I was feeling no pain again, as my doctor ordered shots of Demerol every three hours.
With both legs in casts, blind in both eyes, and lying in a hospital bed, I could not describe how lonely I felt.
I was in a state of total powerlessness, not knowing what was next for my life.
I was completely coherent and could tell that two men had entered my room. I recognized the voices of my ophthalmologist and orthopedic surgeon.
I could tell that they were both disgusted with me, as this had been my second alcohol-related accident in two years.
I heard them talking to each other, and not necessarily to me.
One doctor said to the other, “What do you think we ought to do with him?”
Then the other doctor said, “I think we should put him in a nursing home, as he is not much good for society.”
Now feeling powerless and high from the pain medication, I thought, no—just let me go home and my girlfriend will take care of me!
The doctors consulted with each other at the end of my bed without talking to me.
When they left, a feeling came over me that is best described by a phrase in one of my now inspirational books, “Alcoholics Anonymous.”
I was finally at a point of “pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization.”
Suddenly, I realized I had hit bottom and could not go any lower.
But it did serve one purpose.
I think it reached a point in my self-esteem.
I realized that it was showing me a mirror of how I was feeling about myself.
Another way to look at it is that I had a starting point, as low as it was.
Though I would not wish this on anybody, here I lay.
In the bed, alone, a reality started to set in.
Suddenly, I realized that life was changing forever and that I could not get back to where I was.
Then I thought of all the things I used to do—even the things I used to complain about doing.
I wished I could do them now.
I had a sudden awakening of how reckless I was and how much I had taken everything for granted.
Something started happening.
As family and friends started coming into my room, I heard some of them crying.
I asked them, “What are you crying for? I am the one who got hurt!”
This happened with many of them, especially the women in my family.
I could not understand why they were crying—that they cared for me and cared about what had happened to me.
Do not get me wrong—our family had tons of love for each other. But I was so self-centered that I could not see them trying to show me that they loved me and cared about my life.
This time, I spent two months in the hospital, dependent on the medical system.
As time went on, with little communication between the doctors and myself, my ophthalmologist did the best he could, and my orthopedist ordered all the pain medicine I asked for.
I became very addicted to the drug Demerol, and I know in my heart that if I had full access to it, I would not be alive today.
My doctor was so free with allowing the injections of Demerol that I reached a point of extreme addiction, and I began hallucinating.
Ann contacted the doctor about my behavior, so the doctor stopped the Demerol and started me on codeine.
THE LONG RECOVERY
It was time to go home after spending 60 days in the hospital.
Before leaving, I needed to meet certain requirements.
With casts on both legs and nearly blind, my corneas had been burned off.
My eyes looked so bad that I thought I looked like a monster.
They were sunken in and anything but white.
There were even blood vessels trying to grow where the whites of my eyes should have been.
A couple of days before I left, they tried to get me out of bed.
They sat me upright in a wheelchair. I felt so wobbly, so weak, and completely dependent on others.
The nurse wheeled me down the hall to the elevator.
We went down to the floor where the physical therapy room was.
This day was not in my plans, and I was not willing to cooperate.
One of the physical therapists wheeled me over to a set of parallel bars and said, “We are going to get you up walking today, Dan.”
I said, “No, you are not!”
I have never been so afraid in my life. I could not even conceive of standing up again.
But a group of them persuaded me, even lifting my arms and placing them on the parallel bars.
I guess I can call this my new physical starting point.
So I tried, because I wanted to go home—and I realized they did not want me in the hospital any longer.
Finally, after about five days of therapy, I was in the car on my way home.
We lived in a mobile home, and I had no idea how I was going to get up the stairs.
But my brother Bill was there. He helped me into the wheelchair, wheeled me around the home, and rolled me up a ramp he had built for me.
He also placed a window air conditioner in our bedroom, as it was the peak of the summer heat.
Ann was taking care of me, with both of us having five-year-old boys living there.
My son’s name is Cory, and her son’s name is Evan.
Looking back, I feel so bad for all of them, as I was responsible for losing the role I had as a husband to Ann and a father to the boys.
They certainly did not deserve that life with me being so dependent.
It was time to schedule medical appointments and hospital visits, as I had multiple health issues and medications.
Ann became responsible for everything in the household.
She had a full-time job—taking care of me while raising two young boys.
I never asked Ann to take care of me, but that was the role she took on.
This accident brought me to total dependency—physically, mentally, emotionally, and, unknown to me at the time, spiritually.
The emptiness I felt was intense—lonely, dark, and dismal.
I felt helpless and hopeless—not a good place to be.
Along with that came shame and guilt for my actions and for placing so much responsibility on her.
I also felt like I had cheated the boys out of having a normal dad.
It did not feel good at all.
No longer was it just lonely in the hospital—I felt the loneliness even more now, confined to this bed.
My world, and the lives of everyone in it, had permanently changed.
The alone time increased in my small bedroom as others had to move on with their lives.
I believe God may have allowed this so I could begin to grasp the reality of my life, because I had not yet hit bottom spiritually.