For nearly a month, I concentrated on getting prepared for Greenoaks. That was where I would learn to walk and begin life again. When word came that they had a place for me, everyone was excited. The nurses and doctors all came by to wish me well on this step toward rehabilitation.
“Well, lassie, y’behave yourself now. No wild parties and carryin’ on,” Dr. Harris teased, “or we’ll have to come and get you and bring you back here.”
“Oh, no you won’t!” I exclaimed. “You’ll never get me back here—you guys have plenty of sick people to work with. Well, one of these days, I might come back,” I amended, “but it’ll be on my own two feet—and I’ll take you to McDonald’s for lunch.”
“It’s a date, lassie,” Dr. Harris grinned. He squeezed my shoulder, winked, and left.
Two nurses—Anita (my favorite) and Alice—helped take down the pictures and posters and pack away all the things I had accumulated—several boxes—during my three-and-a-half-month stay at the hospital.
Finally the orderlies came in to transfer me to the ambulance waiting downstairs to take me to Greenoaks. As they wheeled me through the outside double doors at the ground level, a slight rush of beautiful, sweet-smelling, outdoor air tickled my nostrils and the bright sunlight was everywhere.
“Oh, wow! Wait just a minute, please,” I asked the two orderlies. “Do you smell that air?” I said excitedly.
“Polluted!” snorted one of the guys good-naturedly.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” I breathed deeply of its rich and, to me, heady fragrance.
“Hey, you’re gonna get high on oxygen,” teased one of the men. They eased my stretcher into the ambulance, shut the doors, and we began the drive to Greenoaks.
I couldn’t help contrasting this ambulance drive with my last one. Then the trees had been green, the grass and flowers lush and gorgeous. The air had been hot and humid, the people dressed in summer clothes.
Today, the air was crisp and cool. The stores were decorated for Halloween and fall sales. The trees were gold, red, and orange—the landscape reflected the full variety of autumn colors and textures.
An entire season had passed by while I was in the hospital! It was a strange feeling, but it did not stay to disturb me. The excitement and beauty of the ride was much too thrilling to waste worrying about a lost summer. I let the warm sun bathe my face through the window, and the driver kept his window rolled down so the fresh air could come in and sweep over me. It was such a pleasurable experience that I almost cried with joy.
As we approached Greenoaks, I became even more excited. Greenoaks. Even the name had a pleasant ring to it. In my mind I pictured a big, colonial structure with tall, white pillars overlooking sweeping green lawns shaded by huge green oak trees.
When we pulled into the driveway, however, I could see that it looked nothing like this. It was a sprawling, low brick building, more like an industrial park, office complex, or factory.
“Well, here we are,” said the driver.
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
“Anything wrong?”
“Uh—no. I guess not,” I said sheepishly. “I suppose any place you build up in your mind doesn’t live up to your expectations. Y’know?”
He nodded, then added, “Don’t worry—they do good work here. I think you’ll like it. Quite a few girls your age here. You should hit it off swell.”
“I hope so,” I replied apprehensively. As he wheeled me down the corridor to my assigned ward, I looked around and into open doors of various rooms. It was quiet, like the hospital. No one was “cured”—walking.
I saw people slouched in wheelchairs, encased in Stryker frames, or lying in beds. The halls seemed dark and depressing, with people lined up in wheelchairs. It was an old institution, badly in need of decorating.
By the time we got to my room, I was discouraged.
Mom and dad were there to meet me. They had signed me in and cared for the billing details and other business. They tried to cheer me up, but as soon as I was as comfortable as possible, they excused themselves. I had seen this reaction before—at City Hospital when they were told of the permanence of my injury. I knew they were again on the verge of breaking down and didn’t want me to see their tears and disappointment. They left, promising, “We’ll be back as soon as possible, darling.”
I looked around at my room when they left. Four other girls shared the small ward with me. I decided to introduce myself. “Hi. I’m Joni Eareckson,” I began.
“Joni Eareckson!” I heard my name repeated contemptuously, followed by a string of obscenities. “That’s all I heard at City Hospital—Joni this, Joni that. I could puke!”
Stunned by the bitter voice, I recovered enough to smile and say, “Oh, I didn’t know I had a fan club here.”
The ice was broken. The others laughed. “You’ll have to excuse Ann,” explained one girl. “She’s new here too. She came to City Hospital after you, and I guess she wasn’t quite the model patient you were. They did an awful lot of comparing her with you. I’m Betty—Betty Jackson. The girl in the bed over there is Denise Walters.”
“Hi. Pardon me if I don’t get up.”
“Yeah, I know the un-feeling,” I wisecracked, adding, “Nice to meet you, Denise.”
“And this is Betty too,” said Betty Jackson, pointing with a flop of a useless arm, “Betty Glover. They call me B.J. to tell us apart.” Betty Glover was a pretty, petite black girl who looked much younger than the rest of us.
“Hi, Betty,” I smiled.
Betty looked up and nodded slightly.
“I’m here because of a broken neck—like you,” B.J. explained. “Betty has a blood clot on her spine. They’re working on her to see why she’s paralyzed. And Denise is here because she has M.S.”
“M.S.?” I asked ignorantly.
“Multiple sclerosis.”
I regretted asking. I recalled hearing about M.S. in the hospital. It’s a fatal disease. Denise will probably be dead before she reaches her twentieth birthday, I thought, shivering inwardly, and wondered how she maintained her gracious and open attitude.
“And in this cor-nah,” clowned B.J., “is Ann Wilson, whose mouth you’ve already met. Ann is in charge of b _ _ _ _ _ _ _.”
“Aw, go—” Ann cursed. She took a cigarette from her lips and threw it at Denise. It landed harmlessly on the tile floor.
“Well, now you’ve met us. You ready for this marriage?” asked B.J.
“I—I guess so, yeah,” I stammered. Except for Ann and that smoke, I thought to myself.
Ann had lit up another cigarette. In the hospital, I had discouraged people from smoking around me. In Greenoaks, many of the patients smoked. To me, smoking was ugly, smelly, and something I wanted other people to do only in their own homes or rooms—not around me. I hated the choking smoke and acrid smell. But now I could claim only one-fifth of this room. There wasn’t anything to do but get used to the smoke and make the best of the situation.
I tried the one ploy I knew and said to Ann, “You know, that stuff causes lung cancer. It’ll kill you.
She looked squarely at me and replied in even tones, “Why do you think I’m doing it?”
But Ann wasn’t nearly as difficult and contrary as my first impressions of her. I could see a lot of my own attitudes of bitterness and resentment in her. A few weeks ago, I was going through the same depression and despondency, I remembered. I wanted to kill myself too. Ann was more confused than anything else. She used anger to lash out because she didn’t know what else to do. I decided to try and get to know her better.
During the next few days, I got an even closer look at Greenoaks. Patients from every age, economic, occupational, and racial background were housed in the four wings of the institution. They consisted of amputees, paraplegics, quadriplegics, polio victims, and those suffering from muscular dystrophy, multiple sclerosis, and other diseases affecting the motor and nervous systems.
“How come there are so many new people—mostly guys our age?” I asked B.J.
“Broken necks. Most broken necks happen in summer with swimming and diving accidents. They usually spend a couple months in city hospitals and then come here for rehab,” B.J. explained.
I made a mental note of the way she abbreviated the word rehabilitation. I listened for other such “inside” or slang terms used by the girls so I would not sound so much like a greenhorn.
“How many broken neck cases are new?” I asked.
“Oh, maybe ten, fifteen.”
“How long have you been here, B.J.?”
Two years! I recoiled inwardly at the thought. Two years—and she’s still paralyzed and in bed like me! The fact that I might be here that long really depressed me. I was silent for a long while.
That night as I lay in my Stryker frame trying to sleep, I was troubled by the old attitudes and bitterness that had made me so despondent at the hospital. I tried to pray and couldn’t. I tried to think of some promises from God’s Word to encourage me. Nothing seemed reassuring.
Seemingly the other girls had adjusted. They were chatting quietly, waiting for “lights out.” Except for Ann. She was complaining loudly, punctuating her objections with salty language. I decided that even if I had to be in an institution the rest of my life, I’d be pleasant—at least on the surface—and not like Ann. She had absolutely no friends on the outside. And inside, people treated her in kind. No one tried to understand her or make friends with her.
I need to have my friends, or I’ll lose my mind, I said to myself, so I promised myself never to lose my cool with mom, dad, Jackie, or the others when they came to visit. No matter how bitter I was, I wouldn’t let it show.
“That’s a good idea,” observed B.J. when I told her about my thoughts the next day. “In here, everyone’s the same. So you won’t find much sympathy here. In fact, you’d be smart not to make many friends here.”
Why? I wondered.
“It’s an ivory tower. Everyone here is the same—give or take an arm or two—so it’s comfortable. You get out for visits home when you have enough sitting-up time, but you can’t wait to get back. It’s easier to be here with people like us. No hassling about braces, wheelchairs, and stuff. It’s hard to leave here. The people on the street think because your legs are paralyzed, your brain must be too. They treat ‘cha like a dummy. So everybody always comes back here complaining and comparing injuries, but content to stay because they feel at home here. You’ll be the same if you make all your friends here. Just because it’s easier to be in an ivory tower doesn’t mean it’s better. It isn’t. I know. I’ve been here two years. Whatever you do, keep your friends on the outside!”
Jay seemed to sense my emotional needs in that regard. She not only came often herself, but often rounded up old school chums to visit. I especially remember Jay and several friends dressing up in costumes and coming over on Halloween night. There was no bending of rules here, though. Unlike City Hospital nurses, Greenoaks’ staff rigidly enforced visiting hours. Promptly at eight o’clock, Jay and our friends were asked to leave.
My days became dull routine, brightened only by my visitors. I was confined to bed because of bedsores. A nurse would feed me in the morning and empty my catheter bag. Then she’d check the round mirror above my head to see that it was focused for me to watch TV.
About noon, I’d be fed and “emptied” again. And more TV in the afternoon. Mornings were the game shows. Afternoons, the soap operas. At evening, another meal and catheter emptying followed by more television watching until “lights out.” Each new day was a boring and monotonous extension of the previous day—eat, watch TV, sleep—in an unbreaking, sickening cycle.
I had to learn to eat and drink my food quickly. The staff people were always busy too busy to linger with those who dawdled with their meals. They were also too busy to really do more than care for our immediate physical needs. If my nose itched, I’d have to wait until Jay or a staff person was nearby. My hair was growing back and became tangled, matted, dirty, and snowing dandruff because no one had time to wash it.
One day when Jay came for a visit, she asked, “What’s that horrible smell?”
“What smell?” I asked.
“Ugh! It’s your hair. When did they wash it last?” Jay demanded.
“Over a month ago. At City Hospital,” I replied.
“It’s awful! It stinks, it’s so bad! I’ve got to do something about that!” she exclaimed. Jay checked, got a basin and soap, and improvised a means for shampooing my hair.
“Oh, it feels so good!” I exclaimed
“Me next!” called out Denise. “Wash my hair, please, Jay.”
“Then me,” echoed B.J. and Betty together. So, a regular hair wash and set, along with brushing, became Jay’s duty to the five of us every week, until “regulations” put an end to her efforts.
With my hair now growing out and sometimes even combed, I began to take a little interest in my appearance. The side effects of the medication had slackened somewhat by now too and I didn’t seem quite so grotesque. However, I was still thin and underweight, and my bones bulged through my skin, causing open, ugly bedsores.
Diana White, a friend from high school and Young Life, began to visit me regularly. She was a sensitive, caring Christian girl, with a positive, outgoing personality. She always seemed happy and cheerful. Yet, she was practical as well as optimistic. Her attitude was not glib, happy-go-lucky naivete. Rather, she countered difficulty and pessimism with her own strong personality. She had an innate spirit of helpfulness and won instant acceptance with people. Diana’s wide face, dark hair, and eyes lighted up when she talked, and the corners of her mouth curled up in a smile, making me feel brighter, better.
I appreciated her visits more and more because Jackie—now facing some inner turmoil of her own—no longer came as frequently to see me. Diana’s encouragement and reading from God’s Word also filled the void created by the fact that Dick’s studies prevented him from coming as often. Jason began to drift out of my life too. From others, I heard that he was dating a girl he had met at college and seemed serious about her.
I was grateful when P.T. became a part of the daily routine, for it offered an additional element of variety to my life.
At first the physical therapist, Barbara Marshall, came to my room to exercise my paralyzed limbs. After a few weeks, I was taken to the P.T. center for two hours of therapy every day. My first impression of this big room was that it resembled a strange torture chamber. There were bizarre machines and devices for stretching, pulling, and bending useless arms, legs, and bodies. But as strange as this room appeared, it had positive overtones for me—I was going to learn to walk like the others I saw moving with crutches and walkers.
Joe Leroy, a brawny therapy aide with great patience, took me to the P.T. room to show me what would happen when the therapist put my limbs through the full range of potential movement to keep them from becoming atrophied.
“Look,” he encouraged, “all this flat-on-your-back ballet really does have a purpose.” Joe then proceeded to explain how twisting, bending, and stretching my legs, arms, and limp body in arcs, circles, and all kinds of angles would help me.
“It keeps your muscles elastic,” Joe explained.
“But I can’t feel anything. Why does it matter if they get stiff?” I asked.
“Makes problems for the blood—circulation gets bad. Also, when your muscles go, your body gets stiff, your limbs shrivel up, and your body gets all twisted up,” Joe said as he pointed to other patients being pulled, pushed, and lifted.
The physical therapists worked with me twenty minutes each day, putting elasticity back into my muscles, even though they would never function again. Next, they began to work with me in order to get me out of my Stryker frame and into a regular bed.
Then came grueling exercises to try to enable me to sit up. They fastened me to a tilt-board and lifted my head and lowered my legs. As they slowly raised me past the horizontal position, I felt blood rush from my head and waves of nausea sweep over me.
“Wait. Don’t go any higher. I can’t take it,” I cried.
Even just a few seconds with my head elevated was too much after nearly six months in a horizontal position.
“Oh, Joe,” I sobbed, “I thought I was going to faint! Won’t I ever be able to sit up?”
“Sure, Joni. Just takes time. We only had you elevated about 45 degrees. We’ll try again for a little bit longer. When you can take it for several minutes, we’ll increase the angle of the tilt-board. By Thanksgiving you should be sitting up in a chair,” Joe said brightly.
Earl, another aide, nodded and said, “You see, your body is so used to lyin’ flat that your circulation has adapted to this position.” Earl punctuated his explanation with wide, sweeping arm gestures. “When we raise your head, the blood leaves your head, and you feel like you’re gonna black out. But if we do it slow’n easy, your heart will ‘remember’ and begin to do its job again. Your circulation will pick up and blood will be pumped to your brain again.”
So we worked out longer and longer each day until I could “sit up” on the tilt-board without blacking out or getting nauseous.
We took inventory of my muscle capability and feeling. Doctors and therapists determined I had full feelings in my head, neck, and shoulders to the collarbones. There was a slight tingling sensation in my upper arms and chest, making it feel as if these parts of my body were asleep.
Diana came by after I was making progress in P.T. and offered her encouragement. Her optimism was contagious. Each time she came to visit, she’d have new encouragement from the Bible. “Listen,” she exclaimed, “it’s from John 16:24: ‘I assure you that whatever you ask the Father he will give you in my name. Up to now you have asked nothing in my name; ask now, and you will receive, that your joy may be overflowing.’ Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah, it really is. Hey, maybe God is doing something special. Did you hear about our church?” I said.
“Church?” Diana asked. “No. What’s happening?”
“Our church is having an all-night prayer service for me. They’re going to pray for my healing and recovery,” I explained.
“Oh, wow. That’s neat! ‘Ask now, and you will receive,’” Diana repeated.
I was further encouraged because my P.T. had by now brought a tingling feeling to my fingers. While they were still numb and paralyzed, I could feel a remote sensation in them. I knew God was beginning to heal me.
On the night of the prayer service at church, friends from high school, teachers, parents of friends, and friends of friends crowded into the Bishop Cummings Reformed Episcopal Church. And I went to sleep that night expecting to awake the next morning fully healed.
It didn’t happen that way of, course. So I rationalized that the Lord was testing our faith and that the healing process and full recovery would come slowly and not in some sudden, supernatural way.
When Diana, Jay, my parents, and Young Life friends came by for a visit, I gave the outward impression that everything was under control, hiding my disappointment and impatience.
“The Lord’s going to heal me,” I promised them. “Let’s keep praying and trusting.”
“Oh, Joni,” someone would gush, “you sure are brave. I wish I had your faith.”
I’d smile sweetly and pray under my breath for God to hurry up and heal me.