Joni by Joni Eareckson Tada Read Free Book Online

probably be up here in a minute.”
    “No—they’ve already been here,” I replied. I felt tears, hot and salty, spill out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. My nosebecame stuffy. I couldn’t even cry because I couldn’t blow my own nose. I began to sob anyway.
    “Hey, what’s wrong, Joni?” Alice wiped my face with a tissue. She pulled another from the box. “Here. Blow. Feel better now?”
    I smiled. “I’m sorry. Guess I was just thinking of mom and dad down there. Dr. Sherrill just told us that my injury is permanent—that I’ll never walk again. I know they’re down there talking about it. And crying. And I’m up here crying. It’s just too much to handle, I guess.”
    Alice ran the back of her hand along the side of my face. Her concern, her gesture, felt good. It was reassuring and comforting to feel something.
    “I’m going to walk out of here, Alice. God will help me. You’ll see.”
    Alice nodded and smiled.
    During the weeks following surgery, I didn’t get stronger as I had vowed. Still fed intravenously or by liquids, my weight began to drop. The thought of solid food made me nauseous, and I just couldn’t eat food brought on trays to my room. I could only drink grape juice. The nurses stocked up on it and brought me glasses to sip.
    One day a stranger in a hospital uniform came into my room. “I’m Willie, the chef,” he explained. “I came to see why you don’t like my food,” he added.
    “Oh, it’s not your food. I just get sick thinking about food in general,” I apologized.
    “What did you like best? Before the accident, I mean?”
    “Before? Well, my favorite foods were steak—baked potatoes—”
    “Vegetable?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Corn, I guess.”
    “Salad?”
    “I liked Caesar salads.”
    “Well, let’s see what we can do.” Then he left.
    That evening a nurses’ aide brought my tray as usual. As she lifted the cover, I saw a big steak, a huge baked potato with butter and sour cream, sweet corn, and a magnificent Caesar salad. But when she put the tray down in front of me, somehow the smell made me nauseous again.
    “Please. Take it away. I’m sorry—I just can’t eat it.”
    She shook her head and took the tray back, and I turned away in frustration and sadness.
    I never knew whether the nausea was typical or just a side effect of some medication. I was used to the hallucinations by now, and I believe even some of my dreams, or nightmares, were drug-induced. Lately I had sensed ugly “beings” standing around my hospital bed, waiting to carry me away, and this daydream or nightmare or hallucination, whatever it was, depressed me further. I couldn’t really see them, but I knew they were there—terrible and fierce, waiting for me to die—or maybe just fall asleep. I fought sleep for fear of being carried off by them.
    I was glad when visitors came, for to some extent, their presence kept me in touch with reality and gave me something to look forward to. But I never really knew how difficult it was for them to come back day after day.
    When friends came to visit for the first time, they were awkward and uncertain of how to act in a hospital room. As they began to be somewhat at ease, they all asked the same questions.
    “What does it feel like?”
    “Does it hurt?”
    “How do you go to the bathroom?”
    Many visitors were squeamish and uncomfortable; some were particularly upset to see the tongs pressing into my skull. It often seemed they had more difficulty coping with my situation than I did.
    One day two girlfriends from high school came to visit. They had not seen me since before the accident, and I was as unprepared for their reaction as they were. They came into the room and slowly looked around at the Stryker frame and other paraphernalia. Then they stopped hesitantly beside me. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they came toward me.
    “Hi,” I smiled. “I’m sorry I can’t turn my head to see you, but if you’ll—”
    “Oh,