Joni (9 page)

Him as a strong, comforting person with a deep, reassuring voice, saying specifically to me, “Lo, I am with you always. If I loved you enough to die for you, don’t you think I ought to know best how to run your life even if it means your being paralyzed?” The reality of this Scripture was that He was with me, now. Beside me in my own room! That was the comfort I needed.

I discovered that the Lord Jesus Christ could indeed empathize with my situation. On the cross for those agonizing, horrible hours, waiting for death, He was immobilized, helpless, paralyzed.

Jesus did know what it was like not to be able to move—not to be able to scratch your nose, shift your weight, wipe your eyes.
He was paralyzed on the cross.
He could not move His arms or legs. Christ knew exactly how I felt! “Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has gone through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are” (Heb. 4:14, 15
NIV
).

Before my accident, I didn’t “need” Christ. Now I needed Him desperately. When I had been on my feet, it never seemed important that He be part of my decision-making—what party to go to, whether to go to a friend’s house or a football game, etc. It didn’t seem that He would even be interested in such insignificant things. But, now that my life was reduced to the basic life routines, He was a part of it because He cared for me. He was, in fact, my only dependable reality.

These new and reassuring concepts had a quieting effect on my spirit, and I think they were even helpful as I shared them with Jay during her personal troubles.

My drawing, still self-expression in style and simple in approach, was more of a therapy than I had anticipated. As a reflection of my new mood, I began to sign “PTL” on my drawings—for “praise the Lord”—an expression of my belief that God
cared for me. It was a simple expression, giving Him the glory for His direct help in restoring this one aspect of my individuality.

I also began to take more of an interest in my personal grooming. Before, I had avoided all mirrors. Now, Jay and Diana helped me fix my hair, brighten my face, find and wear attractive clothes, and discover ways to improve my overall appearance.

In therapy, I was able to try sitting up. I was bothered by dizziness and nausea again as they lifted me to a sitting position in my new bed, with my legs dangling over the edge. It was a slow process, but soon I was almost upright. Then I used the slant-board to get used to the vertical position again, while muscles, long unused, had to get accustomed to holding up my head. When my inner ear and neck muscles adjusted to the vertical once more, I was allowed to sit in a wheelchair. My legs were wrapped in elastic bandages to avoid circulation problems caused by blood settling in the arteries of my legs and thighs, and I was fitted with a tight corset that supported my upper torso. This enabled me to sit up and breathe comfortably.

I was excited about my progress and looked forward to going home for the Christmas holidays again. Christmas, 1968—a whole year had passed since I was last home! But this time I could go home for several days.

Just before Christmas, dad and mom brought me some interesting news.

“Joni, we’ve heard about a new hospital in California,” said dad. “It’s called Rancho Los Amigos, it’s in Los Angeles, and they are making some pretty remarkable advancements in therapy.”

“Their approach to rehabilitation is very progressive,” mom added. “They’ve been able to teach people to regain the use of their arms and legs. Even so-called impossible cases.”

“Oh, wow!” I exclaimed. “Yeah! Let’s go there. Can we?”

“We’re checking now. We expect to hear soon. But I think it looks good,” said dad. “We can’t go with you, but we’ve talked with Jay, and she wants to go. She could fly out and rent an apartment nearby to be with you.”

“That sounds marvelous!” I shrieked. “Let’s pray that God will make it possible. Wow—wouldn’t that be some Christmas present?”

It was an exciting Christmas. I was strong enough to stay at home for several days, and it was good to be in normal surroundings once more. And when Dick asked me to go with him to a movie, I was really thrilled.

But as much as I dearly wanted to be normal again, it was impossible. Dick put his arm around me, and I didn’t even know it. He squeezed me affectionately, lovingly—but I couldn’t feel a thing. I kept watching the movie. Finally he asked, “Don’t you feel that?”

“What?”

“This.” He squeezed me again.

“No,” I said softly, embarrassed. “I—I’m sorry.” I really wanted to feel his arm, his touch.

Driving home, Dick was forced to stop the car suddenly, and I flew forward and hit my head on the dash. I couldn’t help myself—couldn’t even pick myself up. I was not hurt. Only my pride and ego were damaged.

Dick berated himself for letting this happen. “Why didn’t I remember to hold on to you?” he scolded himself.

“Dick, please don’t blame yourself. It takes getting used to. And I’m not hurt. Let’s not allow it to spoil our evening.”

We drove home without further incident. As Dick wheeled me into the house, I said, “Dickie, thank you. Oh, wow, did I have fun! It—it was almost like the exciting things we used to do. This is the first time I’ve done anything normal in a year and a half. Thank you, Dickie.”

“It was a lot of fun,” he said simply, and leaned across to kiss me on the forehead. “Glad you enjoyed yourself.” His ever-sensitive eyes smiled lovingly into mine.

It was fun. But it wasn’t really like the “old times.” We were both still uncomfortable and awkward with my chair, and I wondered,
Will things ever be normal again?

I promised myself to do everything I could to make it happen, at least with my attitude. What a contrast with last Christmas! A year before, I had had only a day at home, and I had been so ashamed of my appearance and handicap that I had cringed in the background and covered my legs with the old brown blanket.

This year, I wore new hose and a bright orange sweater with a stylishly short corduroy skirt to match. My hair, although still short, was done in a casual, feminine style, and I felt like a woman again, not just a body stuffed in hospital pajamas!

This time I did not want to go back to Greenoaks.

“You won’t have to, Joni,” said dad.

“What?”

“You won’t have to go back to Greenoaks. We’ve just received word from California. Rancho Los Amigos has room for you. We’ll be leaving next week, after New Year’s.”

I began to cry. “Oh, daddy, I’m so happy. The Lord is real. He does answer prayer.”

“Mother and I will fly out there with you, and Jay will drive out and meet us there.”

“I can’t believe I’m really going.”

Rancho Los Amigos—that’s where I’ll get back my hands,
I thought.

T
he flight to California was a memorable experience. After all, it was my first flight, and I was flying toward
hope.
I’d soon regain the use of my hands—Dick and I could resume our relationship and get married. At last I could see what I thought was God’s pattern “for good” for my life.

When we arrived in Los Angeles—some 3,018 miles from the freezing cold and icy streets of Baltimore—the weather was balmy and sunny. I knew immediately that I was going to enjoy my stay.

Remembering my disappointment at my first sight of Greenoaks, I purposely avoided making a mental picture of Rancho Los Amigos. To my surprise, Rancho was beautiful and well-staffed. Many of the orderlies and staff people were college students working their way through school. Several were girls, and I was glad to have people of my own age and background to whom I could relate.

I was impressed by the order and controlled activity of this place. At Greenoaks, the staff people were always busy, but it was the kind of chaotic busyness of those who are
overworked. Here, there was no lost motion. Though everyone had plenty to do, it was for the benefit of the patient, not at his expense. I’m sure that this was due to the fact that Rancho was well-staffed and the people well-paid.

Mom and dad stayed long enough to get me comfortably settled; then they returned to Baltimore, leaving Jay and Kay in a rented apartment near Rancho Los Amigos. One night, about a week later, I heard a commotion in the hall. I strained to hear the voices—there was no mistaking them. Exploding into my room were Diana, Dick, and Jackie!

“Ta da!” sang Diana, gesturing and bowing outlandishly.

“I can’t believe it!” I shrieked.

“We got lonesome,” grinned Dick.

“Glad to see us?” asked Jackie.

“Oh, you guys! How did you get here?”

“We drove all the way,” said Diana.

“Nonstop,” added Dick. “That’s why we’re so grubby.”

“Yeah,” smiled Jackie, “we came directly to the hospital. We gassed up in Nevada and haven’t made any stops since then—we wanted to get here tonight before visiting hours ended.”

“I think we drove the last fifty miles on gas fumes,” laughed Dick.

“You guys are too much!” I said. It was a wild, exuberant reunion, and a few rules regarding visitors were “bent” that night as they shared the details of their trip with me. They all talked excitedly and at once, alternately flopping on my bed and punctuating their conversation with wild gestures and contagious laughter.

Jay and Kay arrived before they left and promptly invited them to bring their sleeping bags and camp out at the apartment during their visit.

Therapy at Rancho began immediately and consisted of trying to get me to become as independent as possible. I was fitted with braces for my forearms and taught how to use shoulder and
back muscles to get my arms to respond. By “throwing” certain muscles, I found that I could raise and lower my arms to some extent, but I could not move my fingers or bend my wrists, limiting the movements and use of my arms, as well as control of these movements. I could not pick up or grasp even the easiest item or utensil.

However, I did learn to feed myself. A spoon was bent at a 45-degree angle and attached to my arm brace. By moving my arm, I could swing it into a plate of food, scoop up a bite, and lift it back toward my mouth. The movement—smooth, easy, and unconscious for seventeen years of my life—was now awkward and difficult and required supreme concentration. By raising and lowering the spoon into the food on the plate, I was able to feed myself. The movement was like that of a steam shovel, and often I spilled more than I got into my mouth. But it was an exciting experience—feeding myself for the first time in a year and a half!

Gradually my movements became smoother, and I tried a fork, bent in the same way, with moderate success. It’s a small thing to be able to lift a bite of mashed potatoes to your mouth, but the sense of accomplishment for me was thrilling.

My doctor at Rancho was a bright young specialist whose methods were new and, perhaps, a bit unorthodox.

“Thanks for not sending my friends away when they burst in here, Doctor,” I said.

“I don’t want anyone chasing your friends away,” he responded. “In fact, I want them to come—as often as they can.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I want them to observe you in all your therapy, to learn as much as possible about you and your handicap.”

“You mean you want them to watch me doing P.T. and O.T.?”

“Everything. You see, Joni, I want your friends and family to know your procedures, your needs, and your problems as we know them.”

“Why, Doctor?”

“To help you become less dependent on a hospital for care,” he said.

“You want them to learn how to take care of me?”

“That’s right. And I want you to set a realistic goal for yourself regarding getting out of here and going home for good.”

“H-home?” I stammered.

“I think you should plan to finish here by April 15,” he announced.

“April 15! But that’s only three months away. Will I be ready?”

“That’s up to you. Are you willing to work toward it?”

“Oh, wow, am I!”

This seemed incredible. I was not used to dealing with my rehabilitation in this way. At Greenoaks, I never knew what was happening, if anything. I was forced to be reactionary in my hopes, so I made no plans at all. I simply took things a day at a time. But now I had something to look forward to, and it was only three months away. My head was swimming with thoughts and dreams of going home for good.

Judy, a Christian college student who worked at Rancho parttime as an attendant, became a friend. Her spiritual maturity seemed much greater than mine, so I often talked with her about the Lord, hoping some of her faith might brush off on me. Judy was attending a Bible college nearby and was delighted to share her newfound knowledge of scriptural truth with me. I felt I was making progress now in every area of my life.

Judy came in early one morning, pushing an empty wheelchair, and said, “You have enough sitting up time to be able to use a wheelchair.”

“Really? I can make it go? How?”

“You see these eight rubber knobs on the outside of the wheels?”

I nodded.

“Well, you let your arms hang down beside the wheels and get your hands up against these knobs. See?”

“Yeah—but then what?”

She said, “Remember, we’ve been working on your shoulder muscles. By throwing your shoulders and biceps into the movement, you can make your arms move against the wheel knob. It’ll be slow and tedious until you get the hang of it.”

“Okay. When do I start?”

“Now. You can drive to P.T.,” said Judy.

“But I don’t have P.T. until nine o’clock. It’s only seven now,” I told her.

Judy just grinned. “Right.”

It sure is a slow, tedious process,
I thought. I was strapped in to keep me from throwing myself to the floor, and it was a good thing. I tried every exercise I could remember to make back and shoulder muscles substitute for the muscles in my arms. And it took me all of those two hours to coax the wheelchair just the thirty feet or so down the corridor to the P.T. area. By then, I was so exhausted and winded, I had no strength left for P.T. exercises!

However, Judy was waiting there to see my progress and grinned widely at my efforts.

“Beautiful!” she said excitedly.

“Really? Does everyone take this long?”

“The first time,” Judy nodded. “A lot of them just give up completely—and a few even fall out of the chair.”

I felt proud and exhilarated by the accomplishment—the first time in over a year and a half that I had moved myself through my own efforts.

With practice, I was able to improve my wheelchair ability and speed. There were some minor setbacks, though. A few times I veered into a wall and was stuck for thirty or forty minutes until rescued by someone. Finally, I was given an electric-powered chair to use. What a sense of freedom and adventure this gave me. My chair was controlled electrically by a box that I operated by using my arm brace, and I got so good at it that I practically lived in my chair.

The California community surrounding the hospital had built its sidewalks to accommodate wheelchairs; even the curbs were gently sloped for easy wheelchair traffic. It gave me a sense of independence and satisfaction to be able to go to the nearby Taco Bell for other patients with less freedom to get around. However, it was still humiliating to have people on the street stare or make comments. It was also humbling to “drive” all the way to the Taco Bell only to be stymied there, unable to get the money out to pay the man for my order. He was accustomed to waiting on handicapped people, however, and handled the situation easily and with good humor. He’d place the order securely on my lap, make change from my purse, and joke about entering me in the Ontario Raceway 500.

I didn’t enter the stock car competition at Ontario, but I did do some racing. Rick, another quadriplegic, and I each had electric wheelchairs as well as similar backgrounds in competitive sports, and that could only lead to contests.

“I can make my chair go faster than yours,” I bragged one day.

“Oh, yeah? That’s what you think. Y’wanna race?”

There was a whirring sound as our chairs raced down the corridor in a “50-yard dash.” It was a tie.

“We’ve got to go farther in order to build up speed,” Rick grinned. “Let’s race from this corner of the building all the way to the other end of the corridor, around the corner, to the front doors. Okay?”

“You’re on!” I said.

Judy and another attendant pretended not to notice our high jinks and walked the other way.

“On your mark!” I called to Rick. “Get set! Go!”

We were off side by side, veering crazily and noisily down the hall.

“Don’t crowd me, Eareckson,” chuckled Rick. “Get over to your own side of the street!”

As we noisily raced by the rooms, patients inside stared or smiled at our game. First Rick’s chair pulled into the lead, then mine, then his again.

Neck and neck, we went into the “far turn”—the right-angle turn down the next corridor. I swung into the corridor without even slowing. As I whipped around the corner, I came face-to-face with a nurse carrying a tray full of bottles and medicines. She froze. I screamed, “Look out!”

Too late. The tray went flying, crashing on the tile floor, and my chair pinned the nurse, screaming, against the wall. I tried to stop the motor by striking at my control box, but I was clumsy and couldn’t shut it off. The wheels were spinning, the nurse was shrieking, and Rick was laughing hysterically.

As punishment for my reckless driving, they took away my driving privileges for a while and confined me to low gear when I took to the road again.

Diana, Dick, and Jackie teased me about that for several days. Their “few days” visit now had stretched into three weeks, but finally they had to go back East. It was a sad but hopeful goodby. I told them to expect me home soon after April 15.

Before he left with the others, Dick held me tight. “I want you to know that I love you very much. I’ll be waiting to see you in April.” A great sense of security and reassurance came over me as Dick held me in his arms, and I began to be more optimistic about our future together when we could be more than friends again, when I’d get my hands back. Dick and I still hoped and prayed for nothing else. Perhaps we still had a future together.

By April 15, 1969, I had reached my goal in rehabilitation and was told I could go home. But a serious question was still unanswered.

“Doctor, I’ve been working hard to get my hands back. Now I’m beginning to wonder if I ever will.”

“No, Joni. You won’t ever get your hands back,” he said bluntly. “You might as well stop hoping and get used to the idea.”

The words were exactly the opposite of what I wanted to hear—what I’d been praying to hear. I wasn’t prepared to accept the fact that I’d always be a quadriplegic. Forever dependent, forever helpless.

It was not terribly surprising news. I suppose I’d always suspected it. Yet, I continually hoped that I’d find some miracle cure at Rancho Los Amigos.

Tearfully, I wrote Dick a letter explaining what the doctor had said.

For some reason, God has chosen not to answer our prayers. Dickie, I’ll never be able to use my hands. That means I’ll always be dependent and helpless. I can never be a wife. I know you love me as I love you. Yet, God must have something else in mind for us. Let’s continue to be friends, Dickie. But I want you to be free to choose other relationships. Date other girls and look for God to lead you to the right one for you for marriage. I can never be that woman. I’m sorry, Dickie, but I can never ask you to be part of such a hopeless relationship. Let’s continue our relationship based on friendship.

I didn’t sign it “your Joni” as I had done on my other letters to him. This time, I simply signed it, “Joni.”

It wasn’t easy for me to end that special relationship with Dick; in fact, I was frightened to end it. I loved him and didn’t want to lose him, but I knew I couldn’t marry him—not now. My paralysis was too great a burden to place on his shoulders. And a commitment without marriage was unfair to him. Heavy waves of grief swept over me as I realized that I would never marry Dick, and I knew I had to quit thinking about past promises that couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be kept.

I had accepted the fate that I’d never walk again. But I had believed I could still join the ranks of those handicapped persons
who drive cars, make meals, work with their hands, and put their arms around someone they love. That I’d be able to drink a glass of water, bathe myself, brush my hair, and put on my own makeup. Little things, to be sure, but things important enough to make the difference between one who is merely handicapped and one who is totally dependent.

Now, ever so slowly, the reality of my injury began to sink in—I was to be a quadriplegic
as long as I lived.