Two years ago, on a country road, my sister and brother-in-law were in a serious accident. A truck coming from the opposite direction skidded on black ice and threw them into the roadside ditch. The impact was violent. Paul broke an ankle and suffered multiple contusions. Maria fell into a coma. She was transferred to intensive care two hundred kilometers away, with a frontal head trauma and bleeding in the left hemisphere of her brain. For days we were terrified—her life hung in the balance.
The Immediate Crisis
Those of us closest to Paul and Maria faced urgent decisions. Everyone pitched in, but we were working at cross-purposes, often unaware of what the others were doing. Several questions demanded immediate answers:
- How do you tell four children: "Mom and Dad have had a serious accident"? How do you explain that their mother is in critical condition? The grandparents, aunts, and uncles all had different opinions.
- How do you organize daily life for Virginia (thirteen), Marco (ten), Luca (eight), and Sophie (one)?
- What is Maria's real condition? Is she getting the right care? Have there been mistakes? Who should we contact for answers?
- How do you support my brother-in-law, immobilized for an indefinite period in a different city from his wife?
Given the severity of the shock, Paul did not want the children scattered among cousins. An unmarried, unemployed friend moved into the house and took charge. A rotating team arrived to help: Paul's mother, my parents, my other sister, an uncle, and close friends. Some stayed with Paul. Others took the children for weekends or drove them to Wednesday and Saturday activities. Others brought them to visit their recovering father and their mother, who emerged from her coma after six endless weeks. A tape recorder let mother and children communicate between visits. The capable nurses and aides described Maria's day to the children, and they took turns telling her about theirs: "I got an eight out of ten in math," "Mom, you know how much we want you home," "This afternoon we're going to the theater with Mamy." Later, Maria told us: "I was helped so much by the comforting visits from family and friends—never so many that they tired me out."
From Hospital to Home
When Maria regained consciousness, the neurologist predicted little improvement from the hemiplegia he had only then told us about. Instead, Maria began to speak again and seemed to have recovered her memory, especially of recent events—she even asked me about a friend who had been operated on just before the accident. Despite the doctors' pessimism, they transferred Maria to a rehabilitation unit. In the hospital, Maria felt secure knowing her children were well cared for and that her husband was not alone. We were struck by how much she worried about their health and their schoolwork, while also making heavy demands on us.
My sister spent her first full weekend at home only after a year.
What joy! Soon after, she went home for good. This was possible only through a series of adaptations. Maria's wheelchair was too wide for the elevator, so we had to install a lift and widen all the apartment doors.
Against the specialists' predictions, Maria recovered remarkably. Now she can take a few steps, though she still needs the wheelchair. She seems to be stepping back into her role as mother, but she continues to have good days and bad days, and she tires easily.
What Remains Hard
During her hospital stay, contact with the medical team was not always smooth. Although Maria received excellent physical rehabilitation, no one addressed her higher cognitive functions. She received no speech therapy, occupational therapy, or psychological support. Today, Maria, Paul, and their children still bear the consequences.
When Maria came home, she had to learn a new way of relating to her husband: how to lean on him without turning him into a full-time caregiver? Her children are growing up without her as she was. They have a mother who is physically different, emotionally changed. She has become demanding, apathetic, given to binge eating. They are not there to retrain her or to remind her that "she doesn't have the right to eat three pieces of cake anymore."
Maria is still very dependent, and it is hard to make her understand that she must take back control of her own life. Are further improvements still possible, or must we accept that she will never be the way she was before?
A nurse comes morning and evening for personal care. Physical therapy at home happens four times a week. A full-time home aide is essential.
This constant, necessary dependence makes life difficult for the whole family. The people closest to her want to do their best, but they don't know how without interfering in her daily life, disrupting its rhythm. Paul is exhausted. He says he needs his mother and his in-laws, but he tires of their presence quickly. The children are fed up with someone directing them who is not their mother. Sophie has serious behavioral problems. Luca, who started well, has fallen to the bottom of his class. Marco refuses to let his mother help him with math—even though she has kept all her ability in that subject. Virginia comes home late every evening claiming she has to study with her classmates. The grandparents, aunts, and uncles must give all their love just to stay in their proper place.
Against this dark backdrop, small lights help us hold on to hope. Since the day of the accident, a vast network of prayer has sustained this family. Friends, parishes, and monastic communities remember them. It is almost unbelievable comfort to see that Maria continues to improve when no improvement was expected. It is true that we do not know the private struggles Paul and Maria have set for themselves, the ones that help them move forward. It is true that all our hearts have changed since this tragedy. We find it easier now to put setbacks and frustrations in perspective. And despite all that is discordant, all that is devastating in this crisis, something real has taken root: a true communion of love.
(O. et L. 125)
- Françoise, 1999