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Instead of fighting with someone else, with my sister, my rock in this world, I cozy up in bed, repeating a silent mantra that tomorrow couldn’t be worse than today.
Less Than Two and A Half Years Ago...
The weeks pass.
And I realize how resilient we can be. How things that seem impossible, intolerable, unimaginable—often become reality. And reality eventually forms a sense of normalcy through routine, which leads to familiarity.
That doesn’t stop the shattered pieces of my heart from hanging on by a thread.
I miss Harvey.
He’s been in rehab for thirty days now, and I haven’t seen him since. We’ve texted, we’ve spoken on the phone, but he refuses to see anyone while he stays at the rehab center near our town.
His messages barely answer my questions or show the tiniest trace of the man he used to be.
And I hate myself for it—for not making us stop. For not telling him how stupid and reckless we were by riding in a storm.
He’s coming home today, but he’ll be heading to the rehab center daily for the next month, depending on his progress.
He has a full rehabilitation team assisting him: a physicaltherapist, a psychologist, a nurse, a doctor, and a nutritionist. I still remember, though, when he was in the hospital, how each visit from medical professionals dissipated his smile. His skin had paled, and the sullen look he gave everyone set in.
I hope he’s doing better.
We don’t need to lose someone to death to grieve. Sometimes, a new reality or a new way of life can make us grieve whatever or whomever we leave behind.
We plan and we see a future, and when it doesn’t happen, when things take a dim turn for the worst, our minds and bodies are in grieving mode, whether we notice or not.
I keep giving thanks that Harvey’s alive, that he’sherewith me. I didn’t lose him. We’re both here. We’ll be okay.
But how selfish of me to think that. I’m not the one who lost the ability to walk—he did. And I won’t ever be able to understand how he feels.
They say time can erase all measures of pain to a certain degree. And I’m here praying to my mom that it’s true. That Harv will get through this.
Not only physically. But mentally.
Because he lost more than most sensation in his legs; he lost a part of who he was—the reckless boy with more pride than a straight-A student. Every time a nurse or a doctor brought up the topic of bladder control, he asked me to leave the room. Same with anything sex-related.
According to Helen, Harvey started doing intermittent catherization right away, to increase his ability to control his bladder in the future.
It pains me to think of all the things we take for granted. That being able-bodied permits me to pee easily without outside help or tools.
I clear my thoughts, pushing them away like a cloud of smoke. Inside, I’m choking on the fumes, but I must be strong.
For him.
Forus.
I can go soaring and snorkeling and skydiving and bungee dumping. And he can’t.
Apparently, his parents were given a generous anonymous donation through the hospital that will help cover medical costs as well as insurance. Harvey and I will be living in one of his parents’ bungalow properties, the same way Hen’s living in a condo they own near his college.
As if they’re not doing enough already.
My sister drives us to Harv’s and my new home in her car.
Home.
I never thought when we got our little apartment together that we’d be moving so soon. How did this happen? How did life change in the blink of an eye?
