A scintilla of hope

I felt the frigid shards sear into my flesh the second I opened the door. The cold was vicious, the wind bitter. Snow was still falling, its intensity somewhat abated since the morning's fall.

Sighing, I peered through the flakes at the panorama that stretched out before me. I could barely see past the snow being swept fiercely by the wind.

Funny. I used to hate stormy days like this. They were depressing and promised nothing but more of the same. I was rather more fond of them now. They would forever remind me of my Christmas miracle.

******

We had moved to Canada in the depths of winter. I cursed the cold, but Conn couldn’t pass up the fantastic engineering job he’d been offered.

Our fathers had been best friends for 25 years before either Conn or I appeared on the scene. Ron was my godfather and I worshipped him. He and Laurie had seven children, and their home was always abuzz with activity, and redolent with the smell of the baking that constantly wafted throughout the house.

Of this rather boisterous and extremely loud tribe, Conn was closest in age to me. I liked him the least of the siblings. A year older than me, he considered himself superior. He taunted me brutally, making fun of my slight lisp and curly hair. When I would eventually begin to cry, his mother – who always seemed to wish she was anywhere else but there – would thunder into the room and loudly scold him for being the bully that he was. “Connor Joseph Simmons, why can’t you be more like your brothers?” she’d ask, referring to Steven and Brian who played quietly with Legos and train sets, and rarely needed correction.

Conn would protest loudly. “I didn’t do anything.” His mother would never agree with that assessment and would tell him to ‘knock it off’. “But it’s just a little bit of teasing,” he’d insist. His mother would glance at me, my eyes and face red from crying, and threaten him with some punishment or other if he did not, as ordered, ‘knock it off’. When she’d left the room, he’d glower at me and hiss, “Crybaby.”

On the rare occasion he didn’t focus on denigrating me, he’d ignore me completely. He’d turn his back to me and refuse to speak. This hot and cold treatment unsettled me. I couldn’t decide which was worse, his unwelcome, insulting attention or the silent treatment. Not a word. Not a glance. At those times, I’d either get a picture book from the vast children’s library the Simmons’ family had scattered about the playroom floor, or join his younger brothers and feign interest in what they were doing. Eventually, Connor Joseph Simmons grew up, and into the teenage boy all the girls adored. He was, I’ll admit, a fine specimen of burgeoning manhood. He was, in fact, gorgeous. Of course, he was captain of the football team and excelled in track and field. Conn was the embodiment of the high school all star. The year he was school president was the year the football scouts began to take an interest in him. They’d appear in the stands at some of our school’s football games, take notes and pictures and leave before the games ended.

The natural outcome of all this were the offers of football scholarships around the country. He had it made and I was envious...of his inordinate good luck and the casual way he seemed to ease through life. That life, like Conn, was charmed.

Family visits to the Simmons house became much less frequent and, during the few times our families got together, Conn was absent. He was always at a practice or out on a date with a cheerleader. I was surprised at how annoyed I was that he wasn’t there.

As Conn grew up, so did I. It was bound to happen…with me agog over the football star who used to taunt me mercilessly. Feeling as I now did, I was saddened by the knowledge he’d be leaving for college soon on one of the coveted football scholarships. It didn’t matter which he chose, he would no longer live in his parents’ home.

In August before the start of the school year, I had heard ‘the guys’ were going to play basketball on one of the courts behind the school. I knew Conn would be there, effortlessly demonstrating his athletic prowess in yet another sport. I was out the door in seconds, heading to watch my now heart-throb in action, when I met two girls, both former classmates, coming from the opposite direction. They were deep in a sort of agitated conversation, and I could see Jocelyn was crying a bit. They were so engrossed in their conversation, they nearly bumped into me.

Jocelyn was definitely crying and Sandra looked about to join her. I didn’t know them well, but thought it polite to ask what was wrong, and offer to do what I could to help. When I did, Sandra raised her head up at me, her face contorted with what looked to me like sheer agony.

“Didn’t you hear?” she asked. Before she could tell me, Jocelyn chimed in, “The accident,” she managed, “in front of the school.”

“That’s terrible,” I responded, genuinely concerned.

“Conn and them,” she added.

I think my heart stopped at that.

“What about them?” I demanded, a knot forming in my stomach as my mind raced through the possibilities that had the two of them so upset.

“It was them,” Sandra said in a sort of frenzy. “Conn and some of the others…in the car.”

“Oh my God. How do you know that?”

“Jocelyn’s brother saw it happen. He told us. He said it was terrifying; the car got slammed by a cement truck. And the guy took off.”

“Oh my God,” I repeated. “How bad is it? How are the guys?” I asked, dreading what I might hear.

“We don’t know,” Jocelyn said, “but the ambulances and fire trucks came. Scott said they had to use ‘the jaws of life’ to get the driver out.”

“There was a lot of blood.” Sandra nearly whispered.

My brain was on fire, my stomach turned. Panic filled my lungs, and my throat seemed to close. No sound came out when I tried to speak.

“Are they hurt very badly?” I finally managed to ask. “They’re OK, right?”

“I hope so, but it could be horrible news,” one of them said. It didn’t matter who.

“I gotta go,” I practically screamed. As I was gathering my breath for a run, Jocelyn hugged me. I was shocked at the gesture. Sandra didn’t budge. Absent-mindedly, I reached over and hugged her. I have never been a hugger, but everything was now in turmoil, surreal.

I ran the rest of the way to the school. The ambulance and fire trucks were gone, but the car was still there, nearly torn in half. Its left hand signal light dangled helplessly from the mangled hood. If anyone had been in the seat behind the driver, the chances of survival seemed dim. At the very least, there would be profound injury.

I was desperate to find out who had been in the car. Who was driving? Whoever it was, he would have taken most of the impact. The driver’s side door was buckled in on itself, and now jutted into the driver’s seat. Shattered glass was everywhere, sparkling smugly as the sun’s rays bounced off it.

I felt sick. I wanted desperately to know how badly they had been hurt. But, even more, I didn’t want to know because I feared the absolute worst.

*****************

Conn’s blond hair lapped up the sun. He was hunched over the desk in his office, working on something he needed to finish this weekend. An engineer’s work never seemed to be done. A cold, half empty coffee mug sat precariously near his right elbow.

“Can I get you some more coffee?” I asked, now standing by his side. I peered at the project he was finalizing and felt guiltily incapable of understanding any of it.

“Yeah. No. No…great,” he muttered, eventually deciding that he did want more coffee.

“Nearly done?” I inquired hopefully, though I already knew the answer.

“Soon,” he said. “Soon,” he repeated.

“Your ‘soon’s are usually the next day,” I chided him.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

I knew the apology was genuine. Conn would have much preferred to spend his weekend at our cabin, welcoming Christmas and watching the Sunday afternoon games, but his work consumed him. He loved his job, and the firm that had brought us to Canada. He said that he felt obligated to the company for giving him this opportunity.

“That’s OK,” I said. “Carry on.”

He loved his work. That I knew only too well. But it wasn’t what he’d really hoped would be his career. He was a natural at engineering and, in his drive to excel, had gone on to a PhD program to enhance his profile and qualifications in the field.

But his first professional dream had been ripped from him. He had a stellar future and was pretty much guaranteed a successful career had he followed his dream job. The stars had always aligned for him and he seemed destined for the bright lights.

Then, in a split second, his athletic days were torn from him.

I visited him in hospital as often as he would let me. Whether he enjoyed my presence or not was irrelevant. At least he wasn’t teasing me. Some days, however, he would lash out at me and the nurses in pain and frustration. Still, I lived for those visits, and hoped against hope he would walk again. He was tough and always driven to prove his singular capacity for meeting goals. No matter, I prayed feverishly that a miracle would be granted.

****************

Conn sat back in his chair and, leafing through the drafts, estimated how much time it should take to finish his work. Everything looked good, he was certain. He gauged he was on the last hour or so until he’d finish. He decided he had time to take a break.

He released the brakes on the chair and backed away from the desk.

“I’ve got time for a short break,” he told me when he wheeled into the kitchen, holding out his empty coffee mug.

“Great,” I replied. “If you can wrap it up by this evening, we’ll still have time to make it to the cabin for Christmas Eve.”

“Yep. We both deserve a good break.”

Conn moved into the family room to watch a bit of the game. He had refused to get an electric wheelchair, and stubbornly insisted on having one he could manipulate manually. He said it would develop impressive biceps and triceps. I wondered constantly how he could bear to see professionals playing football while he couldn’t. It would be salt in the wound, were it me. I knew I’d resent them all, and was completely in awe of the grace it had taken for him to accept his fate. As the years went on, he rarely ever alluded to any dissatisfaction with, or regret about, the world in which he had now found himself.

******************

I spent every spare moment at the hospital with him. Eight months since the accident had passed and, besides his parents and siblings, I was his only visitor. At first, it was obvious he didn’t want me there. I knew it was because he didn’t want anyone to see him in his helpless condition. There were angry outbursts frequently and he cursed everyone for his misfortune. The rare time he seemed less agitated, even calm. I visited him as often as he would let me. Whether he enjoyed my presence or not was irrelevant. At least he wasn’t teasing me. Some days, however, he would lash out at me and the nurses in pain and frustration.

I lived for those visits, and hoped against hope he would walk again. He was tough and always driven to prove his singular capacity for meeting goals. No matter, I prayed feverishly that a miracle would be granted.

The doctors were in general agreement that the damage was irreversible. His spinal cord injury had paralyzed the legs that had propelled him across countless football fields and basketball courts. Gone were the hopes of a football scholarship and professional career. Gone were the carefree days of tooling around in someone’s family car. It was all gone. He had been cruelly stripped of the life he had envisioned. It was excruciating to see him wrestle with the demons his diagnosis had wrought. The future looked not only bleak, but unimaginable. Unbearable.

During a visit at morning rounds with residents in tow, a visiting doctor from Europe told him that during his own residency, he had seen a patient with similar injuries regain some mobility. At first, Conn refused to believe it. It was too far-fetched and random, and he was convinced the doctor was filling him with false hope. He seemed uncharacteristically resigned to life in a wheelchair.

Still, I knew that somewhere very deep inside, he nurtured a faint hope that what the European doctor had told him was true. While his doctors agreed the paralysis of his legs was likely permanent, they hinted that, though unlikely at best, improvement was infinitesimally possible. Part of him clung to that very remote chance as his lifeline.

“They said there’s a scintilla of a possibility I’ll be able to walk again,” he told me one of the many times I visited him in the hospital. By then, nearly a year since the accident, physiotherapy had helped condition his body and regain a modicum of strength. Daily psychotherapy, trauma counseling and treatment sessions targeted his shattered ego and sought to reduce, even minimally, the PTSD that now caused him terrifying nightmares. Over the months, there were moments when improvement was obvious, in both his physical strength and, more important, his mental state. The results seemed to cheer him. As long as there was a possibility of even partial recovery, I knew he would keep pushing himself as hard as possible.

I also knew that things were changing between us

Slowly, his once reluctant appreciation of me grew into affection. I still worried that it was only due to my devotion and unflagging encouragement but, in the way he slowly opened up to me, I felt the newfound warmth really wasn’t in my imagination. We would be friends for life, I was certain, but I desperately wanted more than that. I never stopped hoping that in his new fondness of me, there was something more than friendship developing.

The hospital visits became part of my weekly, sometimes daily, routine. I visited nearly every day. I knew he was deeply disappointed by the callous way his once friends and team mates had written him off. There were still angry outbursts towards me and the nursing staff, but the episodes were not as frequent. In place of the hostility that had enveloped him, there was a perceptible – finally – interest in life.

I constantly tried to convince myself that there was a scintilla of a possibility our relationship would become more serious, more lasting. Gradually, as my loyalty proved sincere and lasting, the angry outbursts became less frequent. His dark mood abated somewhat, and he became more talkative, and more appreciative. Other than his parents and siblings, l seemed to be his only visitor.

********************

The snow began blowing fiercely as we neared the cabin. Visibility was limited and the car chugged carefully and slowly along the road, now down to one lane. What I could see of the trees that lined both sides of the road felt threatening. They leaned in, their branches groaning with the heavy snow as if to bar our passage. But it was the freezing rain that had me most concerned. It had begun when we were about 10 minutes away from the cabin. And the wind had picked up with such intensity I had begun to worry about fallen branches in our path.

“This wasn’t forecast,” I remarked, piqued with the weather channel that had assured me of clear passage for the drive. “There wasn’t supposed to be anything anywhere near this mess.”

“They can’t always be right,” Conn offered.

“It’s their bloody job,” I continued grumpily, as I tried to tamp down the fear that threatened to take hold of me. “I shouldn’t have insisted we come tonight.”

“It’ll be fine,” Conn assured me as convincingly as he could. “We don’t have much farther to go, and the wind seems to be dying down.”

“The freezing rain on top of the snow will just keep making things worse. We may not even be able to get close enough to the cabin for you to be able to get through,” I said, immediately regretting my mention of his limitation.

We may have to spend the night in the van,” he said, teasing me. It’ll be cozy. Romance will be in the air,” he suggested, trying to allay my fears.

“The frigid air,” I replied. “This would be the perfect night to hole up in front of the fireplace, and forget about everything else.”

“We may still be able to have a great time,” he said, trying to salvage what had become of our Christmas getaway. “We certainly have enough supplies to keep us going until the snow decides it’s had enough. And the ploughs up here are speedy with clearing the snow.”

“True,” I agreed.

As my mind sped through the various ways this holiday could go, I suddenly realized something that I stupidly hadn’t contemplated.

“Oh God,” I nearly screamed. “If this stuff keeps falling and the wind doesn’t let up, we could be stuck here for more than a few days. If we can’t make it into the cabin, we’ll freeze!”

“It’ll be fine.”

It was and it wasn’t.

As we willed the van to find its own way safely through the snow, a sudden beam of light ahead jarred us into full alert.

“Ah, shit,” was all I could manage before the car hit us head on. The airbags exploded, and I was hurled forward against the impact. I felt my chest disintegrate.

It must have been the shock and the certainty of death that gripped me as I tried in vain to squeeze past the airbag. A small string of flashing blue lights appearing at my eye level assured me that this was the first step towards whatever awaited in the afterlife. “This is it,” I was thinking before I passed out.

When I regained consciousness, and was convinced I hadn’t died, an intense relief ran through me. Slowly, I realized I was in a hospital bed. I was wafting in and out of sleep, feeling safe and…

“Conn!” I screamed suddenly. Where was Conn? How was Conn? Oh, God, what if he had been trapped in his chair? He’d have no way to escape.

I became frantic. How could I not have thought about Conn. How could I not have looked for him, remembered him? I began screaming hysterically. “HEY! SOMEONE! Where’s my husband? Where is he? Where is he?” When no one came immediately to answer me, I thought the worst. I heard myself begging through the sobs for help, for any information, for Conn.

After what seemed hours, a nurse finally made her way to my bedside. I dreaded what she was going to say, reliving the feeling all those years ago when the two girls told me Conn had been in a car accident. In my panic, I began to thrash about, disconnecting the tubes inserted in my arms. She restrained me and told me I should calm down and not worry. No need to worry. Right now, she said what I needed was rest. As she began reinserting the tubes, I felt the prick of a needle and drifted off.

I don’t know how long I’d been asleep but, when I woke up, a man I imagined was the doctor was standing at the end of my bed.

Before I could begin screaming again, he smiled and said, “Welcome back, ma’am.”

I didn’t feel welcome. I didn’t feel much of anything other than desperation for word of Conn.

“Where’s my husband,” I bellowed at him. “No one will tell me anything. Where is he?”

The doctor’s expression shifted perceptibly. “I’m not entirely sure,” he said.

“Why not, for God’s sake. Are you his doctor?” I felt the rage rising in my throat. “What’s going on here? I have a right to know. I’m his wife.”

“Yes, I know. So he told us.”

What? When? How? It made no sense.

Despite my anger and frustration, I controlled my voice and asked as quietly as I could, “Please. Tell me something. Anything.” I hesitated. “No matter what it is, I want to know.”

I thought I saw the hint of a smile when he answered. Was this funny to him?

“I can’t tell you that,” he said. “You’ll have to wait for someone else to speak with you. Try to be patient.” He smirked at the pun as if it were the first time he’d said it.

This was unbearable. This was emotional abuse. This was…

There were voices, just outside my room. Hushed.

I strained in an effort to hear. The voices stopped, and I heard someone coming into my room.

“I heard you’re asking about your husband?” a man’s voice queried. “Is that right?”

“For shit’s sake, YES! YES!” I screamed.

The man made his way around the hospital curtain. I could see he was on crutches. Strange for a doctor, I thought.

“OK, I can do that.” There was something familiar in the cadence and tone.

In an instant, I began to scream again, this time laughing and ecstatic at what must have been euphoria.

Conn. It was Conn. My joy was indescribable. I threw open my arms and shouted, “Conn!”

He hopped clumsily to me, nearly falling when I grabbed his neck and pulled him close for a hug.

“What happened to your wheelchair? What happened to you?” I asked when I was finally able to speak.

“I left the chair behind in the van. It was damaged beyond all repair,” he said. “And I didn’t seem to need it anymore.” He was beaming. He was jubilant.

“I never really liked it, anyway.”

“Me neither.” I paused, struggling to believe what was unfolding. “The doctor…that European man…was right. I could kiss him now.”

“So could I,” Conn agreed. “But we’ll have to make do with each other.”

I was more than agreeable.