They did not expect me to live at all. In fact, my left leg, nearly completely severed and held together by one tendon, an artery and some veins and the skin over the knee, was mended with only 7 stitches. That confirms to me they thought they were sewing up a cadaver. Who mends a severed limb with only seven stitches? It was reported to me I did nothing but scream continually for nearly four days before they gave me enough Valium to stop the screaming. It was disturbing the other patients.
Last Rites were administered to me by Father Norman Christian, a priest I had known from my parish Church and school since moving there in 1974. I laid in a coma for 28 days, and then suddenly for no apparent reason, I woke up. Father Norman Christian was sitting next to my bed.
I won't go into what it's like to come out of a coma. It can't be explained, and it certainly could not be understood by anyone other than another person who had come out of a coma. We survivors are few and far between.
I remember being asked where does it hurt? What hurts the most? My answer was in German, "Sehr schlecht, jeder Ort. Schmerz. Qual." I remember these words because it was all I could say over and over and over. Later some nonsensical German leaked in, like parts of poems, or things I had read-- but always "Qual," which means "agony." I could understand the English speech, but could not answer in it. I remember being very frustrated and crying or laughing at the frustration. They brought in a German priest to translate: "She says "everywhere...it hurts everywhere. She is in agony." Well, DOH...did they need a translator to tell them that? Seriously?
After I "woke up" they then decided after a few more days I would probably survive operations, so they began to fix the parts of me that had been left broken the entire time I was in SICU, providing more "Qual." I spent nearly two years out of school, in and out of the hospital being "fixed." A large part of that time was spent in a body cast. The whole time they were worried about my head and brain, but my back will never be right, and the leg proved to be the worst of all. Bone grafts, skin grafts, plates, screws, pins, etc, all to provide me with what is essentially a living "peg leg." It supports my weight and serves as a prop, but can do nothing else. I have walked with some sort of device since that time (walkers, crutches, canes of various types).
Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a body cast for a continual 9 months? Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a hospital for any length of time at all? At first there are lots and lots of visitors Hundreds of people came to see me. I'm not kidding. My entire 8th grade class came to see me--that's about 60 kids. Everyone from high school came at least once, out of a class of 400 plus. All my teachers, past and the then-present came. My High School German teacher came to see me several times. She gave me "A" grades for the entire time I was out of school, and for the entire 4 years, I should add. (This is something entirely without explanation. I had had exactly 4 months of German at school, and awakened from a coma speaking near fluent German? One for the X-Files, gang.) Cards and letters poured in. Then the visitors dwindle, the cards stop coming, and back then, hospital rooms didn't even have TVs. They had a TV "rental" program that I didn't get, since we couldn't afford it. Can you imagine the boredom? Eventually my visiting classmates stopped coming altogether. My only regular visitor was good ol' Father Norman Christian. Every Thursday afternoon. Like clockwork.
Apparently new parts of my brain began to function for the places that had been lost to trauma. For instance, I could brush my teeth without sticking the toothbrush into my ear. Every physical thing I once knew how to do I had to relearn. And the English came back. Fr. Christian, for the entire two years was there to visit me every Thursday afternoon without fail. Sometimes he would bring little somethings with him...a milkshake, or a little puzzle, or we would play chess. Once he brought a T-Rex head on a stick...a trigger mechanism operated the jaw to make it "bite." We both laughed uproariously over it, a silly thing. He had hidden it out of sight and its head ever so slowly appeared over the side of my bed...looming over my face and eventually giving me a tiny "bite" on the tip of my nose. It actually proved to be a wonderful gift because it lengthened my reach and I could pick up small things with it, such as a pen that was out of reach, or scoot a book closer.
Then one Thursday afternoon Father Christian came to see me. He had with him a guitar and that beat up old guitar changed my life completely. I had played guitar at masses for my class and he had remembered! Suddenly I had an activity to do...something to strive for and accomplish. I would play until my fingers couldn't stand it. I would rest awhile, then play some more. When he came to see me after that, we would sing together while I played. I became quite an accomplished player with absolutely nothing to do all day but futz around with that guitar. At 16 I began to get gigs. By the time I graduated from high school (I had kept pace with my class) I was a solo act in the blues bars of downtown St. Louis. He came to see me play one night when I was at Cafe Louis. I owe everything I did musically to my friend, Father Norman Christian.
He was moved to another parish and we lost touch. I would think of him from time to time, meaning to call him, but I never did. The other night, I had the bright idea to try to find him online, hoping he was still alive. To my utter horror and disbelief, I found his name among the pedophile priests of St. Louis. I found the name of his sister and called her last Sunday, seeking...I don't know what...seeking conformation, I guess. She told me it was all true, that "Norman" had admitted everything before he died in 2004, and had even abused her own daughter by telling her about the things he did to and with other kids. He had abused both vulnerable boys and girls and had no preference. The man she described to me was not the man I knew. Could NOT have been the man I knew.
My brain has been nothing but a shit storm since the moment I heard those words come out of her mouth. I have been going through every memory I have of Father Norman Christian and every memory is a good one. He did not abuse me, he was nothing but good to me. He was happy and kind and wonderful to me. He encouraged me at every turn. He was the only person who didn't abandon me in the hospital, even after my own mother stopped coming to see me regularly. And truly, is there anyone MORE vulnerable than a 14 year old girl in a goddamned body cast?
It was like his sister and I were talking about two different people. Total polar opposites. I still cannot fully wrap my head around it. I am wondering if maybe he had some kind of illness like a brain tumor or something that left a pedophile monster in its wake? I am not ashamed to say that I loved Father Norman Christian, and I'm pretty damned sure he loved me. He loved me, not in the warped sense that a pedophile loves one of his victims, but not unlike the love a father has for a daughter. I can't even be sure of this either, since I never met my father....see...I am made even more vulnerable by that fact. I have vulnerable written all over me, and yet, I was absolutely NOT ABUSED.
To be poor in spirit is to recognize your utter spiritual bankruptcy before God. It is understanding that you have absolutely nothing of worth to offer God. Being poor in spirit is admitting that, because of your sin, you are completely destitute spiritually and can do nothing to deliver yourself from your dire situation. Jesus is saying that, no matter your status in life, you must recognize your spiritual poverty before you can come to God in faith to receive the salvation He offers. If there is a more dire situation than that of Father Norman Christian, I don't know what it is. So blessed is Norman Christian, his is the kingdom of Heaven.
