Dear Hopers,

As your trusted Bus Driver, writer, and fellow English Major, sometimes words hang above me, as if trapped a cartoon bubble. Right now the word “yield” is the central theme of what’s happening these days on the BOH. Let us “mete and dole” out the latest adventures, with a nod to Tennyson.

On October 11, Rachel and I headed to Gillette for another round of phenol and Botox shots. This was another successful procedure; in fact, she ate at Perkins afterwards. Most people don’t handle food that well after coming to, but Rachel is not like “most people.”

Following of this round of shots, Rachel’s right arm and hand has awakened more, after a “slow prudence.” The other night, I was tackling grading while Rachel and Daddy shared a moment:

“Rachel, can you do me a favor? Can you squeeze my finger with Miss Rightie?” I half listened to the scene, slowing my typing. A silence, and then, “Very good, Rachel. OK, can you let go and do it again?”

“Did she do it? Actually squeeze it with her right hand?” I asked.

“And she just did it again,” he said, glancing my way with a proud smile.
For the last five years, I have “roamed with a hungry heart,” yielding for her body to come alive. A scene like this is anything but “dull.”

A few days later, as she rode in her ceiling lift sling, I watched her slowly grasp the strap with her right hand. And in therapy, we watched her bring the thumb and forefinger together to grasp at a puzzle piece. This round of shots is a “bringer of new things,” where Miss Rightie is concerned.

One more example: Last night, as I read to her in bed, I noticed that her right arm was relaxed and laying straight down instead of bent and fisted. What a joy it was to read without that limb in the way.

Rachel continues her motorized wheelchair training. What’s fascinating is the learning curve she’s navigating. Think about it: you and I know how left and right and forward are directions, but she needs to re-learn them in order to make the wheelchair go. She can stop on command with 50-60 percent accuracy. Plus, she has to understand what a wall is and how not to ram into it. She keeps striving, but she has a long way to go.

Yet, as we pulled up to the Crosstown, getting ready to take a left, I asked Rachel, “Hey, what way am I heading?”

She pointed left, and she was correct, but…

“Ok, but what direction am I going? Do you know?”

She briefly paused and said, “East.” She was STILL right.

“Excellent! You’re right! Now are we going LEFT or RIGHT?”

“Left,” she said with confidence. Bingo!

Our team suggested that wheelchair training be a part of our goals during next summer’s episode of care. This is yet another beginning, and since “all experience is an arch,” this training might just bridge mobility to independence and walking.

I say that last line because when I watched her in the motorized chair yesterday, I watched her kick her feet, as if she was mimicking running. I wanted to borrow Tennyson’s words and say, “Come, my Rachel, it’s not too late to seek a newer world.” We cannot rest!
Her speech ability continues to improve, as “the lights begin to twinkle from the rocks” of her recovery. Take, for example, her ability to seek and find out my own state of mind:

Rachel: Hi.
Me: Hey, Rach.
Rachel: How are you? (Comes out as almost one word, rushed together.)
Me: Who me? How am I? Why I’m great! How…Are…YOU?
Rachel: Good.

The other day, we were playing with a toy boat in the shower, and it fell below her bath chair.

Me: Well Rachel, your boat fell below the chair. Can you say below?
Rachel: Beeelooooww.
Me: OK, now that I’ve picked up the toy boat, and I’ve put it on your lap, where is it now?
Rachel: Above!

She also surprised me with an answer that I remember from her, pre-stroke. She was able to say “that’s ok” before she got sick. I haven’t heard it since early 2011. But recently, I dropped her napkin on the floor. I apologized for this, and as I bent down to retrieve it, I swear I could hear her gears whirring to life, and then she said, “That’s ok.”

At school, the team rewards her with longer sentences. Lately, it’s been TicTacs. I seem to remember getting an email saying that Rachel can say, “Can I have another Tic-tac please?” Six words, if you’re counting.

I know that repetition is a crucial part of her recovery, and that works for and against us. Against, only because she often repeats words and phrases until I address them. She will talk of “dinner, dinner” while in the tubby phase of our morning. She will say “ice cream” until it’s presented to her. Annoying, yes, but I choose believe that this is a phase. Since her strokes arrested her development, and potentially set it back, we have to yield. Her brain is like a ‘vessel, puffing her sail.’ We must yield for more to come.

In other news, Skyhorse Publishing offered me a contract for the manuscript. In it, they offered $1000 along with a very verbose, litigious contract. After receiving feedback on it from two people from the legal field, I decided to yield, step back, and think. I sent an email to Skyhorse, suggesting that I’d shelved the book for now, but leaving the door open for more communication. Next steps are to print out the manuscript again, revise it some more, and look for an agent who can help by advocating for the BOH and its faithful writer/driver/mother.

The other day, I found a picture of Rachel near Halloween in 2010. It was a beautiful one of a gorgeous girl, looking off to the side, her eyes open wide, eyebrows up and arched in a spectacular look of fiery fun. She was standing, and it was a rehearsal for the costume of the season, a ladybug.

Usually, I can look at a picture like that, note its importance, and move on with my day. I’m sorry to say, that didn’t happen this time. Instead, I found myself wailing, stomping my feet, crying, and shaking my fist at God, all while alone in my home. I could no longer yield and stuff my feelings of bitterness, anger, and sadness into a trapdoor in my heart. I had to unleash the torrent of emotions inside as I wrestled with“the thunder and the sunshine” waging war in my mind.

I could feel my pinched cheeks, wet with salty tears as I shouted questions like, Why did this happen? Why can’t I be a soccer mom? Why do I have diabetes? I don’t want to die too soon. I still have stuff to do. Did I make her sick, Lord? Is this my fault? I miss her, and I miss her personality.

I felt all sorts of emotions, but sadness was at the core. If grief of this sort is like a house, it’s not one I visit too often. I project love, humor, and hope freely, but sometimes, I have to air out my grievances, puffing out the sails of my soul. After 20 minutes of the heartache and hurt, I wiped my face with a warm washcloth and took deep, cleansing breaths. I vowed to return to my normal state, and I thought of the final lines of Tennyson’s “Ulysses”:

One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

My work here isn’t done, and neither is Rachel’s. She continues to thrive, seek, find, and power forward in her recovery. And she does so by your love and His grace, even with my temporary doubts that arise.

Signing off for now, but new horizons await!
Melissa, on behalf of Daddy Jim, Grandma Kathy, and of course, Rachel Reid