While inpatient, I could almost never
sleep at night despite the cocktail of drugs I was on (which often
included rather hefty dosages of oxycodone and clonazepam). Feelings
of loneliness, guilt, and shame were some of my closest companions,
and they liked to keep me awake for considerable hours on end.
Sometimes, (if I were feeling strong enough bodily at that point in
my recovery), I would weasel out of my room in my wheelchair around
the 4:30 am mark. Mom was always just mere feet away from me
fast-asleep, and I'd manage to exit the room without waking her (as was my goal). I'd
push myself to the elevators, and maneuver myself to the downstairs
lobby. Along the way, I would run into various familiar staff members
and we would exchange polite greetings. Often, they would look at me
in disbelief and say something along the lines of, “you're still
up?” Despite the emotional storm brewing within me, I would often
just respond to their remarks with a coquettish laugh that made it
seem as though I did not have a care in the world. I would then
proceed to sit outside for about an hour on end watching the doctors
and nurses make their way into the hospital through the ER doors for
rounds and what not.
I would be lying if I told you I found
the sight of them anything other than phenomenally inspirational...
Often a time, I felt as though I was a useless, miniscule
discoloration present on Earth, despite all of the love and affection
that was perpetually shown to me by friends,family, and medical staff
alike. Still, I could not shake that substantial feeling of
fruitlessness; it seemed as though my existence was only cause for
chaos... rather that be to my family, friends, or doctors. None of
them had done anything to make me feel this way, quite to the
contrary, actually. Yet, what purpose was I serving spending the
majority of my life in a hospital bed trying to tame a chronic
condition that seemingly had every intention to demolish me despite
several methods of medical intervention?
However, seeing the various medical
professionals make their way into their personal playing arena
incited great hope within me; it made me believe that perhaps one
day, I too could go to work on a timely schedule and help make a
difference within somebody's life. I believe that on the vast
majority of nights, this is what gave me the willingness to continue
my fight to get better, despite feelings of impending doom and a body
that constantly said otherwise.
These professionals were people who had
worked long and hard to achieve their goals, and they were constantly
willing to learn. Often a time, they contained the whole package; not
only were they competent in terms of their specialties, but they were
empathetic and seemed to have a thriving personal life outside of the
hospital. They, indeed, were perhaps one of my strongest motivators
to recovery; of course, like all human-beings, I could assume they
too had been met with several challenges along the way to their
successes. Yet, here they were, day after day, walking into work ready
to perform their duties and learn.
- Arianna
I needed a reason to belief in a
greater purpose for my own life, and they helped give me just that. I was cautious to
have myself back upstairs by the usual time of surgical rounds, and by then my
internal attitude would experience a rather large shift...I felt
inspired to begin yet another day of combat.
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