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How I coped when Ron was "Gone" ©2003 Heather Davis "Heather, you have to come with me." Our friend was brisk. "Why?" I'd been awakened by an awful pounding on the door and was still half asleep. I was clueless as to why he was bothering me in the morning. The only one who got up at that hour was Ron, my husband, who walked into work every Tuesday to receive a large order from our supplier. "Ron was hit by a truck, they had to Life Flight him to the hospital." With those words, my life changed forever and I truly began to appreciate my "better half". "Ron, you have to wake up! I need you!" I pleaded. My beloved husband and the only soul who I feel really understands my disability - was gone. Comatose. Unresponsive. He was still alive, thank God, but how would I cope? I could barely open the deli without having a major anxiety attack. And that was knowing he'd be there to run the register as I prepared the orders! How in the heck could I handle it on my own? My disability has profoundly affected my working life, and I have all the work problems faced by FAS folk. I'd say the wrong thing, not say the right thing, couldn't play "social tennis" and office chitchat games to save my life. I had literally run off a couple of employees before turning to Ron to handle all the personnel issues. My customer skills were regrettable, as I tended to take any complaint as a personal affront. I have excellent technical skills, but the best job I had prior to working for Ron still entailed several writeups and written warnings before I left. So I worked for my husband, who is "normal" other than being blind. As you have read in my other article, "How We Cope," I have always relied heavily on my husband Ron to be my "Better half". First example; socially I have all the problems that come with FAS. I was very accustomed to running things by him before I tried them out in public, ie. "Would it be appropriate to make a joke about ___?" If the answer was no, not only did he tell me that but he'd always tell me why. If there was something I didn't do, he'd cue me in on it afterward and tell me what should have happened. At first, I bitterly resisted his corrections, but he was so sweet and low-key I began to depend on him. He'd never steer me wrong socially, and after all, if you don't have the skills aren't you better off learning from a pro? Ron was brought into the hospital with a coma score of 3, the worst there is. 78% of people with a Coma Score of 3 don't make it. The survivors are profoundly affected. We had enough trouble with one brain injury (congenital), how could we handle two? We've always had a special bond but I knew we were in for a rough road. "So he's blind?" the Doctor asked. "What does he do?" "We run a deli together." "He works?" If only they knew - Ron did everything. Not only did he manage the deli and vending machines, he handled all the payroll, accounting, and banking. Then he did damage control when I'd say or do the wrong thing in front of the customers. I helped him out but it was very clear who ran the whole show. I brought in pictures, part of my disability includes perseveration and I had taken dozens of photos of Ron at work. Ron at the beach. Ron riding a horse by himeself. Ron living an independent, happy life. The staff loved them and began planning "rehab" for the happy day when he emerged from his coma. In the meantime, I was leaning heavily on my faith. The deli was closed for the duration and the vending machines filled by another operator. Thank God, I thought, I won't ruin his business while he's away. I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing, alienating someone and making them inadvertently dislike Ron, that I'd beg God for guidance before opening my mouth everytime I spoke to a medical professional. My in-laws are still gossiping about my "behavior". You see, I don't have a real disability in their eyes, and I was just "crazy" for raising my voice, talking endlessly about our happy times together, and losing my temper now and then. I won't go into all the details, but suffice to say, I knew it would kill Ron to be put in a nursing home and told them so. As he lay there in Intensive Care, intubated and unresponsive, I noticed a funny thing. He looked so terrible that no one could stand to look at him for long. They would walk up, squeeze his hand, speak for a moment or two, look for a response, and leave. I hung on to his hand and talked to him for hours. What would he like to do when he got better? Did he know the cat caught a bird? I wondered if he remembered the helicopter ride. I just felt such joy at being near him the staff had to throw me out every 12 hours for shift change. As I'd prance up the stairs to his room, I felt like our first date all over again. The anticipation, the hope, and the simple joy of togetherness. "He's like a fish" I told my bewildered father in law. "He's far under the water but now and then we get a glimpse. One day he'll come up!" My faith was boundless and no doubt annoying. Yet I stayed. I stayed for hours, days, until the staff threw me out. Persevertion again. I made mistakes I don't know about and some I wince to recall. I referred to the Chief of Orthopedics as the "Leg man" (Ron had a broken leg that required surgery). My voice got too loud at 2 am in the ICU. I lost my temper and had an argument over "Ron access" with my brother in law right there in the unit. "Don't be childish" he snapped. After he stormed out, I sat by Ron's beside and sobbed. "I can't do it alone! I need you! Please come back! No one understands me!" I also told him in my typically dramatic fashion that if he died he might as well take me with him. I meant it. 2 hours later, he was doing well enough that they took him off the ventilator. I danced for joy at his bedside and the nurse didn't turn a hair. A week after that, he emerged from the coma. "Who are you?" - his first complete sentence, didn't bode well for me, but I told him, "I'm someone who loves you and you aren't getting rid of me". He smiled and went back to sleep. "He's a lot more responsive when you're around" staff told me "Stay around and keep talking to him." It looked like my perseveration was paying off. I coaxed him through his breathing treatments, told him every detail of what occured at his bedside, and gossiped with him about the family, work, news, and hospital dramas. I threatened him with spinach milkshakes and got a head shake in response. I chatted about current events and confessed that he was right, the flea drops he didn't want me to get for the cat had been proven to cause seizures. "You know I bought the stuff" I confessed "But I didn't use it and I'll throw it out when I get home again." He slowly progressed, tube after tube was removed, and every day less equipment cluttered up his bedside. The doctors stopped avoiding me and finally told me he'd recover. About a week later, he still didn't know me. What had been cute was now worrisome. He didn't know me at all! The man who knew me better than I do myself didn't know me at all! He'd hate me and my disability would disgust him. I went to God and prayed endlessly over the next few days. "He fell in love with who you are," God let me know "And if you're yourself he'll fall in love with you all over again." A day or two later I left Ron alone (by now, he had been moved to his own room and my devotion had earned me a lumpy cot in his room and 24 hour access) to run home and feed our long-suffering cats. I got a phone call a few hours later. "Someone wants to talk to you!" they chirped. "Heather!" Ron demanded "Where are you? Why did you leave? How far away are you? How soon can you come back?" Come back. Yes, he'd known I was there every day, every night, for the duration. Falling asleep in the cafeteria, neglecting our cats, and running on prayers and caffeine. Thank God, he was back. When I got back to the hospital, I confessed my fear that he'd never remember me. "How could I ever forget you?" he smiled tenderly "You're half of me." As we talked, I asked him what state we lived in. He got it wrong. He had no idea what had happened 9/11 "Isn't your birthday, is it?" and didn't recall the business. But he remembered me. When his sister unfairly gave me hell for "Messing up the paperwork" not only did Ron rise to my defense but he told her of my disability, even though he could hardly pronounce the word. As I write this, Ron has a long road back. His right side is very weak and will take a lot of rehabilitation to get back to the way it used to be. He gets confused at times and has a heck of a time recalling numbers. However, he's the same man. Even in the hospital, I was "running" things by him and consulting him on communiction issues. The man who couldn't recall his age still knew the best way to handle the staff. The nurses referred to him as "Our favorite patient" and made special exemptions for him. "No one ever says thank you to them" he mumbled. "I will, even if they're giving me a shot." He suggested I offer to get things for them when I ran down to the cafeteria "They won't say yes but they'll remember you offered". He was right. As his discharge date approached, I began to panic. How could I care for a head-injured man in a wheelchair? Especially with my disability? I didn't even know how to put him on the bedpan. I tearfully confessed my fears to a nurse who caught me crying one night, and the training began. Every bed bath, I was there, learning now to change a bed with him in it. Feedings, no sweat. I got a handout from the dietician. I asked the doctor to get me any written materials available and she went above and beyond. By the time Ron was relased, not only was I confident in my ability to care for him, but I had a stack of handouts half an inch thick. Ron's love for me is stronger than ever, and I love being there for him and supporting him as much as he has supported me. I am a Christian, and since Ron was so close to death in the beginning I had to ask him if he'd met God. "I love you." He replied. "Blackmail sure is a terrible reason to come back.". I know, but every day I thank God that he showed Ron what my life would have been like without him.
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