Joni (2 page)

The noise in the background became more distinct too. It wasn’t the drill; it was only an air conditioner.

My head and vision began to clear, and for a moment I couldn’t remember where I was or why I was afraid of a drill. Then memory returned.

I looked up at a ventilator grill above my head, at the high, ancient, cracked plaster ceiling. I tried to turn my head to see the rest of my surroundings, but I couldn’t move at all. Sharp pains on each side of my head resisted my attempt to move. I sensed that the holes they had drilled in my skull had something to do with this. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see large metal tongs attached to a spring-cable device pulling my head away from the rest of my body. It took an unusual amount of strength—both mental and physical—just to learn this much about my new surroundings.

During those first days I drifted in and out of consciousness. The drugs sent me off into a dream world, a nightmare devoid of reality. Hallucinations were common and often frightening. Dreams, impressions, and memories blurred together in confusion so that I often thought I was losing my mind.

A recurring nightmare came to me out of the surrealistic world induced by the drugs. In this dream, I was with Jason Leverton, my steady all through high school. We were in some unusual setting waiting to be judged. I was naked and tried to cover myself in
shame. In the nightmare, I was on my feet, standing before a figure dressed in robes. I knew him as an “apostle.” He didn’t say anything, but I knew somehow that I was being judged. Suddenly he pulled out a long sword and swung it in my direction, striking me square on the neck and cutting off my head. Then I’d wake up crying and afraid. This same dream haunted me again and again.

Other hallucinogenic experiences from the drugs turned even the crazy world of dreams inside out. Vivid colors, shapes, and figures swelled and contracted into strange and unusual patterns. I saw “frightening” colors, “peaceful” patterns—shapes and colors that represented feelings, moods, and emotions.

Someone’s loud moaning woke me from my nightmare. I didn’t know how much time had elapsed since my last period of consciousness, but this time I was facedown! How had I gotten in that position? The tongs were still in place. Their pressure against the sides of my head caused more mental and psychological pain than physical discomfort.

I discovered I was encased in some kind of a canvas frame. There was an opening for my face, and I could see only an area immediately beneath my bed. A pair of legs with white shoes and nylon hose stood within this narrow field of vision.

“Nurse,” I called out weakly.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“W-hat—where—uh—” I stammered, trying to phrase my question.

“Sh-h-h. Don’t try to talk. You’ll tire yourself,” she said. From her pleasant voice and reassuring manner, I knew she wasn’t the nurse who had cut off my bathing suit or the one who had shaved my head. I felt her hand on the back of my shoulder.

“Just try and rest. Go back to sleep if you can. You’re in ICU. You’ve had surgery, and we’ll take good care of you. So, don’t worry. Okay?” She patted my shoulder. It was such a pleasant sensation to have feeling somewhere—except in my head, where the tongs bit into the flesh and bone.

Gradually I became aware of my surroundings. I learned that the device I called a bed was really a Stryker frame. It looked like I was in a canvas sandwich held tightly by straps. Two nurses or orderlies would come every two hours to turn me over. They’d place a canvas frame on top of me, and while a nurse held the weights attached to the “ice tong” calipers (and my head), they would deftly flip me 180 degrees. Then they would remove the frame I had been lying on and make sure I was ready for my two-hour shift in this new position. I had two views—the floor and the ceiling.

Eventually I learned that my Stryker frame was in an eightbed ICU ward and that ICU was short for
intensive care unit.
I’d never heard the phrase used before but figured out it must be for serious cases. Patients were only allowed visitors for five minutes per hour—and then just by family members.

As the hours blurred into days, I got to know my roommates better. Through snatches of conversation, instructions of doctors, and other sounds, I pieced together quite a bit.

The man in a bed next to mine groaned constantly. On the change of nurses for the morning shift, I heard a night nurse explain to her replacement in a whisper, “He shot his wife and then tried to kill himself. He probably won’t make it. He’s to be restrained.”

That explained the sound of chains rattling—he had been handcuffed to his bed!

A woman in one of the other beds moaned through the night. She was begging the nurses to give her a cigarette or ice cream.

Judy was a young girl like myself. But she was in a coma as the result of injuries sustained in a car accident.

Tom was a young man who was there because of a diving accident. It’s funny. I knew Tom had broken his neck but didn’t understand that
I
had. No one told me.

Tom could not even breathe on his own. I learned this when I asked a nurse what a certain sound was. She explained it was Tom’s resuscitation equipment.

When we learned of the similarity of our accidents, we began to send notes back and forth. “Hi, I’m Tom,” his first note said by way of introduction. Nurses and visitors wrote our notes and were our couriers.

At night, when the flurry of activity was less intense, I’d hear the moaning and groaning of others in my ICU ward. Then I’d listen for the reassuring sound of Tom’s resuscitation equipment. Since I couldn’t turn to see him, the sound was comforting. I felt a kinship with him and wondered what he looked like.
Tomorrow,
I thought,
I’ll ask for his photo.

Later that night, the resuscitator stopped. The silence was as loud as an explosion. Panic seized me, and my voice choked as I tried to call out for help. I heard nurses as they rushed to Tom’s bedside.

“His resuscitator is down! Get a new one, stat!” someone ordered.

I could hear footsteps running down the tile hallway and the metallic sounds of the oxygen unit being removed. Another person was on the telephone at the nurses’ station calling for emergency help. Within minutes, the room, hallway, and nurses’ station were busy with urgent, whispered instructions and the confused commotion of crisis.

“Tom! Can you hear me, Tom?” a doctor called. Then snapped, “Where’s that other resuscitator?”

“Shall we try artificial respiration, doctor?” asked a woman’s voice.

My mind was spinning with the frustrations of my paralysis. I was helpless—and even if I could move, there was nothing I could do. Wide-eyed, I lay there staring past the ceiling into darkness.

“The orderly had to go downstairs for another unit. He’s on his way.”

“Keep up the mouth-to-mouth. We’ve got to keep him alive until—” the man’s voice broke off.

I heard the doors of the elevator down the hall open and close and urgent running footsteps along with the rattle of equipment.
The sounds were aimed toward the ICU ward and, with a sense of relief, I heard someone say, “I’ve got a unit. You want to make room?”

Then, with horror, I heard the chilling reply. “Never mind. We’ve lost him. He’s dead.”

I felt the flesh on the back of my neck crawl. With mounting terror, I realized they were not talking about some unknown patient, some impersonal statistic. They were talking about Tom.
Tom was dead!

I wanted to scream but was unable to. I was afraid of falling asleep that night, afraid that I too would not wake up.

The next day, my terror was no less intense. I grieved for a man I knew only through notes, and I began to think about my own situation. I was not dependent on a machine in order to breathe. But I was dependent on the IV—intravenous solutions—that put sustenance into my body and the catheter in my bladder that drained body wastes and poisons.

What if one of these fails’? What if the tongs come loose from my head? What if
—my brain was a frightened jumble.

A day or two later, a man was brought in with a similar injury. They put him on a Stryker frame and put an oxygen tent around him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see what the frame was like. I could not see my own, but could now understand what happened each time they flipped me—two hours up, two hours down. Looking at him, I had the feeling that we were like steers being turned regularly on some huge barbecue spit. I was terrified each time they came to flip me.

The new patient was just as apprehensive. As the orderlies prepared to flip him one day, he cried out, “No, please don’t flip me. I couldn’t breathe when I was turned before! Don’t flip me!”

“That’s all right, mister. You’ll be okay. We have to turn you. Doctor’s orders. Ready, Mike? On three. One. Two. Three!”

“No! Please! I can’t breathe! I’ll pass out—I know it!”

“You’ll be fine. Just relax.”

They fixed the plastic tent for his oxygen and left. I could hear the man’s labored, gasping breathing and prayed the two hours would pass quickly—for his sake as well as my own peace of mind.

Then, suddenly, the breathing stopped. Again there was commotion and activity as nurses and orderlies responded to the crisis. It was too late. Again.

Hot tears flowed from my eyes. Frustration and fear, my twin companions during those early hospital days, overtook me again. With a growing sense of horror and shock, I learned that the ICU ward was a room for the
dying.
I felt my own life was a fragile thing—not something I could take for granted.

Shortly thereafter, during one of the flipping sessions, I fainted and stopped breathing. But within minutes they had revived me, and I felt reassured by their efficiency and deep concern.

“We’re going to take good care of you, Joni,” comforted one doctor. After that, while every turn was still a frightening experience for me, I was conscious of the fact that the nurses and orderlies were more careful than before. Or so it seemed.

I began to notice how cold the ICU ward was. Nearly every patient was unconscious most of the time, so they were probably unaware of the coldness, but it began to bother me. I was afraid of catching cold. One of the orderlies had let it slip one day that a cold could be dangerous for me. Also dangerous was blood poisoning, which was somehow frequent in such cases. There was so much to be frightened about. Nothing seemed positive or hopeful.

Everyday doctors came to see me. Sometimes they came in pairs and discussed my case.

“She has total quadriplegia,” one doctor explained to an associate, “the result of a diagonal fracture between the fourth and fifth cervical levels.”

I knew I was paralyzed but didn’t know why. Or for how long. No one ever explained anything to me about my injury.

Nurses said, “Ask the doctors.”

Doctors said, “Oh, you’re doing fine—just fine.”

I suspected the worst—that I had a broken neck. That thought alone frightened me. A vivid childhood memory came to me. It was the only “real” instance I knew of anyone breaking his neck. A man in the story
Black Beauty
fell from a horse and broke his neck. He
died.

So, inwardly, I didn’t want to hear about my accident, and mentally I began to tune out the medical staff’s discussions.

I knew that I was in a room of dying people because
I was going to die,
just like Tom and the other man. They both had had injuries like mine.
I’m going to die too,
I thought.
They’re just afraid to tell me!

T
he days passed, marked only by recurring nightmares and the strain and discomfort of my canvas prison and metal tongs. I had finally decided that I probably wasn’t going to die. While others in the ICU ward either died or got better and were transferred to regular hospital rooms, I stayed. I got no better, but no worse.

To take my mind off the anguish of the nightmares, from which I woke terrified and drenched with perspiration, I began to daydream, recalling all the events in my life before the accident.

I had had a happy life with my family and friends. We had never known tragedy firsthand. As far back as I could remember, there had been nothing but happiness surrounding our lives and home.

Daddy was probably the reason—the man I was named for, Johnny Eareckson. Born in 1900, dad took the best of both the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. He is an incurable romantic and creative artist but is also in tune with technology. His father had a coal (fuel) business, and during
his childhood, dad cared for the horses before and after school. He drew much knowledge from what he calls the “school of hard knocks” too. He had been attracted to unusual and difficult work because of what he felt it could teach him. His values are personal character, individual happiness, and spiritual development. If a man has these and can pass these qualities on to his children, only then does dad consider him successful.

Dad had done almost everything—from being a sailor to owning and managing his own rodeo! His life was filled with hobbies—horses, sculpture, painting, and building things—his handiwork literally covering the walls and shelves of our home.

I asked dad once, “How do you find time, with your work, to do all the things you do?”

He looked at me, his clear blue eyes sparkling, and replied, “Honey, it began during the Depression. Nobody had work. Most people sat around and felt sorry about themselves and complained. Me? Why, I could use my hands. Carving didn’t cost anything. So, I built things from stuff others threw away. I kept busy with my hands all through the Depression. Guess the habit stuck.”

It was also during those lean years that dad was an Olympic wrestler. He was National AAU Wrestling Champion, a five-time winner of national YMCA championship wrestling honors, and earned a berth on the U.S. Olympic team of 1932. During his days as a wrestler, he received an injury that makes him walk with a slight limp today.

As a young man, he was active in church youth work. In his twenties and early thirties, dad was “Cap’n John” to the church young people. He took the kids camping, on overnight trips, hiking, and on retreats. He had an old flatbed truck and would pile kids, sleeping bags, cookstove, and supplies on board and leave for one of “Cap’n John’s Tours.” They were memorable times and often made an impression on many of the young people. One young woman was especially impressed by “Cap’n John.” She was the energetic and vivacious Margaret “Lindy” Landwehr, who
took a natural interest in athletics and the outdoors and thus gained the attention of “Cap’n John.”

Soon “Lindy” fell in love with “Cap’n John,” and he with her. Many of their dates were crowded, however, for “Cap’n John” brought the entire youth group along!

As an expression of his love, dad worked night and day and built a house for mom as a wedding present. It was toward the end of the Depression and money was still scarce, so he scoured the area with his truck. From an old sailing ship, he salvaged huge beams for the foundation and rafters.

While driving one day, he saw some men demolishing a rock wall.

“What are you going to do with those rocks?” he asked.

“Why?”

“I’ll be glad to haul them away,” dad replied.

“Okay,” the foreman grunted, “just make sure they’re gone by Friday. We’ve got a job to do here.”

“Yessir!” shouted dad. He began the remarkable job of single-handedly moving boulders—most weighing more than a hundred pounds. He did it by himself, somehow maneuvering them onto his truck. After many trips, he had enough for his house. Today two beautiful, huge stone fireplaces are the result of that labor.

The same kind of thing happened when he needed lumber, bricks, and other building supplies. Finally his dream house was completed. He and his bride moved in and have lived there since.

Daddy had the same active interest in business and civic affairs-. Years ago, he started his own flooring business.

He said, “I guess I’m too independent to work for somebody else. I love my family too much to be tied down to someone else’s schedule and interests. By being my own boss, if I want to take off a day and drive my family to the ocean or take ‘em horseback riding, I don’t have to ask anyone. I just put a sign on the door, lock up, and go.”

And we did. We took many trips and vacations, and they were so much fun that it’s difficult to believe they were also part of our education. Dad taught us geography and geology during “survival” backpack outings in the desert or mountains. He showed us how to distinguish between the tracks of various animals, their calls, their ways—things we could never learn in the city.

He introduced us to horseback riding almost as soon as we could sit up. I was in the saddle at age two. In fact, daddy often bragged, “Do you remember the time our whole family rode a hundred miles on horseback? It was from Laramie to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Remember, Joni? You were only four years old! Youngest ever to ride in the Cheyenne Ride.” When we were a bit older, he took us pack-riding in the wilderness of the Medicine Bow range where we acquired a deep appreciation for God and His creation.

Dad taught us all to ride gracefully balanced and gave us lessons in show horsemanship. “Just ride in a rolling motion with the horse,” he’d say, “not like the beginners—bouncing on the horse. It’s almost impossible to synchronize your up and down bounces to the horse’s movements. You’ve got to roll with him, not bounce.”

Dad was always even-tempered and amiable. Nothing or no one ever ruffled him. Not once during all our growing-up years did I see him lose his temper. Our behavior then was based on “not hurting daddy.” We didn’t do certain things because of “what it would do to daddy,” not because it was simply questionable or wrong.

When dad came to the hospital for the brief visits allowed in the ICU ward, he tried to communicate the same genial, positive spirit I’d always known. But no matter how much he tried to appear relaxed and hopeful, his clouded blue eyes, usually so clear and sparkling, betrayed his nervousness. His weathered, gnarled hands shook as they revealed his true feelings. He was afraid and hurt. The daughter he loved and named after himself was lying
helpless in a sandwich of canvas and a tangle of IV and catheter tubes.

The hospital was no place for this man who had spent a lifetime outdoors as an active athlete. His pain and restlessness were difficult to hide.

It hurt me to see what my accident had done to him.
“Why, God?”
I asked.
“Why are You doing this?”

There was an unusually strong bond of love that tied us together as a family. Mom was a source of that strength. She too loved the outdoors and athletic competition and shared dad’s interests. In fact, it was she who taught us girls to play tennis. Swimming and hiking were also things we did as a family.

Mom, with her strong character and loving personality, worked as hard as daddy to see that we had a happy home. There was seldom any disagreement between my parents, and their obvious love for one another was reflected in our lives and made us feel wanted and secure.

After the accident, mom was the one who took charge at the hospital. She stayed there around the clock the first four days, catching short naps on a sofa in the lounge. She did not leave until she was absolutely certain I was out of danger.

Since we were such a close family, my sisters shared my parents’ concern. Kathy, twenty, dark-haired, pretty, and shy, was the one who had pulled me from the water and saved my life.

Jay, twenty-three at the time of my accident, was the sister I was closest to. She was quiet and graceful, her long, blond hair lightened by constant exposure to sun and swimming.

Jay was married and the mother of a little girl named Kay. In spite of her family responsibilities, she found time to come to the hospital and be with me, and I looked forward to her visits. If my Stryker frame had me facing down, she’d lie down on the floor. There she’d spread out
Seventeen
magazines for us to read together. And she tried to brighten my corner of the room with plants and posters, although “regulations” soon required that they be removed.

Linda, my oldest sister, was married and had three small children. Because she was about ten years older than I was, I was not as close to her as to Kathy and Jay.

The memories of our good times as a family did help to take my mind off the pain and nightmares. I also recalled the good experiences of my high school years and the friends I had made then.

Woodlawn Senior High School was located in a scenic part of our suburban Baltimore area. The two-story brick complex was situated in the midst of a campus that made full use of the outdoors. Sidewalks were lined with trees, and a small stream wound through the grassy grounds. Art students were often scattered around the picturesque, landscaped campus, sketching or painting.

Out back, on the athletic field, were ball diamonds, track courses, tennis courts, and lacrosse courts. Lacrosse was the sport I loved most. In fact, being named captain of our girls’ lacrosse team in my senior year meant more to me than my nomination to the honor society.

As a sophomore at Woodlawn, I had come into contact with an organization called
Young Life,
a religious-oriented youth work that ministers primarily to high school kids. I had noticed that lots of the “neat” kids, the achievers, the popular ones, were Christian kids from
Young Life,
so when I heard about a “fantastic retreat”
Young Life
was sponsoring, I wanted to go.

“Mom,” I begged, “you’ve simply got to let me go. Please?” I was fifteen, a young girl searching for identity and meaning to life.

The
Young Life
weekend was held in Natural Bridge, Virginia. Crowds of kids from Baltimore area high schools converged on this tiny community for a weekend crammed with fun and challenges to consider what the Bible has to say about our relationship to God.

Carl Nelson, the
Young Life
camp speaker, shared how the gospel begins with God’s glory and His righteousness. “That standard of righteousness was expressed through the Ten Commandments,” he told us.

Carl opened his Bible and read “and by the law comes knowledge of sin.”

“And so, gang,” he went on, “it’s impossible to reach heaven by trying to stick to a list of moral do’s and don’ts. There’s just no way any one of us can live up to those commandments God has laid down.”

The meeting broke up, and I wandered out into the fall night air.
Me, a sinner?
I’d never really understood what that word meant. However, now I saw my rebellion in the light of God’s perfection. I knew
I
was a lost
sinner,
no matter how strange it sounded.

Well, I obviously can’t save myself, so who…

Then everything that Carl had shared thus far that weekend began to make sense.
That’s why Jesus, God’s Son, had come!

“He being God in the flesh fulfilled the law and lived the perfect life. And when He died, He was paying the penalty of your sin.” I recalled Carl’s words.

I sat down and leaned back against a tree and looked up at the silent expanse of stars, half-expecting to see something—I don’t know what. Only flickering specks blinked back. Yet, as I looked, I was overwhelmed by the love of God. I closed my eyes. “Oh, God, I see my sin; yet I also see Your mercy. Thank You for sending Your Son, Jesus, to die for me. I’ve decided in my heart not to do those things that will grieve You anymore. Instead of doing things my way, I want Christ to sit on the throne of my life and lead me. Thank You for saving me from sin and giving me eternal life.” I got up and ran back to the room, anxious to tell my friend Jackie how God had saved me.

I had always heard how much God loved me as I was growing up. Mom and dad were Christians and members of the Bishop Cummings Reformed Episcopal Church in Catonsville.

But in my early teens I was looking for my own way and lifestyle, and I didn’t have time for God. I had experimented with many things to find out where I fit into life. At first I thought popularity
and dates were the answer. Then I thought the discipline of athletics was where I would find it. But now my searching ended. All the pieces of the puzzle fit together, and it all made sense!
Jesus, God’s Son, had come to save me and make me a whole person.

A great flood of personal joy came to me that night, and I made a decision to invite Jesus Christ into my heart and life. I didn’t fully understand it all, but I was to learn that God is patient, loving, forgiving, and tolerant of our mistakes.

I heard two concepts presented that weekend that I had never clearly understood before. I learned that I was a sinner because I wasn’t able, nor was anyone able, to live up to God’s standards for behavior. That’s why He allowed His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, to die for
me.
It was an emotional, meaningful moment when I realized Jesus died for me, personally.

Then I heard about an exciting concept called “the abundant life.” Our counselor explained that Jesus came to die for our sins, but that He also came to give us “abundant life” (John 10:10). In my immature mind, the abundant life meant I’d lose weight or have new popularity and dates at school, lots of friends, and good grades.

My concept of what was meant by the abundant life was completely wrong, of course, and by the time I was a junior in high school, things had slipped for me. I had expected, as a new Christian, to find security and purpose in
things
—the things I’d based my spiritual life on—going to church, singing in choir, serving as a
Young Life
club officer. My whole focus was on these things, not on God. My life revolved around temporal values, my own ego and desires.