from Didn't See It Coming

The doctor makes his rounds at 6 a.m. He tells me I’m going home today, and that I am nonweightbearing for my left side, but I can put weight on my right side.

            I know I’m half asleep, but I also know this is important. I need to get this right.

            “This is different from what they told me yesterday,” I said. “Are you aware that this is a change?” (All of those lessons about communication that I learned as counselor sometimes kick in at just the right time. I stop just short of saying, “What I heard you saying is that I can use my right leg for transfers.”)

            “Yes,” he smiles. “I know. You can put weight on your right leg when you’re getting in and out of the wheelchair.”                       

            This is huge. This is more than huge. This means that I didn’t have to wrestle myself in and out of the chair using a transfer board. I can put one foot down. Two days ago I put weight on my right foot without giving it a second thought. It was automatic. Now it feels like the best Christmas morning ever.

            After the doctor leaves, I begin to wake up more. There’s no doubt about it – I feel pretty rough. “Man,” I think to myself. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a car.”

            There’s a pregnant pause in my brain.

            Oh wait, I have been hit by a car.

              ______________________________________________________________

Yes, I’m tired of this particular race. I’m ready to be back to the normal race of my normal days. But God runs alongside of me, or more accurately, hobbles alongside me. (I envision God like my dog as we walk together through the house, my energetic dog slowing down to match her pace to mine.) God whispers in my ear words of encouragement, prodding me to keep putting one foot in front of the other. God nudges me with an elbow, pointing out that there’s still fantastic beauty around us, God looking ahead and assuring me of a finish line I cannot yet see.

As I left the CP and began working my way into no man’s land, I had the same discussion with myself that I'd had several times recently. Had I lost touch with reality? Was I undertaking things that were impossible just because I was too stupid to know better?

Was I acting a part in an imaginary world, like a character in a movie? I really didn’t know the answers, but it was time to quit woolgathering and put all my senses to work staying alive. That might not be easy today.

I crawled out of the trench at a low point of ground, dotted with small hardwoods and a few evergreens. There’s something about leaving the marginal security of one’s own foxhole and the company of one’s comrades that’s very hard to define, an intense feeling of hidden eyes following your every move. You’re suddenly very conscious of every inch of your body as you realize bullets could begin to strike you at any time. But there is also a feeling of exhilaration, of freedom. A feeling strangely enough, of being responsible for your own destiny.

In this case, I also had the feeling of pride that I was making a definite contribution to the big game, and that I had before me the opportunity to actually protect the lives of two of my fellow GIs. I had no desire at all to turn back. I was  on an adventure I wanted to see through to the end.