The On Purpose Part III: The Recovery

After my surgery, the medical personnel assigned to my case informed me of my recovery time. Because of my facial injuries, my jaw would have to stay wired shut for 8 weeks, a time during which my meals would be limited to liquid form. Because of my back injury, I would have to undergo physical therapy: I would have to be taught to walk again. In addition, I was forbidden from undertaking any strenuous physical activity for at least one year.

            What the doctors didn’t (and couldn’t) tell me was that this physical recovery was the least of my problems. I would have medical professionals there every step of the way to guide me in my physical recovery, but I would have to fend for myself in the area in which I would need the most help. My body needed healing, certainly, but to a much greater degree, my perspective needed a doctor. Not my emotions, but my point of view; not my goals, but my approach. I needed Jesus.

            Unfortunately, I would not hold fast to this realization until a few years after the incident took place. So I went through my year of physical recovery and made decisions in which Christ was not involved. In February of 2002, I got a big check from my brother’s car insurance company, and I got engaged to the young lady who had been sitting next to me in the car. Before the end of 2002 all my money was gone and I was single again. In retrospect, had I clung to Jesus during this time, I could have created for myself a financial situation that was completely free from dependence upon anyone. Instead, I still have thousands of dollars of debt from my student loans, and my credit rating is much lower than it should be. The car I bought for myself is gone, as are most of the clothes and gadgets I foolishly purchased from my windfall. I was given an opportunity to turn what would typically be viewed as a bad situation into a great one for myself, and I didn’t have the wherewithal to do it.

            Beyond the poor financial decisions I made during that time, I made some bad life decisions as well. One might think that surviving such an experience would bring the survivor closer to the Author and Finisher of his Faith, but it had the opposite effect on me. Instead of a feeling of thankfulness, I took from my survival a feeling of invincibility, and began living my life in the reckless fashion that typically accompanies those who suffer from such a delusion. I will skip the details of such a lifestyle, but I firmly established myself in the community as one who would do anything at any time, regardless of potential consequences to himself or others around.

            Ironically, it was during this time that I received a very interesting job offer. Pine Forge Academy, a school I had not attended but I was familiar with, was looking for an English teacher. After a few telephone interviews, I was offered the position. Recognizing the responsibilities connected with this position, I turned it down fearing that I might lead the young people of the Academy in the incorrect direction. Although my prescribed year of recovery had recently ended just before I received the job offer, I knew I was in no mental position to lead the lives of young people in any positive direction.

            Besides, teaching at Pine Forge Academy was one of three things I said I would never do, the other two being entering the mission field and delivering a sermon from a church pulpit. It’s funny what you find yourself doing after you tell Jesus what you won’t do for Him.

            About two years after the first offer, I came to the conclusion I spoke of previously, that the incident with the car had taken place to bring about a change in my perspective, and that change centered on a dependence on Jesus. So in August of 2004 I quit my job as the Editor in Chief for a small magazine and shortly thereafter I simultaneously quit performing all of the deleterious acts that I had engaged in since I was released from the hospital. There was no major event to coincide with this turnaround, it was more like I woke up one day with the phrase “What are you doing with your life?” on my mind. I instantly knew that I had to lead my life differently.

            I had a great burden on my mind to do away with anything in my life that could take away from whatever it was that God had next for me. So I sold my car, the dream that I’d made come true not 2 weeks after I’d gotten the insurance check a couple of years before. I downgraded to a compact car that was reliable, good on gas, and not too fast. I didn’t know what I was preparing for, but I even started packing.

I told him I had been expecting his call when the phone finally rang.

            “How did you know I would call?” J.P. Willis, Superintendent of Schools for the Allegheny East Conference of Seventh-day Adventists, asked me.

            “I don’t know. I just knew,” I said.

            “Well, we have another position open at Pine Forge Academy. Would you mind sending me an updated résumé?”

            A few weeks later I was hired as an English Instructor at PFA, a school that, during my vain college years, I had braggadociosly vowed never to work for. It was then that I realized what God was doing with me. He had begun the process with the incident with the car by taking away my ability to take care of myself and even diminishing my intellect a little. The process had continued when I lost everything I had tried to build without God’s input after I left the hospital. Accepting a job I had previously sworn never to so much as entertain was simply the next step in the process of The Lord breaking me down so that I could be useful to Him. I had to be taken out of the way so God could use me for His purposes, and as a cocky, hot-tempered, conceited young man, I could never be a fully productive member of God’s camp. All of these things were revealed to me before my first day at PFA, so I was able to enter my new position recognizing that I had a greater purpose for being there than the Department Chair, the Principal or even the Superintendent could envision. My purpose was Heavenly.

            I felt very strongly that I was to be used as an instrument of change at PFA during my stay there, however long it was to be. I had an idea about the duration my employment should be as well, but at the beginning, it was just an idea. I believe that God was able to use me at PFA to accomplish things that can be useful for the school as an institution of quality education for years to come. I intentionally drew a line in the sand, as it were, and refused to cross to the side of academic mediocrity. I made it clear to students and parents alike that everyone who passed my class would have to earn the right. Cheating would not be tolerated, and laziness would not be fruitful. I made myself available for extra help, but never required any student to come. I wanted students to begin to take ownership of their educations, and holding their hands through things they could do for themselves was not going to be useful to them.

            After 3 years, the period of time that Jesus had whispered in my ear when I took the job at PFA, it was time for me to move on. My recovery was not over yet; God had more breaking to do in my life so that I could be made as useful as possible to Him. There were more things on my “Never Do” list, a list that could not even exist if God was to have His way with my life. When I left PFA, I did so with the respect of the Administration, my fellow teachers, the students, and their parents. I was seen as a teacher who cared enough about the students to force them to do their best by not forcing them to do anything, but not accepting anything less than their best. Some students thrived in my system while others failed, but I believe that all students were shown that there are some things they must do for themselves.

I think that’s what Jesus wants us to think, too. He will wipe away our tears, He will carry our burdens for us, He will save us, but He will not give us holy character. That is something we have to work for. In the same way, in my class, I gave all the tools necessary for a student to grow intellectually and educationally, but I would not do the work or lower the standard for anyone. One of my repeated refrains when students attempted to hand in late work was “probation will one day close.”

            The next thing on my “Never Do” list was missionary work. It wasn’t something I ever said aloud, but as a boy I decided that I would stay as close to a comfortable situation as possible. I would not endanger my own comforts for anyone’s purpose. I’m not greedy; I can do without many extra things that some people consider necessities, but I still don’t do well when I’m not comfortable. Without realizing it, I had become dependent upon convenience in my life. This was perhaps most clearly evident in my church attendance while working at PFA. The nearest church with which I was comfortable was about an hour’s drive from my apartment. As a result, I frequently spent my Sabbaths in my apartment sleeping (under the guise of “Sabbath rest”) rather than spending an entire day in Philadelphia.

            The mission field would offer no such chances to sit and simply do nothing. Not only that, the mission field would also tear down the last item on my “Never Do” list, preaching a sermon from a pulpit. Because I see what God does when I get out of the way, I have truly begun to open my mind to all the things He could possibly want me to do with my life.

            Normally, when a motor vehicle makes contact with another motor vehicle, or leaves the road and is damaged in some way it is termed an “accident.” This brief tale from the life of one man is entitled “The On Purpose” because I am convinced that the incident with the car was not an accident. Certainly, my brother didn’t mean to fall asleep at the wheel with the cruise control set at 80 mph and drive 4 young people off a 30-foot cliff, but God meant for him to. For me, it began a process of breaking down barriers to His will in my life. To this day, when someone asks me if I’m recovered from the car accident, I always respond in the same way.

            “Physically, I’m fine, “ I say.

            It’s true. Physically, I’m fine. But God is not finished with this recovery process in my life. And He won’t stop until He saves me.

The On Purpose Part II: The Surgery

As the nurses wheeled me into surgery I was delirious.  They’d just shot me full of one of God’s greatest creations, Demerol, as they knew it would knock me out.  I don’t know what they use for anesthesia, but I’m sure that day they didn’t need more than the normal pain medication they’d been using up to that point.  Perhaps they felt the need to use an additional drug just to be certain.

            As I lay motionless on the hospital bed, the gravity of the situation hit me.  These people that had never met me and did not know me from Adam were about to cut into my face.  My friends, the nurses, told me these surgeons would make everything all better.  They were trained professionals that knew what they were doing.  I’d previously requested a mirror so I could take a gander at the level of destruction.  My face was not a pretty sight, but I still did not see why they had to use knives to fix it.  When God made me He didn’t use any knives.  Now these strangers had the nerve to try and play God, but they were going to do so with destructive weapons!  Why couldn’t they use dust like He did?  Imposters!!

            To make matters worse, there would be a period of post-surgical recovery that would be quite unpleasant.  One of the nurses warned me about it.

            “You’re going to feel a little strange after surgery,” she’d said.  “In order to fix your nose, they have to put something like a splint into your throat.  This will feel very weird when they’re finished, but I wanted you to know about it before hand so you won’t freak out.  Also, they’re going to have to wire your jaw shut.”

            “How am I supposed to eat?” I’d asked.

            “We’ll feed you through tubes.  We’ve been feeding you through tubes since you got here,” she said.  Somehow there was not a trace of impatience or sarcasm in her voice.  It was probably a question she’d answered at least once previously, but she was able to retain her long-suffering.  Quite a talented nurse she was.

My vision was impaired, but I was still able to capture a glimpse of the surgeon that would be slicing me up.  My hearing was not impaired, so I was also capable, through the delirium, of overhearing the doctors and nurses talk about the terrible procedure they were about to perform.  A small Indian man spoke in a heavy accent to another man.  The other man was a plain looking middle aged Anglo-American with brown hair. I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup of 1.

            “Do you want to do the anesthesia here?” White Doc asked.

            “We’ll do it in the room,” Indian Doc replied.

            One of the nurses approached with a photograph of me.  She showed it to Indian Doc, which let me know that he would be the primary surgeon handling my facial operation.  While looking at the picture he remarked at the sight of my visage.

            “Good,” he said.

            He was talking about my nose.  It was broken, and Indian Doc was worried about the small hump in its center.  Apparently he was unsure of how to get rid of this unsightly protrusion, but since it had been there before the wreck he did not have to do away with it.

            I watched my Dad watch me lie there until we passed through the forbidden doors.  These are the doors through which only patients and medical personnel are allowed.  I had long since taken control of my fear and put it in a place where it could only be used if it would benefit me in a given situation.  This was not one such situation, but still I was afraid.  My fear on the operating table made me feel like a baby.  I was completely helpless.  My very survival was entirely in the hands of two people with whom I was not familiar.

            But I had to trust them.  I had no choice.  White Doc placed one of those masks over my face and began to give me instructions.

            “Just relax, Paul.  Relax and breathe deep,” White Doc said.

            I could not see Indian Doc, but I imagined him in the corner of the room sharpening his knives.  This did nothing to assist in my effort to follow White Doc’s instructions.  My breathing became shallow and my heart raced as my fear surmounted.  For a moment White Doc took the mask off my face.

            “You have to relax, Paul,” he said.  “Trust us.  We are very good at what we do.  We’ll have you good as new before you know it.”

            The simple words from the man I did not know were not enough.  For a few moments my heart continued to race and my breathing remained shallow.  It was at this point of panic that I caught sight of one of my nurses.  The intensive care unit at this particular hospital had 8 hour rotating shifts.  For the five days of the workweek I had only three nurses.  One would be there from 8 a.m. until 4 p.m.; the next arrived at 4 and stayed until midnight; the last was on duty from midnight until 8 in the morning when the cycle started again.  Of course there was more than one nurse in the intensive care unit at a given time, and I don’t know how the nurses were assigned rooms, but I like to think that after spending a shift with me all three of my nurses requested to remain on duty in the section that my room was in until my discharge from the hospital.

            We had a blast together, my nurses and me.  Whenever I pressed the button for assistance, my hand was barely back to my side before the nurse on duty was there.  I didn’t have to form full sentences from my broken jaw for them to know exactly the desires of my heart, whether it was drugs, another pillow, or more heat.  Whenever one of them completed a required duty to assist in my recovery, I issued a compliment: “Brilliant,” I would ejaculate.  I told my jokes, as I was resigned to do, and they laughed in apparently genuine joviality.  In terms of hospital staff, my three revolving nurses were the only friendly faces I ever saw while in intensive care.

            Just the sight of my nurse during my moment of panic eased my fears dramatically.  Although I was in a very irrational state of mind, my reasoning abilities continued to function to an extent.  She was not interested in anything of a negative nature taking place, so her presence was a silent guarantee that she would watch this “doctor” to make certain he did not harm me.

            As I relaxed, I closed my eyes and began to breathe more deeply.

            “Good.  That’s good,” White Doc said, attempting to encourage me.

            When next I opened my eyes, I was staring at myself on a basketball court.  I knew it was a dream, but I welcomed it.  I did not remember the feeling of the nothingness after the accident, as this is impossible, but I knew it had happened.  I somehow remembered the dreamless sleep when I was barely aware of my existence, and recognized it as an improvement over the previous state of mind, or lack thereof.  This sleep was yet another step forward because it meant my mind had repaired itself enough to allow continued awareness during a period of unconsciousness.  I allowed the dream to continue.

            I was at the top of the key with the ball in my hands.  My father was guarding me.  To my right on the wing was my brother.  He stood in the corner so that my uncle, the man guarding him, would not be allowed to double team me.  John wanted me to score the winning basket.

            I was primarily a jump shooter, but my youth gave me a quickness advantage over my father.  I faked right and dribbled left, trying to beat him to the basket.  He stayed with me for the first few steps, but just as I reached the basket I saw a window of opportunity where I could make a lay-up.  I jumped and brought the ball up with both of my hands as I had been taught.  Dad knew he was beaten and made a final effort to take the ball from me.  I used nearly all of my strength and was able to retain possession of the ball to make the game winning lay-up.

            As the ball went through the hoop, a feeling of supreme accomplishment overtook me.  John and I had tried for years to beat my father and uncle in basketball, only to meet with defeat after defeat.  We’d come close a few times, but we were never able to get over the hump.  When we were very young, their victory was nearly guaranteed because they were much bigger and smarter than we were.  They were still bigger, but our collective basketball I.Q. had grown considerably.  We no longer fought on the court.  We were able to play together, as a team, and utilize the other’s strengths.  We listened to the advice Dad had given us after the last time we had lost.

            “If you guys can stop fighting you can beat us, you know,” he’d said.

            We learned our lesson and were able to win.  I had one final lesson to learn that day.  For months I’d been trying to dunk a basketball.  Although I am less than six feet tall, I had the necessary athleticism to accomplish this feat.  For a reason that was unknown to me I had been unable to place the ball through the cylinder once I achieved the necessary height.  The solution to my problem became clear after our victory: stop fighting; just let it happen.

            I took the ball and went just beyond the three-point arc, just left of the top of the key.  I dribbled a few times and jogged toward the basket.  Picking up my dribble, I took off just inside of the dotted line with the ball stretched out over my head.  I brought it down in a thunderous dunk that shook the entire frame of the goal.

            “AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!” I growled.

I’d figured it out!  If I let the game come to me I could do whatever I set my mind to.  Energized by my feat, John took the ball and went to the wing where he’d been standing when I scored the game-winning basket.  He took the ball and attacked the goal as if it had wronged him previously.  He threw down a double-pump reverse dunk that made mine look like nothing.  At that time he had already been dunking for a few years, so what he performed was neither a significant accomplishment for him, nor an accurate depiction of his athletic full abilities.  Because of this, it did not even slightly diminish the feeling I had.  I saw then that if we played together, we could not be stopped.

I awoke smiling.  Instantly the smile was gone.  I was back in that cramped intensive care room in Arkansas, my body racked with pain.  I was having a difficult time breathing, so moving was not even on my mind.  I felt something in my throat, and I remembered the words of my nurse before the operation.  But she was wrong.  The doctors hadn’t placed a splint-like instrument in my throat.  Splints were small.  The object in my throat was much too large to be a splint.  I pressed the button and the nurse was there.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she said, smiling.

“Thz dzktz,” I tried but it didn’t sound right.  She said they would wire my jaw shut and that speaking would be difficult, but she understated her point.  Speaking was nearly impossible.  I tried again.

“Thz dzktz dnt pt u splent n m thrt,” I mumbled.

“What?” she asked.

“Thz dzktz dnt pt u splent n m thrt,” I gurgled.

“The doctors didn’t put a splint in your throat?” she confirmed.

“Ysh,” I replied.  “Thz Jpsh cam nd pt u sptlu n m thrt,” I said.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that,” she said.

“Thz Jpsh,” I began again, but it was useless.  She would never understand the sabotage that had taken place in the operating room.  How could she not have seen what happened?  She was standing right there!  I made a movement with my hand that resembled writing, and she got the picture.  She disappeared for a moment, and then returned with a pen and a piece of paper.

I took the paper and wrote the most important part of my message upon it.  Japs.

“Japs?  What about the Japs?” she asked.

Spatula, I penned.

“What happened with a spatula?” she inquired.

“N m thrt!” I said.

“The Japs put a spatula in your throat?” she asked, never losing the patience in her voice.

“Ysh,” I squeezed through my clenched teeth.

“No, the doctors put a splint in there.  Remember, I told you they would before your surgery.”

I decided she would either not understand the urgency of my message, or she was on their side.  Either way, I needed to have a clearer state of mind to battle the foes that awaited me outside of the room.  I penned one final message:  Knock me out.  She looked at it and nodded.  She left again momentarily to obtain a needle.  She pressed the needle into the receptacle made for it on one of the tubes that ran into my arm.  I felt a cool fluid enter my bloodstream that I recognized as Demerol.  I closed my eyes in enjoyment as the candied pharmaceutical did its work.  Moments later I was unconscious again, and dreaming pleasant dreams.

Coming Soon – Part III of The On Purpose: The Recovery

The On Purpose Part I: The Incident

It was hot in July of 2001, as is always the case in July; but it was especially so in Oklahoma where the land is desolate and the heat has nothing to do but to fester like a malignant tumor.  It was so hot that I could almost see the steam rising from the pavement into the nighttime sky.  I climbed into the back seat of the car next to my girlfriend and got comfortable.  I was going to sleep.  I had stayed up on purpose because I knew that I was going to sleep first and my brother was going to drive first.  I could tell both he and his wife were a little annoyed that this was the case.  After all, my having to go to work the next day was the reason we were leaving in the middle of the night instead of staying in the hotel room that was already paid for.  But I didn’t care.  Too often I thought only of myself and my own convenience. 

            The moment I was comfortable in my seat belt I was asleep.  I dreamed pleasant dreams: of the wedding we’d just come from, the fun we’d had; of days past in high school when I’d last seen many of the wedding’s attendees; of the drive to Oklahoma from Huntsville, Alabama.

            Then there was nothing.  Nothing is impossible to imagine because by using one’s imagination one is doing something, the very opposite of nothing.  I cannot describe it.  There was just nothing.  No darkness, no coldness; no light, no warmth; nothing.  It was like death.

Waking up was startling.  I was no longer in the car.  I had concept of neither time nor place.  I didn’t know if an hour had passed or a year.  Besides where I was not, I was aware of only one thing: pain.  My face and head felt like a building would feel after a meeting with a wrecking ball.  My head hurt, my jaw hurt, my cheeks throbbed; even my eyes hurt.  No, not my eyes – my eye sockets!  I tried to move, but was unable to budge.  I could move neither my arms nor my legs. My head and neck did not even respond properly to the demands of my brain.  What had happened?

I attempted to collect my thoughts.  I looked around the room slowly, moving only my eyes.  This process was painful, but I had to know what was going on.  I quickly noticed that it was a hospital room.  I’d been in many before, although few from a patient’s point of view.  My head was elevated, so I could see that I was strapped to the bed so that my movement would be very limited.  I could see the television perched high on the wall and the tubes running into my arms.  I could see my parents.

            There was no better time for them to be within my sight.  Just the thought that they were going to be there through this ordeal was too comforting for me to express.  Had I functional tear ducts I may have cried.  I looked at my father and a thought occurred to me: he was a very busy man.  Maybe he would not be there throughout the entirety of my hospital stay.  I knew my mother would not leave the room until someone made her, but my father’s presence was not guaranteed.  I spoke to him.

            “How long are you going to be here?”

            A severe pain rudely accosted me as though we had been formally introduced. However, I was previously unaware of its existence and the sensation threatened to drag me into unconsciousness.  Before I was taken back under, however, he answered my question.

            “We’re going to be here as long as you’re here.”

And I was out.

            This sleep fell somewhere between the dream-filled one I’d previously enjoyed, when I first got behind the passenger’s seat in my brother’s 1996 Nissan Altima, and the nothingness from which I’d been yanked in the hospital.  There were no dreams, but somehow I knew I was not dead.

            When I awoke again, I noticed that I was still harnessed to the bed like a rotisserie chicken.  Briefly I wondered if I’d been turning and cooking, and how close I was to done.  The thought made me smile, and I was reintroduced to the pain that had knocked me out the last time we met.  I was better prepared for it this time, however, and was able to resist falling insensate again. 

This time as I looked around the room I saw more people.  My aunt and uncle were there.  My sister was there; so was my brother.  I spoke.

            “What happened?”

            My father, always the mediator, spoke.  In retrospect, he probably felt it was his duty even though my brother, who was driving the car, must have known the details better than he.

            “John fell asleep while he was driving.  You guys went off a little cliff.”

            My mother, always playing the nurse, spoke.  She must have been impressed with her responsibility to update everyone’s health status.

            “April is alright; she separated her shoulder, bruised some ribs and had a minor head injury.  John just bruised some ribs.  Your girlfriend broke her left collar bone and left femur.”

            My mind raced.  Femur, femur… that’s in the leg right?  Wait a second – I have a girlfriend?!  I made a mental note to ask my mother that question when the room was clear, but first I had to know about myself.  Again I spoke.

            “What about me?”

            My father spoke again.  This was not a good sign.

            “You broke some vertebrae in your back, some bones in your face, you bruised a lung and a kidney, and you had severe brain trauma.”

            His mention of brain trauma brought a realization to my injured mind: I felt a little slower than normal.  I did not notice then, but I later realized that many otherwise obvious facts eluded me until someone brought them to my attention.  I also found it difficult to concentrate on more than one thing at a time.  Remembering things was nearly impossible.  In fact, I am told that I had to be reminded on several occasions of the very reason for my being hospitalized.  Telling someone how he was almost killed once, as difficult as that may be, cannot compare to having to repeatedly inform someone of his near demise.  I do not envy the task my parents had to undertake in those first few days.

            “What day is it?”

            “Wednesday,” Dad said.

            It was Monday when the trip began.  I was very late for work.

            “Did someone call my job?”

            “Yes, we took care of that, Paul,” Dad replied, almost chuckling at the silliness of my question.  There were much more important things to deal with than the status of my part time employment as a cashier at Costco.

            “What bones in my face?”

            “Your jaw, cheek bones, nose, eye sockets…” Mom and Dad chorused.

            “Eye sockets?” I asked, flabbergasted.

            “Yeah.  You haven’t noticed?”  My sister chimed in.

I realized at that moment that I was seeing double.  My left eye socket was completely shattered, so the eye on this side was sitting considerably lower, at least an inch, than its counterpart.  I knew my jaw was broken, although it hadn’t hurt in a while, and the throbbing I’d previously felt in my cheeks testified of their destruction.  However, this pain was also conspicuously absent.

            “What do they have me on?”

            My aunt, the actual nurse spoke.  She was not a nurse like my mother, only possessing a nurse’s instincts.  She actually had three degrees to prove that she was a nurse, and chaired the nursing department at my alma mater.  She remains to this day the most brilliant person I have ever encountered.

            “Demerol.”

            The word was like music.  It danced in my ear like a Mozart symphony.  My favorite music is hip hop, but hip hop generally does not dance in my ear.  It kind of accosts my auditory canal, landing on my ear drum with a thud.  It is my favorite because of the beats and the lyrical prowess of my favorite emcees.  Classical music, however, is much more sophisticated and light.  It has the capability, when performed properly, to change my entire mood and brighten the very appearance of the sun.  This is what the word did.  It was suddenly daytime in that little intensive care room in Arkansas.  I tried it.

            “Demerol.”

            The word even tasted good.  There are words that roll off the tongue in such a way that they leave behind a residue of their presence that is nearly palatable.  This word did just that.  Even now when I say her name, although I no longer experience the pleasure she brings, I can still sometimes taste a little of that leftover residuum.  It makes me lick my lips.  Always the comedian, I thought of a joke.

            “And on the 8^th day, God created Demerol.”

           The room was in stitches.  I decided then that I would be on stage for the entire time I was in the hospital.  Excluding the day after my facial surgery, when I was in recovery and could do little but moan aloud while I was awake, I was in a wonderful mood for the remainder of my hospital stay.  The laughter of my visitors as well as the personable and talented nursing staff helped me to feel as though, for brief periods, I was not even in the hospital.

Coming soon – The On Purpose Part II: The Surgery

                          The On Purpose Part III: The Recovery