Life Matters - April 2, 2025
After fifty-two days of hospitalization, I was finally released to go…home! I was so happy and relieved to be going home where I believed the healing process would speed up. I still couldn’t walk without support, stand without something to lean against, and had to back downstairs on all fours and crawl back up. My brother John (bless his memory) bought me a cellerciser, a small rebound unit (a sturdy mini-trampoline) that claims to exercise every cell in the body and I believe verily it does, judging by all the sore muscles scattered hither and yon throughout my body in those first few weeks. When I began, I couldn’t get my feet clear of the spring-loaded mat, even while grasping the crossbar firmly with both hands, so at first it didn’t dawn on me why I was so sore. Not until I refrained a few days then started up again was I convinced. I did that a few times to make sure. After that I bounced on, twice a day, steadily increasing the time spent, the vehemence of bouncing, and the exercise routine. If brother John were still here, I would thank him again. As I did numerous times when he was still here, I would say, “Thank you, John, for your thoughtful gift, I believe nothing else besides the grace of God has helped me recover mobility as much as I have!’’
We have Deacon Ben Esh to thank for his caring heart in negotiating with the hospital finance department, and the finance staff to thank for accepting settlement. I was close on the half a million, but settlement was reached at about half that. I had been flown to Sioux Falls by helicopter and that provider dropped all charges, because of our financial status, while Sadie privately agonized in prayer and fasting. That bill alone was $30,000. We were, and remain, very thankful for all the help given.
But as one church brother said, “We can’t all do that, we don’t all know as many people as you do.” The hospital initially wanted us to apply for government aid for which we eventually learned we didn’t qualify. Then there was the helicopter service not getting paid…Obama Care was in the news…I learned that Christian Health Care Sharing Plans would qualify for exemptions from Obama Care…
After much deliberation, praying, and receiving advice, we became a part of Samaritan Ministries, a Christian Healthcare sharing program that I have come to love the same way as I love other and varied ways that Christians “put their shoulder to the wheel” to help each other. In whatever form it takes, Christians “bearing one another’s burdens” is beautiful to behold.
I wish I could say that my spiritual life at home stayed as glorious as it was in the hospital. But it didn’t. So I won’t. Home was more stressful than I had expected. My emotions were more volatile than I expected. I felt responsible, but my brain was unable to cope with the stress. I wanted a quiet house to help facilitate recovery. And to write. It was the one thing I could do. I learned touch-typing, but continued writing with pen and paper as I can think better with pen in hand. Thoughts came. They poured out on paper…
Journal writing was a release for my convulsive feelings, even as spiritual writing was a release for my thoughts. Journals recorded happenings, news, people, events, and…not always sanctified…feelings. It was a form of release that I deemed necessary. The inevitable happened. I left my journal laying out and someone read it. I got rebuked. I tried to explain…
I couldn’t understand why changes were happening in my family, in the church…I was coming back soon, wasn’t I? Once back in lead roles I didn’t want a lot of fixing to do…but when I tried getting involved, I couldn’t control my emotions. I never got physically abusive (unless desperate disciplining counts). But my anger would spout off in various expressions and slurred statements, then die down as quickly as it erupted, and I began to gather that my family was seeing an angry man while I was being (as I saw it) spiritual-minded with occasional brain-injury related (as per doctor’s warning) outbursts. I felt misunderstood, but unable to explain myself. The time came when I didn’t try. I knew I didn’t always understand myself so how was I to explain myself? “Explaining” myself was translated into excuses anyhow. By a “friend” who rebuked me for it. So I gave up trying. And kept on writing…
Perhaps someday we can all together (as in, family) write a book. Perhaps the varied perspectives could be a help to someone else (whether patient or caregiver) experiencing pain from brain-injury related emotional upheavals?
Because, after all is said and done, God is good. Jesus Lives!
Life Matters!