Margaret Blair Young writes: This article is by a dear friend of mine who has endured great suffering and learned the detailed lessons of resiliency.  He has chosen to remain anonymous.

I’ve got a good job as a social work educator. I have a loving wife who honors and supports me, and three healthy young children. However, lately I’ve felt overwhelmed, thinking: “How am I going to survive the next 11 months?” I do my best to maintain a facade that everything is all right.  Still when I’m alone I often bury my head in a pillow and cry. At work I’m struggling to keep up with the demands because my mind seems obsessed with my diagnosis. I don’t want to bear this challenge alone, but I struggle in deciding who to tell. I wrote these words in early September, 2004, the first few weeks of my treatment.

To give a brief history, let me backtrack to September 25, 1982. At the time I lived at home and attended BYU full time. This was the date of the first home football game of the season, and the first game in our newly expanded stadium. I was working as a ticket-taker and joked and laughed with a variety of patrons as they passed through my gate.

As the start of the game neared the crowds swelled, but by early in the first quarter, the crowds had thinned but were bunching up at just a few of the gates. I was asked to leave my post and ease the crowding by directing the remaining patrons to a variety of open gates. This was quickly accomplished.

Next I was asked to help shut one of the steel gates that surrounded the stadium. The gate I was closing was approximately 10 feet high and 25 feet wide. It was elevated about 2 feet above the ground on a cement block and had rollers to allow it to roll open or closed. I remember pulling on the gate with all my might and not having it even budge. As I prepared a second time, several other ticket takers joined in the attempt. I found myself on the opposite side of the gate from where the other ticket takers were because I was returning from directing the crowds. I thought nothing of it. With the additional help the gate began to move and then quickly accelerated as it rolled rapidly along the cement base.

Critical Condition

My next memory, some 6 hours later, is slowly gaining consciousness and recognizing that I was in a hospital bed and had a variety of tubes sticking out of my body. My vision was blurry but I recognized many of the tubes since less than a year previous I had worked as a nurse’s aide on the geriatric unit at the state hospital. Several of the patients there had had similar tubes, and I knew how serious their implications were.

There were a variety of doctors and nurses standing around me as I searched for a face that I knew. I recognized my dad standing solemnly amongst the group. I asked: “what happened?” In response one of the nurses quietly gestured with his finger over his lips and said, “Shh, you’re in extremely critical condition.” I searched my memory for what could have gone wrong but found no answer.

Shortly after Dad came to my side, did his best to smile, and in a subdued voice told me that the gate I had been closing had come off its tracks and fallen on me. He explained that the damage was extensive, but that I was a survivor. It was all more than I could bear. I closed my eyes to escape and prayed to God with all my might: “Please God, let this be only a horrible dream, let me awake to my intact body.”

Then I opened my eyes to the nightmare of reality. I began to feel physical pain beyond what I had ever experienced. My whole body shook uncontrollably as I tried to cope. It was unbearable and felt as if razor sharp knives were tearing me apart from the inside out. All of my body writhed in pain; over the next several hours and days a variety of doctors and nurses related the details of the physical damage.

Extent of Damage

My pelvis had been crushed and pulverized in various places by the gate, which had been estimated to weigh between two and three tons. It was a miracle, some told me, that I was alive at all. I had lost a great deal of blood and would need to receive many transfusions in order to stabilize my body for further needed surgeries. My colon had been brought to the surface of my stomach in what is called a colostomy so that my feces would pass through it into a bag rather than through my rectum. My bladder had approximately six holes and a super-pubic catheter had been placed directly above my genitals to empty my urine. A variety of monitors were placed on my body, monitoring my heart and other bodily functions. When there was a problem or, more frequently, when one of the monitors became disconnected, an alarm would sound and doctors and nurses would come running to assess the problem.

It was a horribly bleak time. I knew that I was holding onto life by a thread and wondered if that thread was worth holding. I imagined how sweet it would be to cut that thread and slip into peaceful death, away from this inescapable pain and broken body. As I pondered my situation, my father brought me an audio tape that told the survival story of a man who had been severely burned. As I listened, he quoted a passage from the Bible, stating: “no trial will be beyond what you can bear.” Hearing these words I turned off the tape and prayed, “God this is beyond what I can bear.  Let me die.” I knew I was very close to death and thought I could simply close my eyes and let life slip away. However, as I prepared to exit my bleak existence, I felt a renewed strength beyond my own. I was not quite ready to give up; still, I would certainly keep it as an option.

I was told that I needed extensive hip surgery if there was any hope of ever walking under my own power again. As time went on the hours passed into days and the days into weeks. I lost track of what day it was. Without medications I was in unbearable pain. My primary analgesic, morphine, was wonderful and often eased my pain enough that I could escape to my coveted dream world where I would run and play again. Here I was free to do whatever my body wanted to do-no limits. I loved to play basketball and would imagine myself dribbling past a full court press and then scoring against the toughest of opponents. I was unstoppable.

Sometimes I would imagine myself playing a tennis match. Less than six months before I had played on the tennis team at BYU Hawaii. I imagined long rallies against the best opponents where, against all odds, I would find a way to win. I had the right stuff--at least in this would. I loathed leaving it, but the effects of the morphine would quickly subside and pain would transport me back to my world of agony. My previous athletic and fun-living identity existed only in dreams, reality had shattered everything that I had ever wanted to do or become. Life was a nightmare. I hurt all the time and my body no longer obeyed my brain.

Pelvic Surgery

As my condition slowly improved, doctors set a date for my pelvic surgery. It was a very serious surgery and my risk of dying on the table was greater than my chance for survival. Nonetheless, having this surgery was my only hope of walking again. There was no choice, I would do it. My pelvis was so broken that the bones had to be spliced together with steel plates and then held in place with pins or small nails. After approximately 7 hours under the knife, the doctors had attached 4 plates and 20 pins to various bones in my pelvis. I had survived, but the surgery had taken longer than anticipated, and I had lost more blood than expected. Numerous blood transfusions were given and I slowly began to regain a small amount of strength. However, the trauma on my body took its toll. My liver was scarcely able to perform its normal function, and I was becoming jaundiced.

Soon my gall bladder was ready to burst and I was rushed into emergency surgery to have it removed. There seemed to be one crisis after another and I was becoming too tired to fight for life. Following surgery, the simple act of breathing created horrendous pain. As I struggled to cope, one of my nurses asked if I wanted anything. I answered that I wanted some water. However, rather than saying “water” I tried to say it without breathing and stated something like “waawaa.” My nurse looked at me, scrunched her face and stated, “You want some waawaa?” She smiled as she said it and I could not help but laugh. The act of laughing was painful, but somehow it felt good. Being able to laugh, I think for the first time since my accident, gave me the slightest glimmer of hope that somehow I would survive.

What Was Possible?

Gradually getting stronger, I wanted to know what might be possible. I asked one of the medical residents about playing basketball. In his professional detached manner he told me that I would live with chronic pain and be lucky to ever walk again. His prognosis was devastating and I refused to believe it. Much later my orthopedic surgeon stopped by for a quick visit and I asked him the same question. In a bold faced lie, he told me that I would be able to recover up to 100% of my previous ability and would be able to play basketball or whatever else I wanted to play. This was music to my ears. I knew the road ahead would be tortuous, but if basketball and other sports were at the final destination, I would find a way to make the journey.

After nearly six weeks in the hospital, I was discharged and put under the care of my parents. My condition was slowly improving; however, I was still incapable of dressing myself or transporting myself without the use of a wheelchair. Nonetheless, being home and around familiar faces and sounds felt wonderful. Neighbors would often visit and frequently brought dinner into our home. I still had my colostomy and super-pubic catheter. Neither my parents nor I had figured out how to get an air tight seal on the colostomy, so there always seemed to be the smell of excrement in the air. Visitors would do their best to ignore it but mom and dad often left the windows open, even in the dead of winter, to lessen the smell.

My primary task on most days was to attend physical therapy. Preparing for this. Dad would empty the contents of my catheter into a urinal. Once it was emptied, he unhooked it from the side of my bed and placed it on my stomach. I was now ready to put on my sweatpants, the only pants I could wear because of my “plumbing.” Dressing required perfect synchronization and teamwork between my father and me. Dad began by slipping the sweats over my feet as I straightened my legs. This straightening I did with sheer determination and upper arm leverage. Once the sweats were over my feet and legs, he lifted me a few inches above the bed, and then dropped me, and while dropping pulled the sweats up over my buttocks. I tied the sweats and then Dad would throw me a sweatshirt. I would quickly pull it on, an easy task since there was nothing wrong with my upper body.

The next task was getting into my wheelchair. From a sitting position I would place both hands on the arm rests of the wheelchair and while letting the tube from my catheter dangle from my abdomen, I would use my arm strength to lift my legs above the ground, and swing my body around on the chair. Letting go of the arm rests, I would plop down on the wheelchair. Dad would then wheel me down the stairs, bucking-bronco style, and finally out to the car. We’d then drive to physical therapy.

Therapy

When we arrived the atmosphere was jovial, yet the joviality was only on the surface; underneath were long hours of painful rehabilitation on legs so broken that the slightest touch sent stabbing incessant pain through my being. I dreaded physical therapy, but knew it was necessary. My therapist would have me lie on a table and then twist my legs. I wanted to scream as this twisting felt like my legs were being torn off my body, one twist at a time. But I’d clench my teeth and scream only on the inside. She was very demanding and made me push myself beyond what I thought were my limits, yet she also made me feel as if I was her peer and not just a crippled boy. I attended physical therapy daily for nearly a year and made significant progress, yet I also experienced a variety of setbacks including a time when I tried to take a step with my walker wearing only my sweat pants and a shirt. As I did this, my pants fell down to my ankles, and I was unable to pull them up because my body was too feeble. My therapist quickly pulled them up, I felt humiliated. What could be worse than having your pants fall down in public and be unable to pull them back up? Still I survived and felt that enduring this incident would allow me to endure anything that life could throw at me.

Progress was incredibly slow; my legs had suffered extensive nerve damage. They seemed to no longer hear or obey my directions. It was frustrating to tell them to move and to get no response. Yet the nerves in my legs had not been completely severed, I knew it was possible that my legs could once again be taught to move. Over time I slowly learned to place one foot in front of the other, first with the aid of a walker, then with crutches, and finally with a cane. Each step was incredibly painful but I forced myself through it.

The Silver Lining

One of the silver linings during this time was my relationship with God. I felt closer to him than I had ever felt, with all my strength I asked him to assist me in my quest to regain total mobility. There was nothing to hide, I prayed from my heart. Nonetheless, I believe most of my prayers were a monologue, not a dialogue, I was telling God what I wanted from him, and unwilling to listen to his desires.

Many of my prayers also reflected Kubler-Ross stages of grieving. Initially, denial was prominent: “Please Lord, allow this accident to be no more than a horrible nightmare, and then allow me to wake up to my whole body as it used to be.” Over time, denial seemed of little help, so I moved to anger: “Please God, don’t punish me this way, free me from the bonds of disability and allow me to run again.” As time passed I dreamed of a full recovery, to achieve it I tried bargaining: “Please God, I’ll attend church every week, I’ll do whatever you ask, and in return, I ask for a miracle. I know with you nothing is impossible, I have the faith, heal me.” I spent many hours crying and begging for a miracle. I wanted more than anything to return to my former physical status, but my injuries were extensive. 

Early on my church attendance was a search for self-acceptance and a search for the strength to endure my circumstance. During one fast and testimony meeting, a young couple shared their experience with a miracle. Both the man and the woman related their experience of being in a very serious automobile accident; they noted that because of the severity of their injuries, both were expected to die. However, because of special temple prayers and the prayers of loved ones, they were miraculously healed with no lasting effects. The young man concluded that guardian angels were watching out for and protecting him.

I listened and wondered why no guardian angels had intervened to prevent my accident or at least to reduce its consequences. I wondered how God decided who was deserving of his miracles, and how he decided when and if a miracle was to be performed. I knew I had a good relationship with God. Still, I wondered if he had his favorites, and if so, how could I get on that list?

Despite a lack of answers, I continued physical therapy and did all that was asked of me. As I learned to take a few steps with a cane, I experienced a great breakthrough. I imagined never progressing further than the cane and decided that I could make a decent life for myself in spite of it. I was moving towards acceptance--broken body and all. In my communications with God I stated: “Thank you for the progress you have allowed me. You know I want more than anything to be healed, but if that is not your will, I can live with a cane, I won’t complain.” As my words were expressed, tears flowed unceasingly. Much of what I’d been holding in was coming to the surface, and through my tears I was letting go of a portion of my anger. As I became more self-accepting, I worked at reframing my thinking. Rather than dwelling on the things I’d never do again, I started imagining the possibilities of what I could do within my circumstances.

Man's Search for Meaning

Besides a lack of mobility, I had a lot of pain in my left hip where most major surgeries had been done. The mere act of putting weight on this leg often resulted in a stabbing pain around my hip. Sometimes I would try to push through the pain, and at other times I’d surrender to it. Living with pain was a new reality in my life, and I needed to figure out how best to do it. As I searched for solutions, I read a book titled Man’s Search for Meaning. In the book the author states that although Man cannot always control his circumstances; he is and always remains free to choose his attitude towards those circumstances.

As I read, I wondered if it were possible to change my perception of my disability. Until this point, I viewed it as the enemy, something I rarely talked about, and something I tried to compensate for. Yet disability and pain were a part of my life, and I needed to somehow make peace with these parts. Through my struggle to make peace, I wrote the following: 

Despite progress, I had not yet had sufficient time to gain a clear sense of who I was. I needed a new identity, an identity that incorporated my current circumstance along with new more realistic dreams.

Three Distinct Levels

In this search, I believe I passed through 3 distinct levels. At the lowest level, using the analogy of a piano, immediately following my accident I perceived that the piano of my life had been so damaged that I could no longer play the tunes I loved. Therefore, I felt that the only realistic solution was to throw the piano away or to end my life. Over time I progressed to the second level, perceiving the piano as “damaged” but worth keeping. I could play a few of the songs I loved, but many of my favorites were no longer playable. I no longer had suicidal thoughts; however, I felt that because of my disabilities, I would never be as happy as I would have been before the accident.

To arrive at the third level, I had to critically examine the piano of my life. Which keys worked and which did not? It took recognition that I had never played the entire keyboard. Could I learn to play some of the unplayed keys? If so, could these new keys provide me the same joy that I’d experienced prior to my accident? I came to understand that new dreams were possible, but to embrace them, I had to let go of old unobtainable ones. Answers were difficult to find, but little by little I’ve discovered and pursued new dreams that fit my present circumstance. Nonetheless, achieving this level has been an ongoing process for me, even after 22 years. I’ve had an abundance of set backs; still, I increasingly feel absolutely comfortable with who and what I am.

During the first few years of my recovery, I had regular checkups with my orthopedic surgeon. He noted that the top of my femur had been jammed into my hip socket. Because of this I would likely develop severe arthritis, and eventually, within 1 to 10 years, need a total hip replacement. I listened but thought he was underestimating my capabilities. I set a goal of 20 years before having my hip replaced. To cope with the pain I’d often take ibuprofen, I also received several pain treatments under the care of a physical therapist.

To increase mobility, I had a special brace developed for my left hip. This allowed me to participate to a small extent in some of the sports I loved. However, over the years, the pain in my hip increased and my mobility decreased. I contemplated hip surgery numerous times, still, my doctors and other providers told me to go as long as possible before surgery. This advice, along with my own goal spurred me to postpone hip replacement until August 4, 2003.

Another Devastation

Prior to surgery I donated a unit of blood for myself that could be used in case I needed it. On the morning of surgery I was told that the blood I had donated was contaminated with Hepatitis C, and therefore had been destroyed. I did not know what to think. I was upset that I wouldn’t be allowed to receive my own blood. Why not? How could my own blood make matters worse? On the other hand, I had heard of Hepatitis C but knew little about it. How serious was it? Was it contagious?  Nonetheless, I was just about to go under the knife so there was nothing I could do about it.

Hip surgery went well, no serious complications. Recovering in my hospital room during the next few days, I was informed me that Hepatitis C was a serious disease that could significantly reduce my life expectancy. I whined to myself and to God: “Why me, what did I do to deserve this?” “Isn’t the cross I’ve been asked me to bear heavy enough without this?” I was angry because I had never done any risky behaviors such as intravenous drugs that would create vulnerability to the disease. My only risk was receiving numerous blood transfusions in 1982, a time before Hepatitis C was recognized and screened.

Despite being angry, I knew my whining would not help. I had to know about this disease to learn how best to attack and destroy it. As I studied it, I learned it was a small virus that primarily attacks healthy liver cells. Attaching itself to these cells, the virus diverts them from their normal function, and forces them to replicate the virus. Replicating the virus, these previously healthy liver cells soon become exhausted and die. As they die, the virus moves on, attaching itself to another healthy liver cell. Over time more and more cells become infected, and since they are diverted from their normal functioning, the liver suffers; often resulting in serious complications such as cirrhosis or liver cancer.  I also learned the virus was sneaky and could modify its appearance or lay dormant to avoid detection. Because of this, eradication would be difficult, although maybe not impossible. My image of the virus was that it was an ever-expanding group of terrorists who were using my own body to try and destroy me.

Exploring possible solutions, I found a variety of homeopathic remedies; however, these seemed more of a way to manage the disease rather than to eradicate it. In consulting with my doctor, his recommendation was that I receive a combination of interferon and rebetol over an 11 month period. According to him, this was the standard treatment and would give me at least a 50% chance of ridding the virus from my body. However, he also noted that this option would have severe side effects.

Ultimately, I chose my doctor’s recommendation and started an 11-month course of treatment in August 2004. The combination treatment requires that I give myself a shot of interferon once a week, and take 6 rebetol pills every day. Giving myself the first shot was easy; however, the side-effects left me incapable of getting out of bed for the next two days. I was absolutely exhausted. During these days I fluctuated between being feverish or experiencing cold-chills. My sheets were either soaked with sweat or I was shivering under a load of blankets. Nothing seemed to make me comfortable. After 48 hours my symptoms eased and I slowly returned to work and my regular tasks. I thought, “One shot down, 47 to go.”

I had never had such a severe reaction to medications. If this was what I’d face for the next 47 weeks, I couldn’t do it. It was too much. How could I possibly take a weekly shot and still fulfill my other family and job responsibilities? As I started the rebetol pills, their effect was to reduce both my red and white blood cell counts. With reduced blood cells to deliver oxygen, I felt tired much of the time; and with reduced white cells, I knew I was more vulnerable to disease. Despite wanting to stop, I continued treatment. After the first few weeks, the fever and cold-chills subsided. Yet I still felt fully exhausted for about 36 hours after each shot.

Feeling overwhelmed in trying to balance my treatment, family, and work, I still did my best to pretend to my wife and children that I was managing fine; however, when I was alone I’d often break down and cry. I especially dreaded Friday nights when I would administer my shot. My children (7, 9, & 12 year olds) complained that it wasn’t fair that they had to do all of their Saturday chores while I slept the whole day away. Filling in for my absence, my wife did what she could, but the added responsibility seemed to be stressing her out. It wasn’t just my disease; it was our whole family's.

Dwelling on the Negative

At work I’d do the very minimum of what was needed, and then dwell on how awful it was to be me undergoing this treatment. The medications seemed to make it natural for me to dwell on negative thoughts and play the role of the victim. I wanted to snap back at others for minor provocations and had to regularly bite my tongue. I’d think of everything that had ever gone wrong in my life, and I’d dwell on that. I was slipping into a negative spiral and had to begin challenging some of it. To counter this negativity, I tried to act as my own therapist. When I’d think: “I can’t do this,” I’d say, “Objection, I can do this, I’ve done many difficult things and have the strength to do this.” Or if I was thinking, “I’m a magnet for bad luck,” I’d say, “Nonsense; my life has been filled with many wonderful things.” I’d then reflect on some of those things. This reflection reminded me that life contained both thorns and roses, but that I had the ability to choose my focus. For the time being it is a conscious effort to think optimistically.

Medications have also affected my memory. I often get dates and times confused; something that rarely happened prior to treatment. To compensate I try to write a daily schedule with the tasks that need to be completed. Nonetheless, I still sometimes forget to attend meetings or to complete other tasks. Therefore, I apologize frequently but try not to beat myself up. When I do mess up, I remind myself that I’m doing the best I can, that  treatment will end, and hopefully, I’ll regain my former memory.

As time passes, I seem to be coping a little better. Although my weekly shot still knocks me out for about 36 hours, I dwell on it less and focus more on what I can do with the remaining 132 hours. I try to plan activities that I enjoy and that give me something to look forward to. At work, despite feeling that I’d never get through fall semester, I survived and now feel on top of my workload.

I made one major change at home. I changed the day of my shot from Friday to Saturday night. This allows me to complete my chores on Saturday and to do some family activity. Sunday I’m totally wiped out. I try to attend church in the morning and then crash the remainder of the day.

Wonderful News

I had wonderful news in December 2004. After about 14 weeks of treatment my blood was tested to determine current levels of the hepatitis C virus. Miraculously I was informed that my blood showed no detectable levels. I was ecstatic. Could I stop treatment? Could this ongoing nightmare be over? I was told that the virus can lay dormant, and that the best chance of permanent eradication was to complete the entire 11 month treatment. Things were not quite as easy as I hoped; still, treatment was having a positive effect and that tremendously boosted my spirits.

As I continue treatment, I still struggle in balancing my various responsibilities. However, a few things have helped. I’ve tried to streamline my life and to let go of the nonessential. For example, while listening to a colleague complain about another faculty member, I thought, “I don’t have the time or energy to waste worrying about what someone else is doing.” Hence, I’m trying to let go of old grievances. I’ve set reasonable but not outstanding expectations for myself. I do what is essential at work, but I’m not volunteering for extra duties. At church I told my bishop that I was being treated for Hepatitis C, he was supportive and offered to release me from any callings. I declined, noting that I could manage my present calling but would appreciate not being given any additional callings. I also asked him to give me a blessing, he did and that blessing gave me great comfort; especially where he said that “I would be able to find the strength to cope effectively with this challenge.”

His words reminded me of thoughts from Elder John Groberg: “Sometimes the Lord calms the waters, but more often he calms the child in those waters.” The miracle for me would not be the removal of this cross; rather it would be finding the strength to cope.

At home I’m trying to make more time for my wife and each of my children. This is difficult because after work I often feel exhausted and want only to sleep. Yet by making the effort, I’m able to strengthen bonds with my family. Sharing time with my wife has been especially helpful. She knows me better than anyone, and sharing my current struggles seems to lessen their burden. I also try to listen to her perspective and to be supportive of the challenges she faces because of my treatment.

I have also tried to reframe my perception of treatment, asking: “What if this is really a blessing rather than a curse?” As I ponder this, I notice several silver linings. For instance, out of necessity my life is becoming more and more streamlined; I’m learning to say no to things of less importance, and to recognize my top priorities. Hopefully I’ll continue this recognition, even after treatment. I’ve been forced to delegate many of my routine tasks to my wife. As I watch her complete these tasks, I find myself grateful and more aware of the many things she does to sustain our family.

Enduring the temporary pain of treatment in hopes of long-term benefits, I gain a greater understanding of my capabilities and a greater realization of my tendency to underestimate them. I’m learning that much of my strength comes from challenges I’ve faced, and that these previous challenges have helped prepare me for this challenge. For example, reflecting on the time my pants fell down and I could not pull them up, reminds me that I’m a survivor and that the most difficult challenges, when faced well, provide the most growth and learning. This belief dovetails with the words of Albert Camus: “In the midst of winter, I found there was within me, an invincible summer.”

I’ve gained greater appreciation for my connection with other people, especially immediate and extended family. These people who’ve provided me with love and support have lessened the burden and made me feel as if many hands are upholding my cross. Conversely, as I step out of my victim stance and serve others, I’m reminded that I’m not alone in suffering; all of us seem to have some cross to bear.

God has also given me comfort, especially when I feel all alone and overwhelmed. And through my communications with him, I’m beginning to realize that “All things will give me experience and shall be for my good.” As I continue treatment I still find myself whining, but less often. All in all, life is good.  Who am I to complain?

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