We Can, We Must, Count On Each Other

(A word of caution: This is a personal post -- not an education post -- that involves an immediate and graphic description of a head injury.)

I am currently with my wife Jennifer and daughter Josephine on Rhodes, one of the largest of the Greek islands. I'm on this side of the Atlantic to speak at the Play On Early Childhood Education Conference taking place in Athens in a few days. We chose Rhodes as a place for a pre-conference holiday because our best family friend lives on a nearby island and the plan was to spend this time with her and her son, all of us together just enjoying the pageantry of Greek Easter.

On Saturday, Easter eve, Jennifer lost her footing on the stairs of the house we are renting and fell, hard, headfirst, on the stone floor. I was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, beginning to write what ultimately became yesterday's post. It was a horrific moment, as I watched her stumble, then spin around, reaching out to grab a railing that wasn't there before plummeting. There was a moment when she was in free fall, her arms and legs and hair trailing her head and shoulders. Her shoulders hit the floor first, followed by her head snapping back, contacting the floor with a sickening crack.

I knew instantly that it was very bad. Rushing to her, I shouted to the house, "We need an ambulance!" then knelt beside her, calling her name. I cupped her head in my right hand. I felt blood trickling through my fingers, then saw it pooling on the slate gray stone tile. Our daughter was the next on the scene, followed by our friend. 

These are photos I took on my walk home from the hospital

Jennifer was unconscious, her limbs twitching. Then she fell completely still. Our daughter later told me that I shouted, "No, no, no, no!" At the time, I just wanted her to open her eyes, to show a sign of life. I continued to hold her head, thinking that maybe I could staunch the flow of blood. In that moment of complete despair, I still felt relieved when she started twitching again, then her eyelids fluttered, even as all I could see where the whites of her eyes. Hundreds of thoughts flashed through my head as I was aware that the others were shouting into their telephones, trying to tell the ambulance where to find us. Among those thoughts was that this was just the beginning of something long and hard and I doubted that I had the strength for it. 

Finally, our friend's son went out into the street and found a local woman to call the ambulance on our behalf. It turns out that we had the wrong address, that we were unsure of what number to call for emergencies, but among them they were resourceful enough to make it happen. Time stood still. All of this happened in seconds, but each of those seconds passed like an excruciating hour, each made of fear and pain, but not tears. Those would come later.

Then Jennifer began to talk. She asked, rolling her eyes at the timbered ceiling, my hand still under her head, "Where are we?"

"We're in our vacation house on the island of Rhodes in Greece."

"Where? Why are we here?"

At the time I simply answered her questions, keeping my voice steady, telling her the story of the past several days, of our travel, of our plans, and that she was surrounded by her most beloved people. She asked her questions over and over. I answered her over and over. Later she told me she had been entirely baffled. I don't think she was yet feeling the pain. At one point she tried to sit up, but we stopped her. Someone had the idea of replacing my hand under her head with a towel. I had the strange feeling that I'd been here before. I now know that it was my years of experience in caring for children who were suffering physical and emotional events. Nothing had ever been as horrific as this, but that is why I knew what to do.

After what seemed like hours, we heard the siren approaching. I was in my underwear and bathrobe. I felt the return of doubt as I realized that this was just the beginning of what was going to be required of me. An internal voice told me that I would want to be wearing pants. I left Jennifer with Josephine and our friend to run to the bedroom and pull on the pair of shorts I'd dropped to the floor the night before. I thought to grab my passport and proof of vaccination. I didn't know where Jennifer kept hers and felt I'd already been away for too long, so that's all I took.

When I returned, the paramedics where coming through the gate into the courtyard of the house. Thankfully, one of them spoke English. I'll never forget Jennifer saying, "Don't leave me," and I promised I wouldn't. She said, "I'm scared," and I answered, honestly, "So am I, but I'm here and you'll be okay."

Looking back, I recall the paramedic telling me that only one of us could accompany her in the ambulance, but nevertheless both Josephine and I wound up riding with her, taking up both seats, forcing the paramedic to remain standing, bracing himself against the turns and hills while also tending and testing Jennifer. By now, her memory was starting to come back accompanied by an awareness of extreme pain. It was both horrible and a relief: it seemed like a good sign even as I despaired about the pain over which we were all helpless.

As for me, the self-doubt came in waves, although I knew she needed me to get her through this and we were still just at the very beginning. The whole experience to this point felt like it had been happening for days, maybe even weeks, and we were not even to the hospital. I was already tired, already worn out, already feeling at the end. The truth, we have since calculated, is that the time from the fall to the arrival at the hospital was less than 45 minutes, even as it felt like a lifetime.

While our friend waited at the house, prepared to bring any of the things we needed, our daughter was required to remain in the waiting room of the emergency ward where she finally cried. She later told us that during the long hours she waited she saw the full spectrum of humanity pass through: pain and anguish, but also incredible kindness and compassion. For the next many hours Jennifer was treated and tested while I held her hand and tried to advocate for pain medication as her head throbbed. She was wheeled around the hospital by a kind young man receiving X-rays, a CT scans, an MRI, and an eye examination. In bits and pieces, we learned that she had fractured her skull in two places, that the wound on the back of her head did not need stitches, and that she had ligament damage in her shoulder. All the while, she told me she hurt and that she was afraid, repeatedly saying, "Don't leave me." I gave her what I had to give, which was my hand in hers, assurances that I was not going anywhere, and that she was surrounded by love.

Meanwhile, at every opportunity I kept Josephine and our friend apprised of what was happening. They supported me in ways I still cannot fully appreciate. They did things, took care of things, and made things happen that would have otherwise overwhelmed me.

Finally, we had the official word from a doctor that her brain seemed to be undamaged and an assurance that it was not as bad as it could have been. They wanted, however, to keep her the night for observation. They wheeled us to a room with four empty beds, provided the painkillers she needed, and she thankfully dozed off. Our friend arrived with Jennifer's passport and a collection of other things that we might need for an overnight stay. By the time our daughter and friend were in the room, Jennifer was awake enough to talk a little. She sounded weary, but like herself.

When she dozed off again, we taxied home, where I packed a bag and hurried back. 

Since the room was otherwise empty, perhaps because of the big Easter weekend, the nurses offered to allow me to stay overnight with her. Jennifer felt the room to be overly hot and stuffy so I opened the windows through which a steady, cooling Aegean breeze blew, ruffling the curtains that would be used to cordon off the separate beds during busier times. From what I could tell there was only one other patient in the entire wing. We were at the end of the hallway and in a moment, after all that had happened, we found ourselves together, alone, in a peaceful, yet still painful, place. The sound of sheep bells and bleating came from a nearby pasture. Dogs barked. Roosters crowed. From the window I could see the dome of an Orthodox church from which came the occasional music of Easter celebration bells. In the distance was the blue sea.

Rhodes is a city full of feral cats. Most of them scurry away from humans, but this one walked beside me for a time, keeping me company.

And there we were, alone in a foreign land, on the other side, or rather, through the worst, because I still knew there was a long way to go. As midnight approached, the Easter fireworks began, followed by a joyous cacophony of bells, and the riotous barking of the neighborhood dogs. There were songs in the air, human voices celebrating resurrection. It was all carried up to our fourth floor room on those Aegean winds.

The following day, Easter Sunday, we went for a second, precautionary CT scan. The doctor, a different one, came to tell us that we were cleared to leave whenever we wanted. By then it was late afternoon. Josephine and our friend came to fetch Jennifer in a taxi. It was a glorious day, warm and breezy. Having helped her into the taxi, in good hands, I decided to walk the 2.5 miles back to our house. I wanted to clear my head, to think, to process. From the moment the taxi pulled away from the curb I began to cry. They were tears of sadness and relief, of course, but also of joy and gratitude. I stopped halfway down the hill at a traditional taverna full of families enjoying an Easter Sunday repast and slowly ate souvlakia.

As I write this, it's only been a few hours since Jennifer ate her first food in three days. Our friend and her son have returned home. Our daughter is in there with her, on the bed, and they are giggling.

There is still a long way to go. We are supposed to fly to Athens tomorrow and Jennifer is yet to walk more than a few steps at a time, but she is ready to try; we are ready to try, if only because we were advised to consult with a specialist in the bigger city. I still doubt my own strength, even as I don't doubt Jennifer's. But, honestly, I never needed to count on myself. Our daughter, our friend, and her son were also there. There was the lady on the street who called the ambulance, the paramedics, the kind strangers in the waiting room who cared for our daughter, the nurses, the orderly, the technicians, the doctors, and all those people who sang outside our window in celebration. 

I might have doubted my strength, but never again will I doubt the strength that emerges from us. 

We can't do this alone. We can, we must, count on each other.

******

 

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