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THREE MONTHS LATER
Kelli can dress herself, feed herself, is no longer wheelchair-bound.
The day she first took steps in a walker, I had to turn away. One does not expect to be overjoyed because your child just ambulated with a walker for the first time. Her struggle to stand and move tore my heart out, and although there was joy in the doing of it, the ever-present thought "this shouldn't be happening" always lingers in my consciousness.
They gave her MRSA in Atlanta, and she does not understand the gowns and masks. She thinks we don't want to touch her. Even now, my hatred of that city burns within. I put pictures of all her family members on a bulletin board in her room, and write out a brief explanation of what has happened to her, so that when I am not there, she can read it and understand...for a few minutes...what has happened to her. Because her memory is so badly damaged, she cannot recall when I was with her last, usually can't remember to look at the board, to "access" it... so every time she sees me, she becomes nearly hysterical, crying and wailing ' Mommy, where have you been ? Mommy, why did you leave me?", knives in my heart because I have to accept that is her reality, now. She does not remember, nor will she ever, the hell that Atlanta was, both a blessing and a curse.
The Rehab nurses nurse me, too. They are incredible...as angelic and nurturing as the wretches in Atlanta were shamefully negligent. I am daily grateful for their skill and knowledge. They are getting Kelli better every day, and I am acutely aware I have no real way to thank them for what they are doing for her...no way to convey my overwhelming gratitude to them.
She is my beloved daughter. The angry child I thought I could never have peace with has become the broken doll who sobs loudly when I leave her room, begging me to come back, wrenching my heart with her pleas.
She had to learn to hold a pen and write again, and surprised me with a note I have kept and will always cherish, written in a childs' scrawling hand: "I love You and I hope your always here for me. I hope one day you need me there I can't wait. I Love You Mom. Love, Kelli". She drew little hearts all over the outside of the note. As I read it, my heart flooded my eyes, and I had to blink very hard many times. That she could articulate such loving sentiment moved me in grateful silence, and yet, the sadness of my adult daughter writing in that manner hurt me with a grief that has become my constant companion.
She is my beloved daughter, and yet she is not....she is a stranger I have learned to love in new ways. The Kelli I birthed, struggled to raise and adored is gone forever, and it is an agony to acknowledge that, grieve that loss and continue working for her recovery. In some ways, I thought perhaps God had given me back my prodigal daughter through this wreck, as cruel and inhumane as it all is and has been. I find myself continually trying to make sense of the insensible.
I tell my family and myself that every second we have had with Kelli since the moment of impact in that wreck has been a Gift, and that we now must accept this New Kelli as she is, and never fail in our love for her.
She is forever changed, and so am I.
END
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