Awakened by noise from the nurses' station in hallway, I opened my eyes and found I wasn't having a nightmare. This was my life. I was still in the hospital lying motionless in that crazy bed. It would lay flat for a few minutes, then slowly angle toward the left about 30 degrees so that all I could see was the window. Then back again flat it would go for a few more minutes followed by angling the same 30 degrees toward the right and the view of the door into my room. Finally it would inch its way back to flat as it completed its cycle. Then it would start again. Over and over. All day. All night. Stopping only to bathe or eat. There would be times when it was angled, I felt as though I would slide right off the mechanical monstrosity on to cold hard floor.

I learned there was something to be thankful for regarding this bed. It replaced the previous beds that hospitals provided for spinal injury or severe polio patients. In this thing, you would lay flat for an hour or so, then two orderlies would come in, place a mat on top of you making you the center of a quad sandwich (hold the mayo) and rotate you 180 degrees until the next thing you knew, you were laying flat on your stomach with a perfect view of the floor. No, I was in a better bed. I didn't have to be flipped like a flapjack to protect my skin.

But it was very hard for me to be thankful. Thankful was the last emotion that would be going through my troubled mind. I was afraid. And it was a new fear for me. It was not of something I could see. It was the fear of not knowing. If I have a scratch on my nose, how am I supposed to scratch it? If I have a tear in my eye, how am I supposed to dry it? If there was a hug I wanted to give, how could I give it? My wife could hold my hand and I wouldn't even know it. Now would she even want to? Will she stay with me? Could I blame her if she didn't? What can I offer her now?

Before this, there were things I could count on. If it was a regular Saturday, when I first opened my eyes, I could sit up, stretch my arms above my head, change clothes, and splash some water on my face. Then go to the kitchen and make myself each a big fat cheese omelette or some french toast. Later I could play my guitar or go in the spare bedroom and play around on the piano and just sing to my heart's content. At the end of the day I would spend 30 minutes studying God's Word and in prayer. The choices were mine to make. I could follow my constitutional right to pursue happiness however it pleased me.

But now, my life was no longer mine. My life as I once knew it was over.