Look Within

I haven't posted about this little gem for a minute. 

Inside of my room at IMC was a glass sign.

Rand began writing on it each day;

Or having me write on it from my wheelchair.

My writing was lower because I couldn't reach.

Everyday, Rand would read to me.

He would read the scripture and the Tao to me.

He would then ask me about what he read (which was literally like a paragraph before I would zone out again).

This was to help my comprehension and my ability to focus for a few minutes at a time.

It was also because I could not have any technology at all.

No TV.

No phone.

No nothing.

He would play Christmas music in between therapy sessions, meals, showering, and reading.

We had this amazing routine that we did every day.

And, on the days (2) when he wasn't there the entire day, whoever was in charge of me (Kalynn or T) was given instructions on what to and what not to do.

This sign caught the eyes of everyone.

People would ask about the words on it.

It became a really great connection piece in the hospital.

"Fight" came from a nurse's aid at the U.

She had a mini-stroke a year prior to me being there.

She would come in every morning and say, "Honey, FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT."

"Vision" came from me staring outside, unable to really see with my eyes, but more and more capable of seeing with my heart.

This has only intensified over the last two years.

"Build" came from the therapists constantly telling me that every single little thing I did was HUGE, and even unexpected. They would tell me each day that we would just build on it.

"Slowly" was the same idea.

I hated that word.

It was not in my character to go at anything slowly.

I would cry and cry and cry every time one of the doctors would tell me that this would be slow.

When they would leave, Rand would close the door and turn out the lights and have me rest.

Then, it was "go time" again when I would wake up.

Go-time meant coloring (he would sit me up in my wheelchair and pull the tray table over to me with my markers and a piece of paper).

It took me three weeks to color one paper.

But, it was beautiful.

I did it all by myself.

Slowly.

And, he reminded me of that lesson daily.

There are so many words on there that I am not good at, still.

Patience. Allow. Just be.

But, I know them to be important.

That room was a room full of the Spirit.

Everyone would mention the "different feeling" in our room.

It was full of hope and faith and trust because that was all we had!

We prayed often.

Like, all the time.

We invited others to pray with us.

There were so many tears in that room.

I know he won't read this, ever, but I have something to say to the above-referenced Rand.

Rand LeRoy-

You are brave.

You are full of strength.

You are light in the darkness.

You have described your fears and feelings of being overwhelmed.

You were told I would die.

The girl you loved.

It was December.

Your daughter and her husband were coming home from a different continent any day.

Your mind was stuck on: I need to adopt the four boys and move them to Orem and get that apartment cleaned out.

I need to make sure that Heidi's quality of life is full and good.

I need to comfort the boys.

I need to figure all of this out.

Then I started to recover in miraculous ways.

Now what?

You were there every single day.

You washed me.

You clothed me.

You learned how to pull my hair back.

You rescued me on two choking occasions, then decided that peas and green beans would no longer come to me.

You were there when I sat up the first time, rolled over the first time, and walked the first time.

That first step, you ran onto the apparatus and lifted me up in the hair... sobbing.

WE had done it.

You took care of the boys, and your own kids, and ran your business from a hospital room in Murray.

You then took me home to your house so that they would discharge me prior to Christmas.

You did the holidays for everyone.

By yourself.

Once at your house, you fed me every meal.

Made sure I followed a schedule of yoga, meditation, reading, coloring, showering, going for independent walks (with Tipper).

You continued to take care of the kids (all of them).

Then, it was time for me to go home and be with my boys.

Still unable to drive.

Still unable to do most things, the boys took turns caring for me.

Doing my hair.

Shopping.

Cooking.

Laundry.

Cleaning.

Washing me.

Clothing me.

Giving me my meds.

Taking me to appointments.

Teaching me how to drive.

And, we broke up.

Rand, I will forever love you to the moon.

Thank you.

Thank you for all of it.

So much of it I will never understand.

I will never understand the toll that took on you emotionally, mentally and physically.

Thank you.