout the night, carting me and my IV stand to the bathroom time after time after time. Once out of the hospital, I put my trust in my many friends, who came over to help me open cans, fold laundry, and simply pass the time. I trusted my colleagues to get my job done when I couldn’t be at work. I trusted Brandon to find a way to pay the mountains of medical bills, and to sign the checks and then balance the book. And I trusted my hand therapist, who told me that, in the end, I was truly going to be ok.

I’m not 100%. My range of motion, physical strength, and energy level are not what they were. They may never be, and that’s ok. Life is about changing, about rearranging (that goes for bones and plans). I’m not quite the same person as the one who woke up six months ago with her arm on fire. I’m weaker in body, but I think I’m stronger in heart. I know better how to give up control and how to trust in others. That was a lesson I needed to learn.

And that 100% - maybe that’s not the goal. I can’t possibly strive to be 100% of who I was six months ago because too much has changed. I can only be who I am today, and that someone has a slightly weaker wrist, but a very strong sense of appreciation for all of the people who helped me through such a trying time, for all of the people I had to trust.

I woke up from that drug-induced sleep six months ago with metal in my wrist and a three-inch scar on my forearm. Changed forever on the outside. Now, I have learned to give up control, to give in to help, and to give others my trust. Changed forever on the inside. I am not who I was. My wrist is only 95% back to the way it used to be. But I am 100% me. Possibly even better.