My sweet husband and I celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary this week. With a graduation the previous month, and several unexpected expenses, (or bad spending habits of yours truly... whatever) we decided to keep it low-key. My mom kept our little ones for several days, so we had some quiet alone time.
We decided to hit Fork & Screen for the movie "Me Before You." We had seen the previews, and although I was interested in seeing it, I didn't figure my man would be up for it. I assumed that it might hit a little close to home. From the trailers I viewed, it appeared a story about a young man with a sudden spinal cord injury that found he could still find love and happiness despite his profound change in functionality.
Three and a half years ago, my able-bodied, risk-taking, tenacious spouse hit a jump on the ski slopes harder and faster than he intended. He windmilled his arms to regain control, but flew past the hill and landed on a flat spot. His ski tips hit first, and he did what they call a scorpion. If you are familiar with that deadly little arachnid, you will recall that their tail appears to flip backward over the top of its head. Bob's face/head hit hard, and his entire body flipped over his neck, while his head remained face-down in the snow. It happened in a split second. It was the last hill of the day, and of the entire trip. They were headed down to eat dinner and to fly home the next morning. One last jump recorded to show his children that their dad still had it.
An unfortunate combination of bone spurs, natural degeneration, and a congenital condition called spinal stenosis created a situation where no spinal fluid was present surrounding the cord where the full impact occurred. His spinal cord had no cushion to protect it. Swelling began. He required surgery to decompress and fuse his cervical vertebrae from C3-C6. He is medically classified as an incomplete quadriplegic with Central Cord Syndrome.
Most of you know the details of our lives over the last few years. Bob spent a total of sixteen weeks hospitalized; he was in Utah for three, and here in Kansas City for thirteen. He went through intensive physical and occupational therapy, learning how to feed, groom, and bathe himself again, first power wheelchair-bound, then walking with an auto-ambulator, then a platform walker, a regular walker, and now a cane. I had to go through training on how to transfer him from a wheelchair to bed, chair, couch, and back again. I had to learn more about medications than I ever really wanted to know. I became educated in how to catheterize him, to give injections to prevent blood clots and some additional unpleasant tasks (for both of us) that I won't mention here. I became a full-time caretaker when I was already a full-time mom to both a one and four-year-old. Dressing an adult male at 6 feet and nearly 200 pounds is surprisingly more complicated than clothing a baby and a toddler.
It has been hard but oh-so worth it. We celebrate every milestone. Social workers informed us early on that a high percentage of marriages wouldn't survive this type of circumstance. Having lived it, we both can understand why (although it twists my soul into knots when I consider others whose loved ones left) because it is HARD. We are good. We have joy. Most importantly, we have Jesus, which gives us hope. We have a new normal. It certainly isn't how we had planned or hoped that our lives would be, but we have so much gratitude. We received blessings beyond measure on more than one occasion. We love each other. We have seen each other at our absolute worst and love each other despite our mess and humanness. It is a choice. Love is a choice. Joy is a choice. Surviving Is. A. Choice.
All that to say, I knew this movie would be a tear-jerker. I was surprised when my man suggested that we see it. "Its almost like it's us."
No. No, it isn't. SPOILER ALERT If you haven't seen the movie, and you're planning on it, stop reading right now. I'm going to tell you the ending. Put this down, set it aside, and come back to me after you've watched it.
As it happens, "Me Before You" is about assisted suicide. You're given a glimpse into that early on, but if you're like me, you may think that surely they wouldn't end the movie like that. You'd be wrong. At the end of the day, after waiting for six months to fulfill a promise made to his parents, after falling in love with this sweet girl hired as a caretaker and who LOVED HIM BACK, he still decided to fly to Switzerland and end his life with medical assistance.
Before I stir this particular pot, please don't send me ugly comments. If you are a proponent of medically-assisted suicide, good for you. We'll have to agree to disagree. I'm not looking for a fight; I am sharing my opinion based on a particular circumstance of which I have a thorough understanding. I can empathize with both main characters and certainly sympathize.
I was angry when I left the cinema. Furious that I just sat through a film that at the end of the day, attempted to invalidate our lives. A movie that pretty much just said to my husband, "You don't have enough value to continue living now that you aren't physically able to be the same man you were before your accident. If you loved your life before this happened, and are never going to have that same life again, you might as well pack it up, big guy, because it's just not worth it. You have no hope." A film that said to me, "You may love him enough to stay and help take care of him, but if you REALLY loved him, you'd stand by and let him die. Real love wouldn't want him to be sad about his condition. True love would 'let him go' and as an added bonus, maybe you'll be able to have this great second start and maybe go to Paris on his dime and get some new perfume."
Okay, that last part was over the top. If you've seen it, you'll know what I'm referencing. They weren't married; they didn't even know each other before his accident. I get it. He wanted her to get to go to school and experience a life she couldn't have. Very sacrificial. Blah. Blah. Blah.
On the way, home, Bob reminded me that I can never actually understand what it is like from his perspective. He reminded me that he was athletic and bold (some may say cocky) and vivacious. He never questioned his abilities. If you don't get it right the first time, you get up and do it again. He was driven, ambitious, and on top of the world. He did a swan dive off the top of Black Rock in Maui. We went zip-lining and rappelled in the Sierra Madres. He would roller-blade eight to ten miles at speeds that were ridiculous. He traveled for work, ran a company, and was 'large and in charge.' He now feels some level of pain every single day. He can't sit for extended periods of time. He can't stand for long periods. There are no risk-taking activities in his future other than walking the length of our house and hoping he doesn't catch a toe on the carpet. Bob felt for this character in ways most would or could not. He said that if he didn't have hope or didn't have Jesus, he could easily imagine himself in that boat.
While I can not fully comprehend everything Bob goes through every day, I certainly can recognize what it is to have to the entire course of your life suddenly and drastically veer to the left. I can picture the fatigue and doubt and overwhelming sense of anxiety. I can recall exhaustion and inexplicable anger.
I would never wish this type of trauma on a single soul. If I could go back in time, and change Bob's trajectory on that slope, or better yet, keep him from making that trip at all, I would do it. It's hard. I love him. I don't like to see him in pain. I don't like to see his pride take a hit if he stumbles. It hurts my heart for him to see people occasionally assume that physical disabilities automatically mean there must be a mental impairment. A man with the best of intentions once continued to call my larger than life husband 'Buddy' and did everything but pat the top of Bob's head and call him 'good boy.' He didn't realize how condescending he was, and apparently believed he was very helpful. My husband was gracious and kind, and took it like a champ while I seethed quietly.
I certainly do not want to minimize the loss. We have grieved. We have had to develop a new normal, but let me be clear, neither Bob's value, nor the value of our relationship comes from society's view of us, or from what either of us can physically accomplish without device or aid from other sources. He has merit and worth because he is a creation of the Most High God. He has children who adore him. He has a wife (ahem) that has no interest in walking through this life without him. We have friendships that strengthened over the course of this journey. We have friendships that developed because of this journey. We have grown more spiritually than we would have otherwise, because, let's be honest, it is a lot easier to rely on God and trust Him when your feet get knocked out from under you than when you think you've got it all within your control.
I wonder how many quadriplegics, paraplegics, or anyone suffering from an illness that leaves them wheelchair bound or dependent upon others for their necessities feel watching a story unfold that ends with the character they identify with deciding that it just isn't worth living if he has to be like them. Maybe they would feel differently if they were shown as they are...fighters, warriors, courageous and dignified. Unwilling to be told they are unworthy of breath. They empathize. Definitely. I am guessing that most of them realize their story isn't over. Perhaps if they could see an ending where they recognized that just because life AS THEY KNEW IT was over, that LIFE ITSELF is far from over, it could be uplifting.
I know it was just a story, and I'm just telling you ours. Our non-fiction, still wading through it, still getting murky on occasion, saga. It's far from over. We're just getting started, and it's a good story, dare I say, a great one. I will cherish every single moment of it, even the hard ones. I will eagerly anticipate the next eight years of life with this man, and hopefully another eight after that, and so on, and so forth. We aren't over yet, we're just at a new chapter.
