You're Going To Make It -- You'll See

I think at the accident scene that November afternoon I must have heard discussion about where the Life Flight would take us, because I had “Pocono Medical Center” stuck in my mind. In vain the nurses and doctors would later ask me if I could tell them where I was. “Not Pocono…,” I would begin hesitantly, and wait for them to lead with “Bethlehem…” Yes, of course Bethlehem -- wherever that was. Was it close to Pocono something? I couldn’t ask aloud because the correct answer did not begin with the word “Pocono”, so I must not even be close. And yet…”This is where Donna is,” I wheezed to my husband. “Maybe we can see her. She is at Pocono Medical Center.” And there I could see that I had blundered again. I was at Bethlehem something.

I remembered so little, but I knew that Donna was in pain and that I should be praying for her. The unknown sister-in-law of a friend, she had been burned in a terrible accident and was kept in a coma for three months. Somehow I thought she was nearby, dealing with dawning reality as I was. And I prayed.

Seventeen days later I was transported to Williamsport Hospital to begin the recovery stage closer to my family. My self-preservation prohibits my remembering the horrible pain and shock of that trip and my entry into the wonderful world of rehabilitation. Muscles that were too weak to hold up a frame collaborated with my fractured pelvis and ribs to make the first morning move into a wheelchair something akin to a living nightmare. I was wheeled into a common room, placed within a circle of semi-conscious wounded and told it was time for exercises. Revoltingly chipper music played while the recreational therapist coaxed everyone to flap their arms and kick their feet. I cringe remembering the bedraggled, broken crew with crutches, walkers, wheelchairs and casts, all nodding heads and waggling whatever could move.

I cried. Tears of pain. Tears of anger. Tears of insult.
I would not participate in this.
Across the room a woman caught my attention. She was grinning as she sweated and stretched. It turned into a grimace when her arm couldn’t extend further and I realized she was scarred along her neck and scalp and arms. Every part I could see was shiny and bright red. And still she moved -- obediently lifting alternating feet, and waving alternating hands.

Ashamed I began to wiggle along. Surely, if she could do it I had absolutely no excuse. As we all gridlocked near the double doors after the 30 minutes had ended, I found the opportunity to look up into her eyes. “Thank you for working so hard,” I croaked. “You were my inspiration.” And she beamed back at me. “You’re going to make it; you’ll see.”

Later that evening as I was recuperating from my accumulated two hours spent out of bed, friends from church stopped by -- the first of many visitors. They told me they wouldn’t stay long -- they were dropping off flowers. One vase was for me and one vase was for Donna.
She had been transported from Pocono Medical Center two weeks earlier.

It has been twenty months since I've seen Donna. Today she walked into my workplace with her husband. We hugged. And hugged. We told each other how good we look -- how well we move -- how beautiful we are. We shared our daily amazement at being alive and strong. Her skin is clear and her joints are no longer bound. My legs support me. My posture is straight. We talked about the twelve days we shared in rehab, relying on each other’s encouragement and progress.
We made it, as we had told each other we would.

“I prayed for you all these months,” she said. “And you were praying for me before you even met me.” That knowledge gave her courage through many difficult surgeries and recuperation, because it was evidence of God’s love for her.

I don’t like looking back at a time that was so dark -- particularly on a beautiful summer day. I want to meditate on and write about the profusion of sunflowers and tomatoes and luxuriate in the warmth of August air. However, God brought Donna to me today, and the whole inexplicable tapestry of our fellowship is in the forefront of my mind.
Perhaps He intends it to lead me to rejoice in something much deeper than the loveliness of this season. Perhaps it is something else altogether.