“She needs to go to rehab.”
The physical therapist had brought in the head nurse, hospital administrators, and a social worker. Judging by their faces, this was going to be a serious conversation.
Rehab matters, and surgery is often necessary. But sometimes the first thing we need to do is sit down, notice what’s missing, and make room for the loss.
My wife, Gracie, had broken her femur. Her spine curved forward almost 50 degrees, making it hard for her to keep her balance. After surgery in Billings, we returned to our rural hospital.
The fracture had also put off a back surgery we’d spent years preparing for. A team in Denver, drawing on 30 medical specialties, had mapped out a plan: repair her spine, help her stand upright, adjust her prosthetic legs, and then start rehabilitation. Everyone agreed the fracture had to heal first. Still, around the conference table, the focus kept returning to her femur.
“She needs to go to rehab.”
Have you ever been so tired you just can’t bring yourself to argue? I sighed and asked, “Rehab her to what?”
The nurse stepped out to call the surgeon who had repaired Gracie’s femur. When she came back, her expression had changed. I was sure the surgeon would support me, but I didn’t have the energy to say, “I told you so.”
To their credit, the team shifted gears quickly. Everyone pitched in, and together we got Gracie ready for Denver.
Months later, after her spinal surgery, Gracie was intubated and unconscious in the ICU. Her surgical team needed her to stay completely still. For the first time in decades, she was lying flat.
An ICU attending hurried in with a group of residents. “We’ve got to get her up and into rehab as soon as possible.”
Rehab again. Just thinking about the first conversation wore me out.
“Her legs are across the street in my hotel room,” I said with a sigh. “Should I go get them?”
You know those videos where a tractor-trailer slams on its brakes? That was his expression. His eyes moved from me to my unconscious wife, then to the empty space where he expected her legs to be.
“We’ll let her surgeon and physical therapists take care of that,” he said, stumbling over the words. Then he left in a hurry.
In more than 40 years, I’ve dealt with hundreds of medical professionals. Some come in ready to ask questions. Others already have their minds made up. As caregivers, we need to be ready for both.
Advanced degrees can be intimidating. But we know the person we care for: her goals, her fears, and what happened the last time someone tried something similar. I’ve never performed surgery. I did assist with one, though I probably shouldn’t advertise that. Still, I’ve stopped surgeons and asked them to think through a problem with me. Their expertise mattered, of course. So did what I knew about Gracie.
More than 35 years ago, after Gracie’s first amputation, she was lost. She had spent years trying to save her right leg, and now it was gone. She was waiting for a temporary prosthesis, with no clear idea what to do next. She had always been driven and needed goals. I didn’t know what came next either.
Her orthopedic surgeon had cared for her since her accident, and she trusted him. I was 28, nervous, and wearing a coat and tie when I asked this serious, highly regarded doctor for a meeting.
I told him Gracie looked to him for guidance. She needed direction, and someone to coach her. “Can you do that, or should I find someone else?” I spoke slowly, hoping he wouldn’t hear how anxious I was.
I later found out that he saw the amputation as a failure. Gracie didn’t. I’ve sometimes wondered if his feelings were part of why he became distant after the surgery.
He looked at me and nodded. “Yes, I can.”
He pulled a chair up beside Gracie’s bed and talked with her for an hour. When he left, I could see a difference in her face and in the way she carried herself. He had cared for the patient. For that hour, he had made time for the person. I’ll always be grateful.
I didn’t feel brave standing in front of him. Sometimes, I think, you just love someone more than you fear a difficult conversation.
It was my job to notice what Gracie needed and find the right help. I didn’t have to have every answer. After four decades, I’ve learned that my wife has a Savior, and I’m not him. But I am her advocate.
The medical chart matters. Gracie has had nearly 100 surgeries, so there’s a lot in hers. I try to help people see the woman behind the name on the chart.
I’ve come to think this applies well beyond hospitals. Pastors, family members, friends—we can all rush into a room with an answer to a question we haven’t bothered to ask. Some people offer ministry; others arrive with pronouncements. And some simply sit with someone in their grief.
I’ve made my share of pronouncements. Remembering how they affected Gracie should make me pause. It doesn’t always, unfortunately.
That ICU doctor assumed his patient had legs. We make similar assumptions about people’s hearts. We offer instructions that presume strength, confidence, or hope, without first asking what suffering may have taken away. Sometimes we even push for rehab without stopping to consider what it means.
Rehab matters, and surgery is often necessary. But sometimes we need to sit down, recognize what’s missing, and take time to honor what was lost.
