Joni by Joni Eareckson Tada Read Free Book Online Page A

Joni!” choked one of the girls.
    “Oh, my God—” whispered the other.
    There was an awkward silence for a moment—then I heard them run for the door. Outside the door, I heard one girl retch and vomit while her friend began to sob loudly.
    I felt a twinge of horror sweep over me. No one else had acted that unusual. Were they particularly squeamish around hospitals—or was there something else?
    For awhile I didn’t want to know. Then a few days later when Jackie came to visit, I looked up at her and said, “Jackie, bring me a mirror.”
    She had been reading some cards and other mail and looked up abruptly. “Why?” she asked.
    “I want you to get me a mirror.”
    “Uh—okay. I’ll bring one next time I come.”
    “No. I mean now. Get one from the nurse.”
    “Why don’t we wait. I’ll bring you your pretty dresser set from home.”
    “Jackie!” I was getting angry at her. “Bring me a mirror! Now!”
    She slowly edged toward the door and was back shortly with a mirror. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes blinked nervously as she held it up before me.
    I screamed and Jackie jumped, nearly dropping the mirror. “It’s ghastly!
    “Oh, God, how can You do this to me?” I prayed through tears. “What have You done to me?”
    The figure in the mirror seemed scarcely human. As I stared at my own reflection, I saw two eyes, darkened and sunk into the sockets, bloodshot and glassy. My weight had dropped from 125 to 80, so that I appeared to be little more than a skeleton covered by yellow, jaundiced skin. My shaved head only accented my grotesque skeletal appearance. As I talked, I saw my teeth, black from the effects of medication.
    I too felt like vomiting.
    Jackie took away the mirror and began to cry with me. “I’m sorry, Joni,” she sobbed, “I didn’t want you to see.”
    “Please take it away. I never want to look in a mirror again!
    “Jackie—I can’t take it any more. I’m dying, Jackie. Look at me. I’m almost dead now. Why do they let me suffer like this?”
    “I—I don’t know, Joni.”
    “Jackie, you’ve got to help me. They’re keeping me alive. It’s not right. I’m dying anyway. Why can’t they just let me die? Jackie—please—you’ve got to help,” I pleaded.
    “But how, Joni?”
    “I don’t know. Give me something—you know—an overdose of pills?”
    “You mean you want me to kill you?” Jackie asked wide-eyed.
    “Yes—I mean no—you won’t be killing me. You’ll just be helping me die sooner. Look, I’m already dying. I’m suffering. Can’t you help me end the suffering? If I could move, I’d do it myself!” I was angry and frustrated. “Please—cut my wrists—there’s no feeling. I’d have no pain. I’ll die peacefully, Jackie. Please! Do something.”
    Jackie began to sob. “I can’t, Joni. I just can’t!”
    I begged her, “Jackie, if you care for me at all, you’ve got to help. I’m dying anyway—can’t you see? Look at me! Just look at me.”
    “Joni, you don’t know what you’re asking. I just can’t. Maybe you would be better off, I don’t know. I’m so mixed up! I want to help. I love you more than I love anyone, and it kills me to see you suffer like this. But—but I can’t do it!”
    I didn’t say anything more then. Several other times, though, in similar spells of depression and frustration, I begged Jackie to help me commit suicide. I was angry because I couldn’t do it by myself.
    I fantasized about how it could be done. Pills would be easiest, but the nurses would find me and pump my stomach. I could have Jackie slash my wrists. Since I had no feeling there, I’d have no pain. I could hide them under the sheets and—no, that wouldn’t work either. All I could do was wait and hope for some hospital accident to kill me.
    Jackie became more conscious of my appearance after these bouts with depression. She tried to help me “look good” to people and to interest me in things that might take my mind off my