Trying to make the best out of living in a rehab facility is like trying to make the best out of a really bad relationship. Three hours of the day were spent in actual therapy, while the others were spent either in your room, or socializing with other patients. What was most interesting about my stay was visibly watching how patients coped with their condition.
For most, I saw all different kinds of courage, both blatant and subtle, but I knew every one of us lived in worry, and anger, about our health and well-being. Some vented through anger, raging against other patients, or staff. For example, there was a man down the hall that would throw his used diapers at nurses, or yell at us patients about anything at all. Others went to God, begging for answers, and hope, praying for the way. Their soul searching was inspiring. Before my MS, I considered myself an Atheist. I was raised in a Catholic family, and went to Catholic school. During my stay at rehab, my faith in God had been restored. I have to admit it’s hard to cope with hard times without any faith; I needed faith in something, a miracle. The rest of the patients showed no initiative at all. They would only utilize therapy when forced, and seemed to fade into the background. The majority of patients grew more depressed as time passed, listless until finally some of them grew so apathetic they would lie all day in bed. I imagined they dreamed of home, or better progress.
I met a woman named Mary, whom I would call “Savior Mary”, that made a huge impact on my positivism in life. Savior Mary was only 56 years old and diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer.
“Breathe. Live for one more breath. Just that one breath is a miracle, Natalie.”
Just as simple as that, I understood what she was saying. Coming from a woman whose oxygen was coming from a tank, I cherished her advice. My limbs may have been numb, useless, and I was diagnosed with an illness with no cure, but I was able to breathe. I had been a lucky one, and I never viewed it as such. After she had given me her address, phone number, and any other form of contact, I admired her faith in living long enough to be her friend. However, Savior Mary passed away shortly after our friendship had been made.
With all of the problems I was facing, it was hard at times not to think of some patients as cowards. A few were only recovering from knee surgery, and it would anger me when I had spent most my time with the seriously ill. I always wanted to yell, “move your ass!” but I bit my tongue. Perhaps it was all that time we spent together recovering, we felt like a family of survivors. No matter the personal struggle I was going through, I spent as much time socializing as I could. Helping others always had made me feel better about myself, and the little things I had done in rehab were no different. I never abandoned them to their own fates, only tried to restore any kind of faith they had left within them. We suffered each moment in different degrees, and in many ways, but our greatest fear was the actual outcome of our futures out of rehab.
I also felt this way about my real family. Putting on a smile, trying my best to look well, and giving them all the greatest of news, I was coaching my family to become happier. Even though my father had sold off my Mitsubishi Eclipse, I told him I would be driving in no time, even build a little engine on my wheelchair if he wanted.
Above all, we all remained a union of comrades, and family, in our suffering.
