Hope for healing

In light of my last post, I thought I'd give everyone an uncomfortable glance into what the lower portion of my face looked like the day after I fell on it. However, in the event that some of you don't want to look upon such hideousness, I thought I'd better show the "healing in process" photos first. So, here are images of the current state of my countenance.

Scroll down.

Scroll down some more.

A little more. Skip right past the next pic, if you'd like.




And here (grimace, cringe) is a "before" photo.

The lessons from this experience keep multiplying. First, I thought the lesson was simple: Don't run, even in jest, when your hands are in your pockets. Foolish. Now I know; lesson learned.

But it turns out the lessons were many. Never minimize the emotional impact of a physical injury. Never assume that something is covered by insurance. Keep your chin up, especially in front of your small child. Try to be a good example, even under duress. Remember the kindnesses of friends, and pay those gestures forward whenever circumstances allow. And so on. And so on.

Then, just as things were getting back to normal, I watched the news and was horrified at a story of another school shooting. Small children, heroic teachers and leaders, a town shaken to its core. I have since turned off the rarely watched television, stopped reading the e-headlines about the event; there's just no point in reliving the awful but familiar stories. It's too upsetting.

Yet something keeps occurring to me, every time I look in the mirror: We are made for healing. Our bodies are designed to knit back together when things are broken. Not all injuries can be undone, I know that. Not all bodies have the same abilities to mend. There are some breaks that can never be repaired, and some defects that are innate and cannot be undone in this life, in this place. Perhaps the young man who caused that school tragedy could have been healed; perhaps not. We'll never know.

But I do know this: Most of our cells keep renewing, splitting and growing, replacing themselves. Our bones, too—with some placement help, our bones know how to join back together. Every time I'm putting oil on my newest scar, each time I rub the oil into my skin and feel the odd, tickling itch that follows, I am reminded that even now, new skin is forming, replacing the damaged. Blood is flowing through that area, bringing the necessary building blocks, bringing life.

Will my face ever be as it was before? No. Will that bleeding Connecticut town? Absolutely not. Healing doesn't mean that it will be the same as it used to be. Often, there are lasting, indelible marks left from pain. Those marks might be tender, or even sore, forever. On the flip side, like in stories of healing from the Bible, the healed person is better than before, not just restored but also improved.

Is it possible that improvement through healing doesn't have to be a flip side? Can scars and healing and improvement all happen simultaneously? Maybe.

I don't know what every type of healing looks like. I know only that healing does happen, and that we were created to heal. I am praying for healing that goes beyond our understanding, for all the people in that little Connecticut town. For people everywhere, in fact.

Odd correlations

So, I took a little tumble Saturday night, while enjoying an evening walk with my little boy... Had the stitches removed earlier today, and I'm looking forward to some dental work on Monday and Tuesday...

Yeah. Stinks. More details to come at a later date, after I've emerged on the other side of the horror.

Anyway. It reminds me of our car. Let me explain.

Our last automobile purchase was a big, old, green station wagon. We found the machine on craigslist, took it for a spin, and bought it on the spot. It's not perfect, but it's reliable, American-made (hence, less expensive repairs), and we can haul reasonable amounts of stuff in it.

But it was an older woman's car, a widow. She'd bought it when her husband was still alive. They shared it, drove it to nearby locations, did the grocery shopping with it, etc. Then he died, and she kept the car and continued to use it to get around... But it's a big car. Long. Ungainly. She had an incident with the side of the garage. And then, she had another incident. Her kids repaired the first one, but after that, the marks didn't seem to be such a big deal.

When the car came to us, it still sported the dents and dings from the last Missus. We planned to fix them, but we'd bought it right before a trip to the beach; we drove it with dings intact, and began to wonder en route if perhaps our less-than-perfect appearance made other drivers steer clear of us. Did we seem to be reckless? Unconcerned? Because this forest green beast showed such evidence of past run-ins, did people give us a slightly wider berth as they passed?

It seemed that they did. And I know that I am a much more bold driver with a "beater" than I am when my car is flawless.

So we left the dings and dents alone. And then, since we already had the old attempted bumper repair with slightly un-matching paint, had the scratches on the doors, it seemed pointless and unnecessary to keep the wagon washed. I mean, what was the point, really? You could barely tell it was clean anyway. Polished? Pshaw. It just didn't happen. It's not going to. I suppose we've grown fond of the freedom that imperfect (dare I say unattractive?) provides.

Oddly, having a singularly messed up, hideous countenance has had a freeing effect on my efforts to make myself look my best. My ragged, until-recently stitched together face? My bruised skin? The jagged tooth issues? They're sort of like the points of impact on the green car: No makeup is required for now. What's the point? No one will notice because they'll be looking at me surreptitiously, wondering if my husband beats me or whether I stumbled drunkenly into a pole or something. They won't even notice if I skip eye shadow or lip color.

In truth, no one was really looking before. Now, if they're looking, it's only because they can't help themselves and they're morbidly curious. Either way, I'm definitely off the hook.

All the same, I'll hold onto my war paint. This, too, shall pass—and I do still have a husband and son to consider.

Prayers are welcome. Lots of healing prayers. Thanks.

My neighbor, the nurse

So, the day before I started my new job was quite an injurious day for my son.

It began with an unsuspecting fall off the back of the couch. He likes to balance up there, his tiny bum perched on the cushy part where one would normally rest one's head. There he was, telling me some big animated tale, and the next thing I knew his feet were ascending and he was tipping over backward. A large thud later, there were many tears but thankfully nothing more serious than a sore noggin.

Then it was the bike. He and his dad went for a spin, and I checked in on them after a few minutes. He was riding gleefully, little helmet on, showing off for us and anyone else who'd watch, when he cut a turn a tad too sharply—the evil machine went over in a fraction of a second. Bike hit the pavement, boy simultaneously hit the pavement, and more tears flowed in addition to some blood—and as you know, the presence of blood always constitutes a "serious" injury. Add to the drama some lovely grey pieces of cinder inside the scratches, and you have a pretty nasty knee-and-hand combination.

The third event happened when I was inside after the bike wreck—an inexplicable fall down a couple of steps on our back patio. I missed the whole thing and heard about it later as we sat by the fire pit. (I was actually happy and relieved upon hearing it, because then I knew we were safe and my boy wouldn't plummet into the midst of the burning blaze. You know this stuff always happens in 3s; after that third mishap, we could relax because the third event had come and he was still standing. Whew.)

But even before the boy's evening bath, my husband and I were attempting to administer the necessary bacteria-killing agents to the mangled knee in our tiny, cramped bathroom. Blood-curdling screams burst forth from my son, who flailed every limb with extraordinary agility; we had just resorted to shutting the window (to squelch the sound, thus avoiding a visit from Children's Services) and holding his arms and legs immobile, when my neighbor knocked at our door with her customary "Yoo hoo!"

She wanted me to go for a walk with her, she'd heard the screams from the porch, she'd assumed some injury and figured she'd offer her expert services while encouraging me to get off my behind. Todd let her in, telling her what had happened, and she followed him to the bathroom—easy to find, thanks to the shrieks and sobs emanating from within. She popped in her head—"Hey, do you still have your leg? Did they cut it off? Let me see!" The screams stopped and my son actually permitted her to examine the skinned knee. Then she told him to wash it off in the bath and it would heal, good as new. And she tickled him, as is customary—and he laughed!!!

"Why do you calm down for Susan?" asked Todd, a tiny bit disgruntled at the sudden change in kid demeanor.

"Because she's a nurse!" answered my son, as if that explained everything.

Later, as we took our walk, I chuckled with Susan about the brief but revealing exchange she'd had with my boy. "My dad does it, too," she said. "My mom can't get him to use his walker the right way, he complains he can't get up by himself, makes a fuss, and then the therapist visits and suddenly he's hoofing around and standing on his own. And he gets furious when my mom complains to the therapist that he won't do that for her!" We giggled. "And he's 90!"

Why do we put on the brave face for healthcare folks, but resort to murderous yelps for our own family? What is the magic of a nurse, even when she's in street clothes and a very familiar face to boot? How are we able to be strong for one person but feeble for a team of others? It's silly, and I do believe the deception is far more rampant in men. Is it the male bravado? The need to put up the facade for the sake of the man's image in public? Would studies reveal it to be more prevalent in male patient/female healthcare worker situations?

Either way, the kid stopped crying... so I guess the whole brave face is a good thing. But I do suspect it's a silly boy/man thing.