A dance of gratitude

It was a sign. My daughter danced at a cousin's wedding—and that is no small feat and no trivial statement. To stand back and watch this miracle, once again brought to the surface the awe and gratitude that fills me.

While some may think that the simple procedure of dancing is insignificant, to me it was major. It signified the revitalization from a year-long fight—first in my daughter's actual fight for life and then in her fight for her recovery. She had hit the lowest point possible before passing over to the other side; then she was miraculously brought back to the land of the living.

It was a year ago to the day that her medical crisis officially began as she was put on a respirator in a drug-induced coma and paralyzed state. She was in this state for two months, with tubes coming out of every opening. Every possible life-saving device and technique was utilized, from the type of bed, to the position of her body, to the type of ventilator. And when all was exhausted and there was nothing left to try, the doctors retraced their steps and tried certain things over again.

"We're still cautiously optimistic," the doctors said as she teetered on the brink of life and death—with the scale tilting downward. "We've had someone once leave here who had had eight chest tubes."

And so I watched—day in and day out—the numbers on every machine, and learned all the intricacies of the monitors and what everything signified. If I hadn't been detail-oriented up until then, I quickly became so. I was attuned to every nuance, breath and sound. The sound was not a human sound but rather a machine sound, a constant beeping. One couldn't help but be attuned to it all—it signified life, life that was hooked up to everything technologically possible to keep it alive.

After two lingering months of being in this state, she was slowly awakened—still on a ventilator but through a trache—by weaning her from the "sleepy" and paralysis medications. Upon fully awakening, which took a couple of weeks, she constantly mouthed, "I'm dying", or asked, "Am I dying?"

As I reflect back, it was a very interesting difference of perspective. We were coming from two distinct places. From my point, she was alive, she had survived. It was in her previous state that I had agonized over whether she would die or pull through. But from her perspective, she had to have felt like death was upon her. With a trache, no voice, a nose tube, a Broviac line, numerous chest tubes and a catheter, how could she feel anything but dead and lifeless? In her world, she was dying; in my world, she was living.

We got through that intense phase of death and dying with a great deal of stroking, reassuring, acknowledging, holding and loving. Her recovery continued at a rehabilitation hospital where she remained for eight months. Her progress was remarkable in all areas. She was gradually weaned off her intravenous feedings after four months of a feeding tube. Foods were slowly reintroduced, checking her swallow, gag and chewing abilities with the trache in place. She was weaned off of the ventilator without any setbacks or complications over a two-month period. She was then decanulated—meaning that the trache was removed. Therapy was intense. Every muscle group had to be reconditioned to do its job. Every motor skill had to be relearned.

But she did it all and continues to reclaim more and more of her life. She was a fighter with an unbelievable attitude and disposition through it all. She was—and continues to be—my inspiration. I derived much of my strength from her. To be by her side every single day, all day, during her year-long hospital stay; to be there for her and with her, providing the love, security, encouragement and reassurance to climb the mountain of recovery, became my most meaningful job. She was striving to regain her abilities and once again reach towards her potential. To serve as a witness to that was a most remarkable experience. Many things pale in comparison to watching a life rebuild one muscle and one function at a time.

One more piece of her life has been given back to her; one more semblance of normalcy has returned—and that was her attendance at a wedding and an ability to dance. And from where she's come, that's no small step. She partook in the celebration for someone else; but she also served as a celebration in and of herself. She was embraced with the utmost of joy and appreciation as she was taken into the center of dance circles by the bride, aunts and cousins.

Would anyone have dreamed of this day as she straddled both worlds? Nobody had dared to predict such a thing. But yes, Nava danced at a wedding—a true miracle and cause for joy and celebration. And as I watched her, a deep feeling of gratitude and appreciation for life enveloped me the entire evening.