I have a lot in my life that I'm grateful for: the fact that the Postal Workers are wearing shorts because we've had highs in the high 70's, the fact that I have a job I truly love, even when I'm taking out the dumpster, a husband who values and respects me, and the kind of life where I can take a nap every day if I need to (I do).
Yesterday was the 5-year anniversary of Ron's accident. An exhausted and distracted postal worker (he worked "Tour one" or the night shift) ran a red light while my blind husband was crossing the street on foot. Ron traveled all over the country by himself, just the white cane. He went everywhere and had a great time. He even made it home drunk one night by himself (the development director bought him a few drinks at a Christmas party). I knew it wasn't Ron's fault. The driver saw Ron at the last second and swerved to avoid him, but it was too late. Ron was dragged at least a couple hundred feet, he was knocked out of his shoes by the impact. He had multiple fractures and required emergency open-heart surgery to repair a busted subclavian artery - he needed a graft. He sustained a terrible head injury with lasting, permanent, damage. Ron still can't use his right side properly. He can walk, but it's ugly, and he can't go far. His right hand and arm don't really work at all. I want to make a very sarcastic and biting comment but I won't, because it would be hurtful to my husband if he heard of it. Needless to say, we're BOTH affected. He has memory and impulse control problems, not bad but annoying at times.
It was months before he had both feet squarely in reality. If I hadn't had delusions for most of my life, I would have run like hell because he had lots of them. He thought we lived in the Home Depot. He thought the hospital was a restaurant. He thought the nurses left him outside in a cab. He thought we were spies, trying to infiltrate a drug cartel. He thought he was hiding in a ladies' bathroom from Iraqis. My favorite? The time I went home (I slept in a chair because he'd pitch a fit if I wasn't there) and instructed the nurses to tell him "I went home". No. When Ron woke up she told him "Your wife is gone." Ron thought I was gone, dead, and he was inconsolable 'till I returned. He thought I had died and left him in a nursing home run by "Mexicans". The nurses, apparently, had a good gossip En Espanol right outside his door. When I'd tell people about it, or Ron did, they'd just laugh and say "Oh, they've got him on some potent medication." No, they didn't, but other people don't want to hear that. They want to blame "medication" and run like hell. Oh, it made me so angry.
Speaking of things that made me angry, let's get to Officer Barfield who investigaged the accident. He took Ron's backpack from the paramedics (he had the papers from the bag). He opened it up and saw Ron had about $2000 in it. We couldn't afford a business checking account, so Ron paid our deliveryman cash. We also had to pay the rent and other bills, so Ron was about to deposit the other thousand after work. Anyway, I assume the bad cop opened the bag, and saw the money. It was mostly small bills, and we lived in a drug-infested neighborhood. He assumed Ron was a drug dealer and stole the money. Then, to make matters worse, this thing came to the hospital the day after the accident and told me it was my fault for letting a blind man out of the house by himself. Oh, great, blame the grieving wife! Oh, that still smokes my bacon. It's a good thing I was exhausted when he said that because I would have hurt him, badly.
Manic-depressive and unmedicated, I got the priviledge of caring for my husband as he recovered. He was loving and sweet (99% of the time). I discovered that most people are wonderful, caring individuals who'd love to help you out. One guy in particular collected books for me. We didn't have a TV and Ron slept a lot. Sometimes the little things make a huge difference. It did for me. Ron says I get all the credit for his recovery.
Ron recovered, somewhat. I knew from the start that a coma lasting more than 1 week would probably leave lasting, permanent damage. I was glad it was only physical. We got the soul-sucking money pit of a deli closed, eventually (they sent Ron back to work in a wheelchair to run the deli???). We bought a house in a safe, non-druggie neighborhood where they don't throw rocks at my cat. Or poison them.
We have safe, mostly reliable transportation now. Metrolift. Two healthy loving cats. I've been diagnosed and medicated. Life, overall, is good.
But I do get a little bitter and resentful on the anniversary.
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