Devi Has a Sense of Humour

I put a small stool on the bathroom floor beside a kitchen chair next to the vanity counter top. My plan was to step on the stool then up on to the chair, then up on to the counter so I could stand and put a hook in the ceiling. 

When I finished, I carefully turned around to make my way back down from counter to the chair. As I was stepping down, I felt unstable so I instinctively reached for the towel bar on the wall. The towel bar gave way and I fell directly left side down on to the high back of the chair, bringing the chair down to the floor with me beside the empty stool. 

I lay on the bathroom floor. I did not black out. I knew I had done something terrible to myself. Something was wrong with my left ribs … all of them. Something deep was wrong with my left lung. I broke into a cold sweat. I took “labour” breaths. The pain felt deep and old but had not surfaced to its fullness yet. I was holding it at bay with everything I had. I thought about my phone out on the kitchen counter. I thought if I lay there any longer, I would die alone. 

That thought propelled me up off the bathroom floor to stagger out to my kitchen and grab my phone.  Adrenaline surged as I grabbed my keys, locked the door, lurched up fifteen concrete steps up to my garage, pressing the garage door opener as I moved. I tried to splint my left side with my left hand as I moved.

Breathing was incredibly difficult as I carefully folded myself in behind the steering wheel, backed out, closed the garage door, and drove myself up the cliff to the main road. I took great care at corners and stop signs, changed lanes with caution, found the entry to the hospital emergency parking lot, and parked my car. I locked it. 

My car stayed in that spot every day and night for the next sixteen days.

I was transported by ambulance to our nearest city’s Trauma Unit within the next two hours. 

Most of my ribs on my left side were broken, and my left lung was punctured. 

Today, the day I’m writing this piece to share with you, marks Day 23 since I fell. I spent sixteen of those days on the Trauma Unit fighting to be the best patient on the planet. I drew upon on every spiritual resource I had. I worked through the differences between fawning to get what I needed as I groaned through each agonizing movement, and assertive self advocacy when I insisted on toileting myself as soon as possible. When my fentanyl epidural was removed, I was challenged to learned the tricky intricacies of oral pain medication and what it means to avoid “chasing pain.” 

When I wrote a thank you letter to the hospital kitchen staff thanking them for their delicious comforting food, they looked incredulous. Not sure why. I wrote hundreds of emails thanking all of the nurses, doctors, care attendants and health care professionals I have served over the decades to thank them for their incredible work. I was respectful, kind and appreciative with all of those on my Trauma team who brought me their wondrous skill sets and care. I made friends with my three roommates who kept coming and going in our shared room while I remained behind. My nickname on the unit was ‘Chip’ because I was addicted to ice chips, and for some reason, staff and patients alike thought I was chipper.

My goal? To heal enough to hold my phenomenal daughter’s twins (my grand babies) Grace and Hope, who were only one week old the day I fell. Yes, only seven days before my fall, I had donned scrubs and attended to the birth of these little miracles.

Some goals inspire great feats.

My personal spiritual highlight on the Trauma Unit came on the day my Hindi Trauma surgeon specialist stood at the foot of my hospital bed to tell me that my chest tube was to be removed, that we had drained as much blood as we could from my left lung …  that the rest was up to me. I would need to fill my left lung with air all by myself. No bicycle pump would be given. 

I looked her in the eye, and in that moment, the goddess in each of us recognized the other. 

I said, “Devi played a wee joke on us.”

My physician looked at me as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. (She had no idea I teach women’s global spiritual wisdom, and use its various forms in my psychotherapy practice every day).

I said, “Devi distracted me with my collapsed lung so I wouldn’t think about the pain of my broken ribs. She’s sneaky is our Devi.”

We laughed together. It hurt but that’s okay.

I am alive. I could have broken my neck. I could have suffered a concussion. I could have blacked out. I could have died. Alone. I am alive. Ahh … sweet, sweet life.

I am blessed with a very special community of beloved family members, soul sister friends, and clients I have served over the years. During my weeks on the Trauma Unit in a strange city, they were praying for me according to each of their own unique expressions of spiritual energy. Call it whatever you want, prayer works my friends. So do practical acts of kindness like cat and plant care, vacuuming, gifting me homemade lasagne, soups, mineral broth, muffins, cookies, kombucha, chocolates, gelato, burritos, salads galore.

Today I climbed Shower Mountain. It’s a trek that requires some mental preparation and great physical care. It’s worth it to be clean and each time I make the climb, I can feel the infinitesimal but very real healing as I progress. 

At the summit, I feel hopeful. 

Ain’t Life Grand?