This is my uncle, Paul H. A little less then six months ago, he was sent flying by a speeding bicyclist while completing his route as a mailman in downtown Boston. His head collided with a granite curb, causing injuries so severe that despite being rushed to MGH for immediate brain trauma surgery, the doctors held out little hope of him ever regaining consciousness. It happened on a gorgeous late spring day, and I happened to be home to take the call, and had to track down by cell phone my mom, his eldest sister, to give her the awful news.
My mother and those of her nine brothers and sisters who live in state began a vigil in the neurology ICU. Cousins and nieces and nephews, siblings from out of state, came by as they could.
My aunts bonded with people from other families bound in the same frightening vigils. Some left happy, bringing with them a rescued loved one. I was there on a night when one family's ended the other way--as they rolled up the handmade posters and signs they'd made to express their love to their sister and daughter, as they quietly put up their bibles, and hugged the other families good bye and walked out empty-handed.
When Paul began to show hints, then definite signs, of awareness, the family rejoiced, but were torn between gratitude for this initial cause of hope and fear of the unknowns. This man has always been a quiet, funny, private guy who detested any sort of fuss--what if, as seemed possible, the injury left him forever robbed of his mobility and independence, even of his memories and ability to communicate?
What happened next was amazing. Not so much because of some miraculous medical intervention. Paul recieved tremendous care at MGH and the Spalding Rehabilitation Center. But mostly, he just seemed to rebuild himself.
Week after week, Paul achieved small triumphs tracked by his sister and brothers and their crews: first, it was things like the ability to sit up, lift a hand, chew his own food. There were triumphs over each additional sentence he got out, his first laughs, his first attempt to stand on his own (in defiance of his nurses). First phone call he made, post accident. Re-emerging interest in the Red Sox. And his great joy in being able to recieve a visit from his beloved terrier.
This last month, he made it home, to his own apartment, which by way of grace, is an extension of the house of my Aunt and Uncle Bev and Paul,who, with their grown daughters, are his closest friends and family through many decades. He's already relearning to walk, with a cane and not the threatened walker, he's set his jaw to achieve first missions like going to the grocery store, and today, he made it to my Uncle Joe's sixtieth birthday party at a seafood place by the bay in Quincy.
I could write some spiel about appreciating our own lives and keeping a perspective on things and about courage, and whatnot, but I don't think he'd like that.
He doesn't like a fuss, like I said. So I said to him: "There you are. Causing trouble as usual." He laughed.
