Read Online Joni by Joni Eareckson Tada - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joni Eareckson Tada
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hospital. I tried to pray and couldn’t. I tried to think of some promises from God’s Word to encourage me. Nothing seemed reassuring.
Seemingly the other girls had adjusted. They were chatting quietly, waiting for “lights out.” Except for Ann. She was complaining loudly, punctuating her objections with salty language. I decided that even if I had to be in an institution the rest of my life, I’d be pleasant—at least on the surface—and not like Ann. She had absolutely no friends on the outside. And inside, people treated her in kind. No one tried to understand her or make friends with her.
I need to have my friends, or I’ll lose my mind, I said to myself, so I promised myself never to lose my cool with mom, dad, Jackie, or the others when they came to visit. No matter how bitter I was, I wouldn’t let it show.
“That’s a good idea,” observed B.J. when I told her about my thoughts the next day. “In here, everyone’s the same. So you won’t find much sympathy here. In fact, you’d be smart not to make many friends here.”
Why? I wondered.
“It’s an ivory tower. Everyone here is the same—give or take an arm or two—so it’s comfortable. You get out for visits home when you have enough sitting-up time, but you can’t wait to get back. It’s easier to be here with people like us. No hassling about braces, wheelchairs, and stuff. It’s hard to leave here. The people on the street think because your legs are paralyzed, your brain must be too. They treat ‘cha like a dummy. So everybody always comes back here complaining and comparing injuries, but content to staybecause they feel at home here. You’ll be the same if you make all your friends here. Just because it’s easier to be in an ivory tower doesn’t mean it’s better. It isn’t. I know. I’ve been here two years. Whatever you do, keep your friends on the outside!”
Jay seemed to sense my emotional needs in that regard. She not only came often herself, but often rounded up old school chums to visit. I especially remember Jay and several friends dressing up in costumes and coming over on Halloween night. There was no bending of rules here, though. Unlike City Hospital nurses, Greenoaks’ staff rigidly enforced visiting hours. Promptly at eight o’clock, Jay and our friends were asked to leave.
My days became dull routine, brightened only by my visitors. I was confined to bed because of bedsores. A nurse would feed me in the morning and empty my catheter bag. Then she’d check the round mirror above my head to see that it was focused for me to watch TV.
About noon, I’d be fed and “emptied” again. And more TV in the afternoon. Mornings were the game shows. Afternoons, the soap operas. At evening, another meal and catheter emptying followed by more television watching until “lights out.” Each new day was a boring and monotonous extension of the previous day—eat, watch TV, sleep—in an unbreaking, sickening cycle.
I had to learn to eat and drink my food quickly. The staff people were always busy too busy to linger with those who dawdled with their meals. They were also too busy to really do more than care for our immediate physical needs. If my nose itched, I’d have to wait until Jay or a staff person was nearby. My hair was growing back and became tangled, matted, dirty, and snowing dandruff because no one had time to wash it.
One day when Jay came for a visit, she asked, “What’s that horrible smell?”
“What smell?” I asked.
“Ugh! It’s your hair. When did they wash it last?” Jay demanded.
“Over a month ago. At City Hospital,” I replied.
“It’s awful! It stinks, it’s so bad! I’ve got to do something about that!” she exclaimed. Jay checked, got a basin and soap, and improvised a means for shampooing my hair.
“Oh, it feels so good!” I exclaimed
“Me next!” called out Denise. “Wash my hair, please, Jay.”
“Then me,” echoed B.J. and Betty together. So, a regular hair
Seemingly the other girls had adjusted. They were chatting quietly, waiting for “lights out.” Except for Ann. She was complaining loudly, punctuating her objections with salty language. I decided that even if I had to be in an institution the rest of my life, I’d be pleasant—at least on the surface—and not like Ann. She had absolutely no friends on the outside. And inside, people treated her in kind. No one tried to understand her or make friends with her.
I need to have my friends, or I’ll lose my mind, I said to myself, so I promised myself never to lose my cool with mom, dad, Jackie, or the others when they came to visit. No matter how bitter I was, I wouldn’t let it show.
“That’s a good idea,” observed B.J. when I told her about my thoughts the next day. “In here, everyone’s the same. So you won’t find much sympathy here. In fact, you’d be smart not to make many friends here.”
Why? I wondered.
“It’s an ivory tower. Everyone here is the same—give or take an arm or two—so it’s comfortable. You get out for visits home when you have enough sitting-up time, but you can’t wait to get back. It’s easier to be here with people like us. No hassling about braces, wheelchairs, and stuff. It’s hard to leave here. The people on the street think because your legs are paralyzed, your brain must be too. They treat ‘cha like a dummy. So everybody always comes back here complaining and comparing injuries, but content to staybecause they feel at home here. You’ll be the same if you make all your friends here. Just because it’s easier to be in an ivory tower doesn’t mean it’s better. It isn’t. I know. I’ve been here two years. Whatever you do, keep your friends on the outside!”
Jay seemed to sense my emotional needs in that regard. She not only came often herself, but often rounded up old school chums to visit. I especially remember Jay and several friends dressing up in costumes and coming over on Halloween night. There was no bending of rules here, though. Unlike City Hospital nurses, Greenoaks’ staff rigidly enforced visiting hours. Promptly at eight o’clock, Jay and our friends were asked to leave.
My days became dull routine, brightened only by my visitors. I was confined to bed because of bedsores. A nurse would feed me in the morning and empty my catheter bag. Then she’d check the round mirror above my head to see that it was focused for me to watch TV.
About noon, I’d be fed and “emptied” again. And more TV in the afternoon. Mornings were the game shows. Afternoons, the soap operas. At evening, another meal and catheter emptying followed by more television watching until “lights out.” Each new day was a boring and monotonous extension of the previous day—eat, watch TV, sleep—in an unbreaking, sickening cycle.
I had to learn to eat and drink my food quickly. The staff people were always busy too busy to linger with those who dawdled with their meals. They were also too busy to really do more than care for our immediate physical needs. If my nose itched, I’d have to wait until Jay or a staff person was nearby. My hair was growing back and became tangled, matted, dirty, and snowing dandruff because no one had time to wash it.
One day when Jay came for a visit, she asked, “What’s that horrible smell?”
“What smell?” I asked.
“Ugh! It’s your hair. When did they wash it last?” Jay demanded.
“Over a month ago. At City Hospital,” I replied.
“It’s awful! It stinks, it’s so bad! I’ve got to do something about that!” she exclaimed. Jay checked, got a basin and soap, and improvised a means for shampooing my hair.
“Oh, it feels so good!” I exclaimed
“Me next!” called out Denise. “Wash my hair, please, Jay.”
“Then me,” echoed B.J. and Betty together. So, a regular hair
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