And now, finally, from Jane....
Yes -- just behind the cut is what Jane wrote -- her first email since the fall, which as of February 15th, has been a year. And what a year it's been. As you all know.
The only thing I did was put in a few commas. The only thing I'd change is Les: She's been every bit as important to Jane's recovery, and I can't possibly say enough about her, with gratitude & love.
Me, I'm still buried at work.
But now: Jane.
Dear Ones,
This is a Christmas letter. Somewhat different from the usual kind, but it took me a while.
You have had Dave’s remarkable observations about his sense of misery in his wife and the ways he gritted his teeth this long year to help her struggle. And now I am recovering, and I’m finding some new thinking buzzing in my mind about hope and joy.
I do not suggest that you stumble on your head for self- improvement, but a fresh understanding of yourself, good and bad, is a help any way you can get it. This is a surprise to me, but I’m beginning to believe it.
I have almost no memory of my hospital time except for a bit of the last few days. I do recall being often netted in the bed (to keep me safe from wandering and falling), and thinking it would be a good idea to move. So I welcomed going home with no more sense of arrival than a baby.
Dave had gotten the idea when he succeeded in getting a trial of dinner delivered to me on a plate instead of in a plastic bag arrangement. [Dave: This is when she moved from being fed by tube, from a plastic bag, to eating by mouth. This happened after she’d been in the hospital about a month.] I’m told I sat up fairly well with a napkin and spoon for troubled eaters in place. I swallowed slowly my first bite and then carefully set aside my food. I explained that it did not taste particularly well. I told my wide-eyed attendant that he needed to consult all cooks on their knowledge. I then pulled up my covers and prepared to sleep.
My mother would have wept at such behavior. My husband collapsed laughing and was convinced that I was actually thinking. It was time for doctors to develop more faith in my ability to have an idea. They had seen precious little to emphasize that. But they gave me a chance.
It astounds me still that Dave believed so firmly in my recovery. I didn’t know his name then or have any idea he was my husband no matter how often I was told. I just felt safe when he was around and very worried when he wasn’t. There was yet no way to guess what I would remember or how often I would hang on to it.
I had no conception of how long it was going to take me to feel like a person whatever that was. I felt more like a dimwitted critter but that seemed good enough for a while.
It amuses me that my first important sense of self seems to have come when I was resting in bed, as I did a lot when there were no persons coming around to take notes. It was a wonderful time to think.
I have always had the kind of mind that chases around busily and constantly inside. I work through problems, line up jobs to be done, and sometimes think up a story to settle thinking down. I end the day reading awhile and sleeping soundly. This sometimes does me well and just as often pushes me too hard. My discovery of just resting wide awake was pure joy. Still is.
After a while I began to have some time remembering my parents. I have always felt I was luckier than average with family, but I’ve also felt I never understood some of their tough times, and it would have been better if I had. Now I’ve looked at all kinds of photographs, noted the years they were taken and studied faces and notes. I have a better sense of what each of them wanted very much to achieve and couldn’t for no fault of their own. I wish I could tell them of things I believe they did very well in their trying mess of illness and material loss. Like noticing when children needed encouragement and when they did better. They found good ways to manage, and I have not been pursuing more recent history while I take time to remember them. Only now I am thinking, “Blast it, I want to know more about when I met Dave.”
By now I’ve become conscious of the value of persons who believe you can make a significant comeback. It’s hard for many doctors and nurses who see so many losses that they may predict bad things based on past miserable experience.
In the hospital, I suspect the person who was in charge of the return of conversation and writing didn’t think I was a good candidate. But I have Dave.
So off I went to the lecture on classes for brain-damaged persons. He gave us a grizzly notion about how hard the course would be. As he prepared to finish, he beamed and said he would ask a typical class question.
He called my name.
He had given a complicated bunch of information about the local out-of-doors. He was teaching us a good way to remember information, I think. I had happened to learn his material for some program and it popped back to me like a miracle. I didn’t think. I huddled great astonished relief that I could answer a question right.
He quit grinning and snapped, “How did you know that?” I explained it was an odd piece of information I had needed for my job. Then I realized I had been told my injury was somewhat less on one spot. I said I thought it should be somewhere in my report
He apparently agreed and he announced he should be fired and that he would be sure what I was given to study would fit my need. He did, and I got my first class of actual interest when I got out of the hospital.
In this work you can start to see what they are giving you as a plan to continue when you leave. Barely out, I am still not swift getting this sort of point.
What I’m trying to say is that there is plenty to take in for a sense of regaining yourself in the most unexpected ways. Even in serious illness. I am grateful. I am also in no way overjoyed. I have whole days when I would like to kick something. I can cry over what seems endless effort even though I have real improvement. But there are times to laugh, too. There is truly something good here for me.
Thank you, from each of us, so much for your concern.
Jane
The only thing I did was put in a few commas. The only thing I'd change is Les: She's been every bit as important to Jane's recovery, and I can't possibly say enough about her, with gratitude & love.
Me, I'm still buried at work.
But now: Jane.
Dear Ones,
This is a Christmas letter. Somewhat different from the usual kind, but it took me a while.
You have had Dave’s remarkable observations about his sense of misery in his wife and the ways he gritted his teeth this long year to help her struggle. And now I am recovering, and I’m finding some new thinking buzzing in my mind about hope and joy.
I do not suggest that you stumble on your head for self- improvement, but a fresh understanding of yourself, good and bad, is a help any way you can get it. This is a surprise to me, but I’m beginning to believe it.
I have almost no memory of my hospital time except for a bit of the last few days. I do recall being often netted in the bed (to keep me safe from wandering and falling), and thinking it would be a good idea to move. So I welcomed going home with no more sense of arrival than a baby.
Dave had gotten the idea when he succeeded in getting a trial of dinner delivered to me on a plate instead of in a plastic bag arrangement. [Dave: This is when she moved from being fed by tube, from a plastic bag, to eating by mouth. This happened after she’d been in the hospital about a month.] I’m told I sat up fairly well with a napkin and spoon for troubled eaters in place. I swallowed slowly my first bite and then carefully set aside my food. I explained that it did not taste particularly well. I told my wide-eyed attendant that he needed to consult all cooks on their knowledge. I then pulled up my covers and prepared to sleep.
My mother would have wept at such behavior. My husband collapsed laughing and was convinced that I was actually thinking. It was time for doctors to develop more faith in my ability to have an idea. They had seen precious little to emphasize that. But they gave me a chance.
It astounds me still that Dave believed so firmly in my recovery. I didn’t know his name then or have any idea he was my husband no matter how often I was told. I just felt safe when he was around and very worried when he wasn’t. There was yet no way to guess what I would remember or how often I would hang on to it.
I had no conception of how long it was going to take me to feel like a person whatever that was. I felt more like a dimwitted critter but that seemed good enough for a while.
It amuses me that my first important sense of self seems to have come when I was resting in bed, as I did a lot when there were no persons coming around to take notes. It was a wonderful time to think.
I have always had the kind of mind that chases around busily and constantly inside. I work through problems, line up jobs to be done, and sometimes think up a story to settle thinking down. I end the day reading awhile and sleeping soundly. This sometimes does me well and just as often pushes me too hard. My discovery of just resting wide awake was pure joy. Still is.
After a while I began to have some time remembering my parents. I have always felt I was luckier than average with family, but I’ve also felt I never understood some of their tough times, and it would have been better if I had. Now I’ve looked at all kinds of photographs, noted the years they were taken and studied faces and notes. I have a better sense of what each of them wanted very much to achieve and couldn’t for no fault of their own. I wish I could tell them of things I believe they did very well in their trying mess of illness and material loss. Like noticing when children needed encouragement and when they did better. They found good ways to manage, and I have not been pursuing more recent history while I take time to remember them. Only now I am thinking, “Blast it, I want to know more about when I met Dave.”
By now I’ve become conscious of the value of persons who believe you can make a significant comeback. It’s hard for many doctors and nurses who see so many losses that they may predict bad things based on past miserable experience.
In the hospital, I suspect the person who was in charge of the return of conversation and writing didn’t think I was a good candidate. But I have Dave.
So off I went to the lecture on classes for brain-damaged persons. He gave us a grizzly notion about how hard the course would be. As he prepared to finish, he beamed and said he would ask a typical class question.
He called my name.
He had given a complicated bunch of information about the local out-of-doors. He was teaching us a good way to remember information, I think. I had happened to learn his material for some program and it popped back to me like a miracle. I didn’t think. I huddled great astonished relief that I could answer a question right.
He quit grinning and snapped, “How did you know that?” I explained it was an odd piece of information I had needed for my job. Then I realized I had been told my injury was somewhat less on one spot. I said I thought it should be somewhere in my report
He apparently agreed and he announced he should be fired and that he would be sure what I was given to study would fit my need. He did, and I got my first class of actual interest when I got out of the hospital.
In this work you can start to see what they are giving you as a plan to continue when you leave. Barely out, I am still not swift getting this sort of point.
What I’m trying to say is that there is plenty to take in for a sense of regaining yourself in the most unexpected ways. Even in serious illness. I am grateful. I am also in no way overjoyed. I have whole days when I would like to kick something. I can cry over what seems endless effort even though I have real improvement. But there are times to laugh, too. There is truly something good here for me.
Thank you, from each of us, so much for your concern.
Jane