No One Heard Me

After a whole day of outing with my sisters and Mom, by the time we returned home, I was pure exhausted. The thing is–even for most of the day, I was being pushed in a wheelchair…so I am not sure if my exhaustion was from exercise or more the lack of it. Regardless, being out all day anymore–no matter what the agenda–will cause fatigue. My body is just slowing down, taking more time and energy to perform tasks and in all honesty, I think it is the notion of maintaining balance that drains (so the current state of my eyes also effects this.)

My Dad asked me last night,, in conversation pertaining to my disabilities, approximately how long it takes me to get ready in the morning. I said it depends–lots of factors to weigh in…if I plan to shower; what I did the day before that could make me more achy the next day (i.e. walking grass!); the weather, as rainy days make my joints feel more stiff; my stomach and intestines or just the plain difference of whether or not my hands want to easily work in getting dressed. But what Dad should have asked is how long it takes me to get ready for bed. One would assume it would be faster than getting ready in the morning..and maybe some nights that is the case….but most often, not.

Such was last night. By the time I got my covers rolled back enough to sit and slide in, readjusting and more puling of the comforter and blankets–which often seems like bench pressing–I am out within minutes. Such a deep sleep…I hardly moved. I think I woke up twice for the bathroom, but not certain, as I only remember one vividly due to what happened afterwards.

Climbing back in bed, I glanced at my alarm. 4:23 a.m. Out of the blue (or blackness of the room), I remember that I had not turned my alarm off from the day before…it was set for 7 a.m. and last I wanted was to feel vibrations and see light flashes three hours from when I am thinking this in utter fatigue. Not bothering to get in my covers, I simply roll to my left side on top of them all cozy and reach for the side of the alarm where I have to push with my thumb, the sliding button for turning the setting to an off position. No success from my thumb in the darkness, I am too tired and comfortable to sit up on my elbow and try, so I decide light may assist! Pushing the “lamp” button and thus momentarily blinding myself, I close my eyes–for “just a moment”–until the light adjusts even with closed eye lids. It’s like saying that you’ll hit only one more snooze in the morning. I am again, fast asleep.

Suddenly, I am falling! I am in a daze and I do not know where I am but I am falling. I cannot see, but it is dark and light together and my arms are trying to find something to hold, to brace my fall…and I am panicking and giving my “Mel scream” as loud as I can and finally it stops. My right hand grasping something, my breathing is out of control and as my eyes adjust–I realize that I am still in bed. What typically is funny, was a horrible experience…I had rolled off my pile of covers and was now lying on my back. My right hand was clutching the arm of my black chair that sits by my bed. I looked at the time, 4:57 a.m.

What baffled me most was the fact that no one came…no one rushed in the door to see if I was hurt or ask what happened and if I was alright. No one. I am still breathing hard and holding the black arm chair and realize that no one heard me. I am on the far end of the house from the other bedrooms and with my voice fading, why would anyone hear me? I didn’t actually fall and set off my Lifeline. And the night I did fall, when the Lifeline was not online call, Mom was only seconds from my room, because God had awoken her with the thoughts to check on me. Falling–even though I haven’t since that night in September–is still a fear.

It wasn’t just the falling thoughts that made tears swell. It was because I felt alone, and lately, as much as I am surrounded by a loving family, I feel alone. I feel like an outsider, distant, an observer–even though this is my home. I am just so different, live so different, have to think so different, “hear” so different…it gets lonely. Last night, after I realized no one heard me, I heard something different: “I’m here.” It wasn’t speaking, but I knew it was God…because in that moment, my breathing calmed and I let go of the arm of the chair. I must have turned off the light and got back in my covers, because the next time I woke, I was still lying on my back as if I never moved. But I remembered what had happened in the night, and turned over to see the time. 7:03 a.m. I slept for one more hour and then decided the morning was too beautiful to continue a natural snooze. I got out of bed, with a new way to begin the day–reminding myself I am never alone.