The days and weeks spent in the CCU were only good in that I was out of ICU and off the respirator. TV was boring and watching shows like Fame -- about kids at a high school for the performing arts -- only depressed me as it reminded me of gifts I no longer had or had the privilege to use. Through tears I would cry to God, "Take it all but please allow me one day to sing to You again."

To give you an idea as to the strength of my lungs at that time, to recite John 3:16 would go something like this: (Big breath) "For God so loved... (breath) the world He gave... (breath, etc.) His only begotten Son... that whosoever believeth... in Him should not... perish but have... everlasting life." And then I would have to rest a couple of minutes.

For a little while at nights they tried using an odd breathing aid on me. The main piece looked like the top half of a turtle shell -- the size of my chest -- with a hose coming out of the center of it. They placed the shell on my chest and plugged the hose into a vacuum machine that would apply suction in time with my breathing and expand my chest. It was as awkward as it sounds and in the end, only served to put massive sores on my sides where the rubber edge of the shell rubbed against my skin. I asked the doctor, "If it came right down to it, could this machine save my life?" He answered, no and to that I replied. "Then why am I using it?" It was soon afterward discontinued.

There was a curious circumstance that came as a result of using this machine. The sores that developed on my sides from the rubbing of the "turtle shell" brought me great pain. I remember complaining about the pain and my wife asking the doctor, "Should he be feeling that?" The doctor shook his head at her thinking I couldn't see him which only infuriated me.

"If I can't feel it, explain these tears." It was becoming clear to me and those around me that I'd been a patient for much too long and the frustration of the complete helplessness of paralysis was beginning to manifest itself in my emotions and moods.

My weight (or lack of it) was also still a problem. I managed to gain enough to no longer have to drink straight potassium but I still had to be encouraged to eat what I loosely call food from the hospital cafeteria. One day the nurse walked in with my lunch tray of ham salad and I just cried having eaten it countless times before. I began asking for and receiving food that could be brought from home or take out. I have yet to become bored or depressed by a pizza.

Did you know that lack of lung function effects your ability to laugh or cry. Laughing comes out as a silent smile and crying is only quiet tears. Sometimes I would laugh so hard it would bring tears and yet there would be no noise. As my strength slowly returned, so did my ability to express emotion which had been mostly stored up until that time. It is said that a trauma such as mine will cause the patient (or "victim" is more accurate) to go through a number of stages such as denial, anger, depression, and so on. I don't know the complete list but I'll bet I hit every one.

The main reason I was still in the hospital (besides my weak breathing) was to allow my spine to fuse. I was wearing a neck brace that made me unable to move my head from side to side. The visitors that were finally allowed to see me had to stand in a specific spot at the foot of my bed so I could look at them while we talked.

There were times of joy when the nurses and orderlies began daily transferring me to a wheelchair with which my wife could then wheel me around the hospital including the great outdoors. The fresh Autumn air was intoxicating and the knowledge that I would be going home soon made each passing day better than the one before it.

Finally the day came at the end of September that my neck brace was removed and I was released from the hospital to be admitted to the Oklahoma Rehabilitation Institute (also in Tulsa) to join the others like me who were learning to live in society by adapting to their new limitations caused by accident or stroke.