Joni (3 page)

About this time, I met Jason Leverton. Jason was a handsome, muscular, and personable guy. With his broad shoulders, serious brown eyes, and thick light-colored hair, he was called the “Blond Flash” by his wrestling teammates for his speed and ability in state champion competition. Jason and I dated regularly and were always together at school and social functions.

Dad was especially fond of Jason because of his own keen interest in wrestling. It was not surprising for me to play second
fiddle to dad when Jason came to visit. Frequently they would good-naturedly “take on” one another, demonstrating unusual wrestling holds or pins.

Jason was lots of fun. He and I shared secrets and our plans for the future. We planned to go to college together, probably even get married one day.

We had a favorite place—a nearby park—where we’d take walks and talk. Jason was also active in
Young Life
so these times were often used for sharing spiritual thoughts and praying together. Sometimes I’d even climb down the drain pipe outside my bedroom window and meet him after curfew—until mom caught me one night! She made certain I obeyed curfew rules after that.

It was about the time Jason and I started to get romantically serious that real conflicts started. We both were seniors in high school and knew there were stated limits in expressing our affection for one another. But neither of us had the inner resources capable of dealing with problems of temptation.

We would often go driving or horseback riding. Many times we’d ride out to an open meadow surrounded by beautiful woods, deep blue skies, and magnificent summer clouds. The sights, sounds, and smells of the country were terribly romantic and erotic. Before we realized what was happening, innocent, youthful expressions of love for one another—hand-holding, hugging, kissing—gave way to caressing, touching, and passions neither of us could control. We wanted to stop, but often when we found ourselves in a secluded spot, we fell into each other’s arms. Our mutual lack of self-restraint bothered us tremendously.

“Jason—why can’t we stop? What’s wrong with us?” I asked one night.

“I don’t know. I know we shouldn’t mess around, but—”

“Jason, we’ve got to stop seeing each other for awhile. It’s the only way. I can’t stop. You can’t either. Every time we get alone, we—uh—we sin. If we’re really serious about repenting of
all this, then we’re just going to have to stay away from each other for awhile so we can avoid temptation.”

Jason was silent awhile. Then he agreed. “Maybe we should.”

He suggested that I might enjoy dating his friend Dick Filbert, a sensitive, mature Christian. I guess he thought if I was dating someone else, it might as well be a friend. That way we’d still have an indirect contact.

Dick was tall, lean, and good-looking—like Jason—but there the similarity ended. Dick was quiet, shy, but more expressive. An aura of casualness surrounded him right down to his worn jeans and moccasins, and his soft voice reflected a peace and serenity. Dick’s eyes, bright and blue, could quiet any storm in my soul, and his presence was a strong, unmoving rock that I could cling to in times of confusion.

During my senior year, my time was divided between Jason and Dick. I tried to avoid romantic interest in either of them and to treat each as just a good friend. I relaxed by horseback riding, playing records and guitar, and I tried to learn more about the Christian life through
Young Life
Bible studies. Even my prayer times began to reflect more serious goals.

I was accepted for the fall term at Western Maryland College on academic recommendations. My life seemed to be falling into place, going somewhere—and yet it wasn’t.

I remember lying in bed one morning shortly after graduation and thinking about all these things.

The summer sunlight flooded into my window. Filtered through leaves in the trees outside, it splattered into flickering points of dancing light across my bed and along the pink, roseprint wallpaper. I yawned and rolled over to look outside. When daddy had built his dream house, he’d included these unique touches—such as the small “porthole” window near the floor beside my bed. I’d just turn over in bed and look down outside.

It was still early but I got up quickly and fished out a pair of Levi’s and a pullover shirt from my dresser. As I dressed, my eyes
turned once more to the black leather diploma folder on the dressing table. I ran my fingers over its grain and the embossed Old English lettering of my name and school crest. Just a few days earlier, I had walked down the aisle in cap and gown to receive that diploma.

“Breakfast!” Mom’s voice downstairs punctuated my reverie.

“Coming, mom,” I called. Bounding down the stairs, I pulled a chair up to the table.

“Are you going out to the ranch after church, Joni?” asked mom.

“Uh-huh. I know Tumbleweed’s going to be ready for the summer horse show circuit but I want to spend more time with her, anyway.”

The “ranch” was our family farm some twenty miles west of town. It was situated on a panoramic ridge in the rolling, picturesque river valley and was surrounded by state park land.

By the time I got there, the sun had already climbed high in the sky and the fragrance of new-mown hay was blown toward me. The breeze also caressed the tall wildflowers and grasses of the sloping meadows and gently tossed the uppermost branches in the sweet-smelling apple trees nearby. Humming softly and happily, I saddled Tumbleweed and swung up to mount her.

It was refreshing to be so far away from the dirt, noise, and noxious smells of the city. In summer, Baltimore suffers from the industrial air pollution and sweltering humidity that rolls in from Chesapeake Bay. Here, in our own little paradise, we’re free to enjoy the summer sun and air.

I pressed my thighs against Tumbleweed’s sides and nudged her with my heels. The chestnut mare headed up the dusty dirt road at a walk. When we came to the pasture, I dug my heels again. Tumbleweed really didn’t need the silent command. She knew there was room to run here without concern for potholes or rocks. Scattered across the field were several log-rail fence jumps. We cantered toward this first jump, a broad, four-foot solid rail
fence. As I tightened my knees against Tumbleweed, I felt the smooth, precision strides of the big horse.

The experienced rider instinctively knows the right “feel” of a horse preparing to jump. Tumbleweed was experienced and so was I. We had won all kinds of ribbons and horse show awards. I knew the sound of hoofs—the proper cadence, pounding across the earthen course.

Smoothly, the horse lifted up and over the fence. Suspended for an instant, it was like flying. Nearly ten feet off the ground aboard Tumbleweed, I was exhilarated each time the mare jumped. After several runs, Tumbleweed was wet with sweaty lather.

I reined her to a slow trot and turned back toward the barn.

“Joni!”

Looking up, I saw dad astride his gray gelding galloping across the field toward me. Smiling, he pulled his horse up.

“I saw her jump, Joni. She’s in excellent shape. I think you’ll both run away with the ribbons at next week’s show!”

“Well, if we do, it’ll be because you taught me everything I know about riding,” I reminded dad.

By the time dad and I returned to the barn, unsaddled the horses, and slapped them toward the corral, it was 4:30. “We’d better head for home. We don’t want to be late for dinner,” I said.

I recalled the pleasure of the previous perfect day, riding on my horse Tumbleweed under a beautiful summer sky. But inwardly I knew it was an elaborate form of escape. I didn’t want to face the real issues. I wondered—
Lord, what am I going to do? I’m happy and content, grateful for the good things You supply—but deep down, I know something is wrong. I think I’m at the place where I need You to really work in my life.

As I traced my spiritual progress over the last couple years, I realized I had not come far. Jason and I had broken up, true; and Dick was better for me in that regard. But I was still enslaved. Instead of “sins of the flesh,” I was trapped by my “sins of the emotions”—anger,
jealousy, resentment, and possessiveness. I had drifted through my last years of school. My grades had dropped and, as a result, I began to fight with my parents. I lacked goals or the motivation to do well. It was obvious to me that I had not made much spiritual progress in the two years I’d been a Christian. It seemed no matter how hard I tried to improve, I was always a slave of my desires.

Now I was insistent with God. “Lord, if You’re really there, do something in my life that will change me and turn me around. You know how weak I was with Jason. You know how possessive and jealous I am with Dick. I’m sick of the hypocrisy! I want You to work in my life for real. I don’t know how—I don’t even know, at this point, if You can. But I’m begging You—please do something in my life to turn it around!”

I had prayed that prayer just a short time before my accident. Now, lying encased in my Stryker frame, I wondered if somehow God was answering my prayer.

T
he Bible says, ‘Everything works together for good,’ even your accident, Joni.” Dick was trying to comfort me, but I wasn’t listening too intently.

“I’ve already been in this stupid hospital a month,” I complained, “and I haven’t seen very much good!

“I can’t sleep at night because of nightmares and hallucinations caused by the drugs. I can’t move—I’m stuck in this dumb Stryker frame! What’s good? Tell me, Dickie, what’s good about that?”

“I—I don’t know, Joni. But I think we should claim God’s promise. Let’s trust Him that it will work out for good,” Dick said quietly, patiently. “Want me to read something else?”

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to jump on you like that. I guess I’m not really trusting the Lord, am I?”

“It’s all right—” Dick was on the floor beneath my Stryker frame looking up into my eyes. Incredible sadness and pity made his expressive eyes well with tears. He blinked and looked away. “Well,” he said finally, “I gotta go now. See ya later, okay?”

Dick’s faithfulness in visiting was one thing I clung to during those first grim weeks, along with mom, dad, Jackie, and Jay. Others, like Jason, came when they could too. The hospital personnel joked about all my “cousins,” and the “five minutes per hour for family members” regulation was bent many times.

When mom and dad came, I always asked to be flipped if I was facing the floor. While they joked and got down on the floor if I was facedown, I was deeply hurt that they had to go through the indignity of crawling around on the floor in order to visit with me.

I tried hard to kindle their hope and faith too. As I thought about my problems, it was easy to find others around me in the hospital who were worse off than I. With that in mind, I tried to cheer my folks and others who came to visit. I even began to be pleasant to the hospital staff.

It wasn’t that my personality had become sweeter. Rather, I was afraid people would stop coming to see me if I got bitter and complained, so I worked at cheerfulness.

“My, you’re in a good mood today,” observed Anita, one of the nurses from the day shift.

“Sure, why not? It’s a gorgeous day.”

“It’s raining!”

“Not on me. I’m snug as a bug,” I teased.

“Want me to come by later?”

“Would you? Yes—I’d like that, Anita.” Although she was assigned to duty elsewhere in the hospital, Anita took a special interest in me. She often spent her lunch hour with me, reading Robert Frost’s poetry or just chatting. Since I’d already spent so much time in the intensive care ward, many of the nurses were becoming my friends. By now I was more accustomed to the routine and regulations. And just as they sometimes bent some of the rules when visitors came, so I began to overlook the hospital’s shortcomings as well.

Anita patted my shoulder and waved. “I’ll see you later, Joni.” I heard her light footsteps click away down the tiled hallway.

When she left, Jason came to visit. “Hi, kid,” he grinned, “you look terrible. When do you get to leave here?”

“Not for awhile, I guess. I think I’m supposed to be learning something through all this,” I answered. “Dickie says God is working in my life.”

“God doesn’t have anything to do with it! You got a busted neck, that’s all. You can’t lay back and say ‘it’s God’s will’ and let it go at that! You gotta fight it, Joni. And get better,” Jason said sharply.

He looked at me, not knowing what else to say. Our relationship had been sort of “tabled” when we agreed to a cooling-off period. Now he was suggesting—if not by words, by the expression in his eyes and squeeze of his hand on my shoulder—that he still cared deeply.

“We gotta fight this thing, Joni. You gotta get better, y’hear?” His voice broke and he began to cry. “Forget the business about it being God’s will that you’re hurt. Fight it! Y’hear?”

He swore softly for added emphasis and said, “It doesn’t make any sense. How could God—if there is a God—let it happen?”

“I know it seems that way, Jason. But Dickie says God must have some kind of reason for it.”

“I dunno. Maybe I’m just bitter—cynical. But I don’t feel God is interested any more. I don’t think He’s there.”

This admission by Jason was the first step in his drifting away from trust in a loving God—his resignation that what happened was the result of blind, random forces.

I stared at the ceiling after he left. It had been a month, and I was still here.
What’s wrong with me?
I wondered.

“Hello, lassie. How’s m’ favorite lass today?” I couldn’t see him yet, but the voice was that of Dr. Harris. As his tall, redheaded frame came into my field of vision, I smiled and greeted him. Dr. Harris had been in the shock trauma unit of the hospital the night of my accident. He had taken a personal interest in me and followed my case. I was charmed by his Scottish brogue and the fact that he always referred to me as “lassie.”

He picked up my charts and looked them over. “Hm-m. You’re lookin’ good, lassie. Feeling better?”

“I—I don’t know. What’s wrong with me, Dr. Harris? The nurses won’t tell me, and Dr. Sherrill just gives me a lot of medical jargon. Please. Won’t you tell me—when can I go home? How much longer do I have to be in here?”

“Well, hon, I can’t say. That is, I’m not really on top of your case like Dr. Sherrill. I’m just—”

“Dr. Harris,” I interrupted, “you’re lying. You know. Tell me.”

He replaced the charts, looked serious for a moment, then concentrated on bringing forth his best bedside cheerfulness. “Tell y’ what, lass. I’ll talk with Dr. Sherrill. I’ll have him give y’ the whole story in plain English. How’s that?”

I smiled. “Better. I mean, I have a right to know, don’t I?”

Dr. Harris nodded and pursed his lips as if to say something; then, as if thinking better of it, he merely smiled.

Dick came bursting into the ward later that day. He was wearing a jacket, which was unusual for August.

“I—I’ve just run up all nine floors!” he gasped.

“Why?” I laughed. “Why didn’t you use the elevator?”

“This is why,” he replied, opening his jacket. He pulled out a small, lively puppy. It began to climb all over Dick, lying on the floor under my Stryker frame, licking his face, and barking quietly with a
yip—yip—yip
we thought would alert the entire hospital.

“Sh-h! Quiet, pooch—you want us to get kicked out?” Dick begged.

He put the puppy up by my face. I felt its fuzzy warmth and the wetness of his tongue licking my cheek.

“Oh, Dickie—he’s beautiful. I’m glad you brought him.”

“I thought I heard something!” a nurse exclaimed in mock seriousness. “How did you get him past the Gestapo in the lobby?” she grinned.

“I came up the back stairs. You aren’t going to turn us in, are you?”

“Who, me?” She bent down and cuddled the puppy, then put him down. “I don’t see anything,” she said simply and left for other duties.

Dick and I played with the puppy for nearly an hour before being discovered again. He picked up the small dog. “I’ll take the stairs again,” he said as he got up to leave. “Otherwise they may frisk me every time I come up here!”

We laughed, and Dick left with the puppy hidden beneath his jacket.

The next day I was taken down to the laboratory for a bone scan and myelogram. The bone scan was done quickly and smoothly, for it consisted basically of “taking a picture” of my spine. However, the myelogram was not so simple or painless. It meant tapping my spinal cord of its fluid and replacing it with a special dye, using two giant six-inch hypodermic needles. My spinal fluid was drained, pushed out by the dye going in. When the transfer was complete, I was turned upside down and placed in various positions under the fluoroscope while the medics ran their tests. When done, the dye was removed by injecting the spinal fluid back. One side effect of this treatment was a severe headache if some of the fluid was lost or nerve endings (which need the fluid as a lubricant) dried out. There was no medication for this, so I was sedated for several days.

When Dr. Sherrill, the physician in charge of my case, came by later, I accosted him. “Dr. Sherrill, what’s wrong with me?”

His reply was even, without inflection, so I had no way of measuring the seriousness of what he said. “Don’t you remember, Joni? You have a lesion of the spinal cord at the fourth and fifth cervical levels caused by a fracture-dislocation.”

“I broke my neck?”

“Yes.”

“But that means I’ll die.”

“No. Not necessarily,” Dr. Sherrill replied. “It means only that it is a very serious accident. The fact that you’ve survived about four weeks now means you’ve more than likely passed that crisis.”

“You mean you thought I was going to die? Before?”

“You were a badly injured girl. Many people don’t survive accidents of this nature.”

I thought of Tom and the other man who had died undergoing the same treatment as I was. “I guess I’m lucky,” I offered.

“Lucky, indeed. And strong. You have a tremendous will. Now that we’ve passed this crisis, I want you to concentrate all your willpower on getting better. You see, when you’re strong enough, I want to perform fusion surgery on you.”

“What’s that? In plain English, please, Dr. Sherrill.”

“Well, it’s sort of a repair process. Your spinal cord is severed. We have to fuse the bones back together.”

Back together?
My mind grabbed at the simple statement and raced with it.
That means I’ll get my arms and legs back! That’s what Romans 8:28 meant. Dickie was right—things do work together for good. Before long I’ll be back on my feet!

“When do you want to do the surgery?” I asked.

“As soon as possible.”

“Great. Let’s do it!”

I didn’t know all that was involved in fusion surgery. I thought that by fusing the bones back together and having the spinal cord healed everything would be the same as before—no more paralysis. But I wasn’t really listening carefully.

Following surgery, I was elated to leave the ICU ward and be wheeled into a regular room.
It’s a sign I’m getting better,
I thought.
If I wasn’t, they’d keep me in ICU.

Mom and dad, smiling and happy to see me return from the surgery, were in my room, and Dr. Sherrill came by.

“Everything went fine,” he said, anticipating our question. “The surgery was a complete success.”

There was a collective sigh of relief.

“Now I want you all to concentrate on the next steps of recovery. There is much progress to be made yet. There will be difficult days ahead, Joni. I want you to know it and brace yourself for them. The toughest part of the battle is the psychological aspect. You’re fine now. You’ve been angry, frustrated, afraid. However, you haven’t really been depressed. But wait until your friends go off to college. Wait until the novelty of all this wears off. Wait until your friends get other interests and stop coming. Are you ready for that, Joni? If not, better get ready. Because it’ll come. Believe me, it’ll come.”

“I know it’ll take time, but I’ll get better,” I gamely replied. “These things take time—you said so yourself, Doctor.”

“Yes,” dad said. “How much time are we talking about, Dr. Sherrill?”

Mother added her concern too. “You’re talking about Joni’s friends going off to college this fall. But I sense you’re saying Joni won’t be able to. We made a deposit on her tuition for the fall term at Western Maryland University. Should we postpone her entrance until next semester?”

“Uh—at least.”

“Really?”

“Mrs. Eareckson, you might as well have them return your deposit. I’m afraid college will be out of the question for Joni.”

“Y-you mean—that you don’t know how soon Joni will walk again?”

“Walk? I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mrs. Eareckson. Joni’s injury is permanent. The fusion surgery didn’t change that.”

The word
permanent
slammed into my consciousness like a bullet.

I could tell that this was also the first time mom and dad had been confronted with the fact of a permanent injury. Either we
had all been too naive or the medical people had been too vague in their explanations. Perhaps both.

Silence hung over the room for a few moments. None of us dared react for fear of upsetting and worrying the others.

Dr. Sherrill tried to be encouraging, however. “Joni will never walk again, but we’re hoping she’ll regain the use of her hands one day. Many people lead useful and constructive lives without being able to walk. Why, they can drive, work, clean house—it’s really not a hopeless thing, you know. We’re confident she’ll be able to get her hands back in time.”

Mom had turned her face away, but I knew she was crying.

“Don’t worry, mom—dad. There have been lots of times people with broken necks have recovered and walked again. I’ve heard lots of success stories while I’ve been here. I’m going to walk again! I know it. I believe God wants me to walk again. He’ll help me. Really! I’m going to walk out of here!”

Dr. Sherrill didn’t say anything. He put his hand on mom’s shoulder, shook hands with daddy, and left. For a long while none of us said anything. Then we began to chat about inconsequential things. Finally my parents left.

I lay in the dim light of the room. I should have been happy—the surgery was successful, I was getting better, and I was now in my own room. But I wasn’t happy. Grief, remorse, and depression swept over me like a thick, choking blanket. For the first time since the accident, I wished and prayed I might die.

After nearly an hour, a nurse, Alice, came by. She emptied my catheter bag and rearranged things in my room. Then she went over to the window to adjust the drapes.

“Looks like you’ll be getting some visitors,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh. I see your mom and dad sitting together down in the courtyard outside. They’ll probably be up here in a minute.”

“No—they’ve already been here,” I replied. I felt tears, hot and salty, spill out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. My nose
became stuffy. I couldn’t even cry because I couldn’t blow my own nose. I began to sob anyway.

“Hey, what’s wrong, Joni?” Alice wiped my face with a tissue. She pulled another from the box. “Here. Blow. Feel better now?”