In the hospital following surgery, I learned the power of caring and compassion.
Even through my fog, I was keenly aware of how kind, attentive, and caring everyone was. The nurses were used to seeing such carnage and told me how I was doing at each stage of recovery. They were experienced enough to judge. They would pause in the middle of their hectic shift to talk, encourage, or put a hand on my blanket.
Kayla always pushed me to do one more thing. Dad was there to talk or to crack a joke. They saw me, and not the horrible, ragdoll me. Kendra called from Europe and sat on the phone with me, caring through the air waves. My brother and mother called and encouraged me and reminded me that it was a good thing to still be alive.
Sorry to be a bit gross, but I was dizzy after having my brain jostled and was sick frequently. All people involved with my care accepted the normalcy of handing me a barf pan or cleaning up what missed it. I can’t describe how caring and gentle that was – as strange as it sounds.