I often wake up in the middle of the night, thirsty.
No, not thirsty – parched to the edge of delirium. So desperate for water I can’t think beyond taking a single precious sip, imagining it may be my last.
This ritual is a psychosomatic reminder of the worst night of my life almost 31 years ago. I was in the ICU recovering from brain surgery, unable to move or speak, my only company the sound of machines and the Filipino nurses chatting in their native tongue.
I couldn’t eat or drink and – you guessed it – I was thirsty beyond belief. My mouth was dry, my throat as coarse as the Sahara. All I wanted was a little water, but all I got was a small spoonful of ice chips once an hour, on the hour.
It was a maddening, sick torture. I didn’t sleep all night – I just stared at the clock, watching each minute pass with the speed of someone walking through knee-deep mud, waiting for a relief so fleeting it might as well not have happened at all.
I’ve never told anyone this before, but that night I wanted to die. I survived a surgery that had no guarantees of success only to wish I’d never woken up. I thought about how I might do it – pull out some tubes, mess around with the buttons on those damn machines. But like I said, I couldn’t move, could barely twitch my fingers. I was trapped, frozen in place for what felt like would be an eternity of ice chips and agony.
At some point I was moved from the ICU to a room, from a room to a nearby hotel, then finally home. I had palsy on one side of my face, but that healed. I couldn’t feed myself for days, but soon I was using a fork and knife on my own. I had to learn to walk again, to manage the dizziness as my brain “reset” from losing a hearing nerve, but within a couple months I attended a friend’s wedding without using my walker (I had to lean on my wife almost the entire time, but I didn’t mind that part.)
And I learned something that has stuck with me for 31 years: we are not our worst days. Not even close.
I wanted release that horrible night; what I got was resolve.
I wanted an end to pain; what I got was patience.
I wanted to regret; what I have now is gratitude.
My nightly undying thirst isn’t a curse, isn’t a burden, isn’t a hell revisited.
It’s a message that living is worth it. Living is how you get through it.
Living is how you win.
Leave a Reply