Everyone has an anniversary date of a life-changing event. My spinal stroke changed my life in one hour.
At the fifth anniversary of my paralysis, my husband and I had been dating for 11 months. We had plans to go out for dinner. Before we left my apartment, Tom pulled out a stack of envelopes. He shyly asked me to open them. The first was a greeting card wishing me a "Happy Anniversary"; the second card said "Thinking of you"; the third "Get well soon": the fourth "Congratulations on your success"; and the last one, "Sorry for your loss." I started to cry.
"I wanted to recognize your anniversary and I didn't know what kind of card to get. So I bought them all," he said.
Each of us has had our lives change in an instant -- the sudden death of a loved one, suicide attempt, accidents, the diagnosis of a serious illness, the end of a marriage, miscarriage, layoff or firing, arrests, foreclosure, bankruptcy, mental health breakdown, a newborn with serious birth defects and the sharing of important news. Life becomes divided into before and after. No one forgets the date.
But how do we constructively remember the anniversary of important, challenging events in our lives?
In the early years, I did a variety of things to cope with the anniversary of my paralysis. I had been told that if there was going to be any physical recovery, it would happen by the end of the first year. That first year, I was in denial. I cried myself to sleep every night. I begged for a miracle. I couldn't believe that I'd be left paralyzed. I believed it would all go away, just as quickly as it had all come on.
A year later, on April 24, 1977, I was still paralyzed ... no physical recovery. I stayed in bed all that day. I hid from the day in sleep. I saw no one. Another year, I drank myself into a stupor to forget the day. I also tried one year to forget my anniversary by focusing on the birthday of a friend on the same day and not telling anyone it was a special day of sorts for me, too.
When is your pivotal day and when is a pivotal day for someone else?
I am the eldest of my mother's five children. She had me when she was 19. She was extremely proud of me and she hated what had happened to me. As my mom, she couldn't protect me, she couldn't make it go away and she couldn't take on my burden. She was angry that it happened to her kid. She was almost rude to other young women my age. As my advocate, she'd bark at them that they had no clue how lucky they were. It pained her to know I had to be so brave through the tests, surgeries, shots and stares. She turned her head sometimes when I did something that looked difficult. It was often more than she could bear.
My mother had survived a closed-head injury as a teen. She often said she was lucky. She felt life was telling her otherwise when I had my stroke.
She said in her guilt, "It was supposed to be me, not my child." She wanted to raise me to be like everyone else. But I wasn't like everyone else. My mom wanted to assume I would be OK. That thought got her through. Like many parents of children with health issues, she worried that I wouldn't find someone to really love me, go to school, find a job and give my gifts.
My four siblings also feared something scary could happen to them. Shortly after my stroke, they also experienced minor health concerns, needing some of the vast attention I was receiving from my parents. My mom and I worked through many things before she died at 56 from cancer. I also know my stroke broke her heart.
I have spent most of my adult life in the field of counseling psychology. The people I have worked with know that I may define "getting better" a bit differently than most people. Many have said to me, "You can't take away why you use a wheelchair. We can't take away whatever bad thing happened to us. You will help us manage our healing journey, just as you have for yourself."
Local psychologist and author John Schneider believes that grief can be addressed by first answering what's been lost, then seeing what's left. Last, he says, we have to look at how what's left can be transformed into something new. This is not a linear, quick process. It's very hard work. It takes as long as it takes.
I have learned to honor my anniversary as an important transition. I share the story of my stroke with my inner circle. I light candles for every year, honoring everything I have learned. I celebrate.
Susan Odgers, a resident of Traverse City for the past 21 years, has used a wheelchair for 32 years. She is a faculty member at Northwestern Michigan College and Grand Valley State University. She can be reached via the Record-Eagle. For more Adapted in TC columns, log on to record-eagle.com/susanodgers.
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