The Painting

Fourteen years ago this month, Jeff and I honeymooned on the island of Kauai. We spent a week in paradise, and it continues to be one of our most treasured memories together.

About half way through our tropical getaway, we drove to the northern most point of the island to Ke'e beach, and we embarked on a short hike. I can still remember the way the sun felt on my skin and how the dirt crunched beneath our feet as we climbed the trail. Soon we came to an open area of grass, rocks, and trees that provided us with a most magnificent view of the ocean.

I snapped a photo so we could remember this moment.

When we got home from our honeymoon, I printed and framed that photo. It quickly became a favorite, and it hung in our bedroom for many years. Every time we looked at it, it seemed to transport us back to that day where the weather was warm, the breeze was light, and the sound of the ocean was calm and comforting.

It was so perfect.

Eight years later, we would have a very different experience on a beach - one that would turn our lives completely upside down. One that would make us balk at the sound of waves crashing on the shore. One that would make us never, ever look at the ocean the same way again.

Jeff sustained a spinal cord injury on July 27, 2013 on the shore of Huntington Beach in California. And our life was catapulted in a new direction that day. We didn't know it at the time, but that abrupt change in our life's path would eventually lead us to finding another family whose lives are impacted by the same injury - one that happened in a similar way, but eighteen years earlier.

Glen Dick was injured in 1995 when someone playfully pulled him off a dock into the water. Like Jeff, Glen is a C4/5 quadriplegic. Nearly a decade after his injury, Glen met and married Monica. And a few years after that, their daughter Elaina came along.

Our families' lives intertwined when I met Monica on social media in 2017. And since then, we have gotten to meet up twice in real life, and we're planning to do so again later this year.

In the same year that we first met, Glen started a new journey of his own. He began to paint. Twenty two years after suffering a life-changing injury, he decided to put brush to canvas. Glen has some bicep movement in his arms, so he first started out by holding the brush in an adaptive cuff attached to his wrist. But because he doesn't have hand or finger function and therefore lacks fine motor skills, he wasn't satisfied with the paint strokes produced using this method. Then his art instructor suggested he try holding the paint brush in his mouth.

And that's when Glen became an artist.

He could now paint with dexterity and precision. He practiced his art, and Monica began sharing his work on social media. I was blown away by what I saw. I remember scrolling through several photos of Glen's paintings and showing Jeff, and we both looked at each other with "are you kidding me" expressions on our faces.

They were truly remarkable.

Here's a couple examples.

Bucks County Covered Bridge by Glen Dick

The Ghosts of St. Elmo Colorado by Glen Dick

So in early 2018, I had an idea. I knew Glen, Monica, and Elaina were coming to visit us later in the year, and I asked if we could commission a painting of our favorite photograph - the one I took on our honeymoon.

Glen agreed, but only on the terms that it would be a gift - a token of the friendship our families had developed.

Fast forward several months to the night they arrived. After initial hugs and settling in, we all gathered together and opened the painting.

I was trembling with anticipation. I knew it would be an incredible piece of artwork.

But it was beyond anything we expected.

It wasn't just the picture I'd taken thirteen years earlier. It was so much more. The texture, the colors ... they all popped making it seem like the trees were swaying in the breeze, and the ocean was foaming on the shore.

I remember looking at the painting and thinking - for the first time since Jeff's injury - I can finally see an image of the ocean and not cringe - not instantly think about the danger that lies beneath the blanket of waves - not have any negative connotations associated with it.

Glen even added some special touches. He included our initials on the rock in the foreground. And near the middle of the image, far out from the viewer's perspective, he added a person sitting on the rocks watching the ocean. He told us it was Jeff.

Glen added Jeff sitting on the rocks in the painting. Though this, he gave us both a new perspective of the ocean.

What an incredible gift we'd just received.

***

The painting now lives on our bedroom wall surrounded by photos of our family - some taken before Jeff's injury, and some taken after. We look at it every single day. And really, there couldn't be a better place for it.

Because when you or a loved one experiences a traumatic injury, your life - both literally and figuratively - fractures. There becomes a distinct "before" and "after."

When Jeff and I look at the photo I took on our honeymoon, all we see is the before. We see life from the perspective of an able-bodied couple on one of our best days: we were carefree, strong, independent. We see all the good and all the happiness our old life gave us - we see the convenience of a life without disability. And if I'm being extremely honest, we see a life we both miss immensely.

Our honeymoon - I snapped this selfie just after taking the original ocean scene photo.

But when we look at the painting Glen created for us, we see a much different scene. The before is still there, of course. But what we mostly see is the after.

We see a treasured moment of our life re-imagined by someone we might have never known if it hadn't been for the horrific injuries both Jeff and Glen endured.

We see a talent that blossomed only after tragedy struck, after all hope had been lost - twenty plus years, at that! We see that it is never ever too late to try something new.

We see a friendship with a family that mirrors our own in so many ways. A family whose experience in living this SCI life has helped push us forward in our new life - who has helped us see that even with a broken piece, the family unit can still thrive.

While I am not a subscriber to the "everything happens for a reason" philosophy, I do believe that good things can come from terrible tragedies.

And meeting Glen, Monica, and Elaina has been one of the best things that's happened to our family since we started this journey down our new path.

Me, Jeff, Monica, and Glen with the Painting

Our sweet girls not wanting to say goodbye!

***
If you'd like to see more of Glen's incredible artwork, learn about the motivation behind his paintings, and purchase prints of his art, please visit his website: https://gdick.artspan.com/home

In addition, check out the Mouth & Foot Painting Artists organization that Glen became a member of last year. You can find him under artists from Pennsylvania: https://mfpausa.com/

Lastly, enjoy these planning and progress photos that Monica shared with us as Glen created our one-of-a-kind treasure.

Initial drawing phase

First layers are almost done

Adding the final touches

Self Reflections: Six Years as a Caregiver

Today is the day that looms large on our life calendar every year.

July 27th - the anniversary of Jeff's injury.

I've been tossing ideas around in my brain on what to write this year. I haven't been blogging as much the last 18 months or so, and I think it's mainly because we aren't experiencing as many firsts as we had in the initial years after Jeff's spinal cord injury.

We're kind of chugging along at this point.

I don't mean to insinuate that things are smooth sailing. In our experience that's pretty much never the case with an injury like this - or at least not the case for a long period of time. There's an enormous amount of work required to keep our family train on the tracks.

And as a caregiver, that's kind of my job description.

In looking back over the last six years, I started to reflect on how the experiences - the challenges as well as the triumphs - have shaped, strengthened, and changed me.

I found some old photos recently - some just prior to Jeff's injury - and when I look at them, I feel I hardly recognize myself.

This photo in particular caught my attention. It was taken about six months prior to Jeff's injury. We were visiting his parents in Las Vegas and were in the greenbelt area of their housing community - the same community we would relocate to just a couple years later. Our daughter Evie - a cute little three-year-old back then - snapped the photos of us. It was one of the first she took that wasn't blurry and didn't cut off our heads.

I look at our smiles and all I can think is, "My god, we had no idea what was coming."

If I had been told then that before I turned 40, I would become the sole caregiver to my paralyzed husband - that I would be responsible for all of his care: bathing and dressing, feeding and personal care, assisting with all bodily functions and maintaining all of the artificial means to keep him alive, I would have said I couldn't do it. There's no way I could handle all that.

But I would have been wrong.

Because it turns out that I can handle all that. And more.

In my self-reflections of the last six years, I think the main thing I've learned about myself is what my true limits are. And while I've certainly discovered a number of things I cannot handle - or perhaps a better way to say it is what I will no longer tolerate given the stresses and demands of this new life - I've learned that the limits of what I CAN handle - what I CAN accomplish - are far greater that I had imagined.

Caregiving requires an exceptional amount of self-sacrifice. And I'm not just talking about things like sacrificing a few hours to spend time doing something you HAVE to do instead of something you WANT to do. I'm talking sacrifice on a whole different level. I gave up my career for caregiving - my immediate income, benefits, and 401k contributions came to a screeching halt. My future retirement income has been stunted. My family's economic stability has been tipped on its side in exchange for me morphing into the role of a caregiver. Jeff and I made this heavy decision together because we felt it was the best way for him to get the proper care he needs to live day to day - and the best way to keep our family moving forward.

It's been a necessary sacrifice, and it's worked for us.

Caregiving has been an incredible teacher for me. And not just the kind that's built me up. Yes, it's taught me confidence - I've learned I can speak up to medical professionals and advocate for my husband's needs, and that I know A LOT about what those needs are. Caregiving has also enhanced my level of responsibility - both to my family and to myself. It's taught me to balance the care I provide for my husband and my daughter with the self-care that is so important for caregivers - and to do it responsibly and practically. (As much as I'd love a week long vacation of doing absolutely nothing, that kind of self-care isn't possible in my world, so I've learned to create me-time within the parameters of this life.)

But caregiving has also given me a heck of a beating. It's piled the duties so high that they've smothered me. And truthfully, there have been moments - days even - when I have hated this new life. I've said it to myself between sobs while hiding away in the bathroom. I've muttered it under my breath in frustration while trudging from one task to the next. And I've even said it out loud - to my husband - when the heaviness of our world is crashing down around us: "I hate this life! I. Can't. DoThis!"

But once again, I am wrong.

Because perhaps the most important thing caregiving has taught me is the importance of persistence. I CAN do this. I DO do this. And I'm going to KEEP doing this for as long as it takes.

Even when it's hard.

Even when I hate it.

Even when I think I can't do it anymore.

I can.
...

So we're six years in, and I think we've finally found a comfortable spot in our new life. And right now, we're okay with comfortable. Self-help articles will tell you that getting comfortable in life will stunt your personal growth, but I disagree. It's taken an incredible amount of change - a metamorphosis of sorts - to get us to where we are today.

And right now - today - is a good day.

Because any July 27th that doesn't involve a broken neck is a good July 27th in my book.