Revealed

Unbeknownst to me while I was recovering, my husband had begun chronicling my ordeal.  I believe if first began on Facebook.  He placed a post on my wall that I was hospitalized and if anyone wanted to be kept abreast of what was going on to “friend” him.  Much to my surprise, and perhaps his, many people connected with Keane to see what the hell was up.  Then at some point he began writing regular emails about the goings on of my days.  They began while I was still in the hospital and continued through my time at home.  These emails went out to family and a few close friends.  At least that was what I thought.

I recall rolling over in a haze every so often to see Keane sitting in a chair in my room or next to me in bed typing away.  Of course I had no idea what he was doing at the time nor could I see.  My vision was affected by the stroke and because it seemed as if I was looking at everything through a fishbowl, I never read or watched television let alone try to deal with looking at a computer screen.  But every day at some point I saw (or heard) Keane typing away.

Not really sure when it happened, but I remember being in a relatively conscious state, and asking Keane what he was writing about. The exchange went like this:

Me - “What are you typing?”

Keane - “I’m drafting my daily email report on you”

Me - “Who do you send it to?” 

Keane - “Anyone that asks to be on the list.” 

Me - “Ok, well how many people are on it?”

Keane – “About fifty or so.”

Me – “What? Fifty?”

At that moment it hit me.  My husband was providing PRIVATE, intimate details of my fragile physical state to fifty people on a daily basis.  I was not happy.  In fact I was furious. 

Oblivious to how therapeutic it all was for him at the time, I immediately expressed my displeasure with the situation.  He had been writing for weeks at that point and I was mortified. Simply mortified.  I could not believe that he would take such intimate details of my struggle to recover and just email them to a list of people who mostly just wanted to be nosey (or so I thought).  I asked him, no I actually told him, to stop.  I was not comfortable with it and even though a lot was already out there, the less people knew the better for me. 

Although I am an extremely outgoing and social person, I am innately private. Not many people knew a whole lot about me and I kinda like it that way.  Those people who are closest to me know I don’t like being perceived as weak or unable, so the though of detailed emails depicting me learning to use my walker, dress myself, eat, and the whole host of things I was pissed off I couldn’t do, made me want to crawl under the bed and hide.  I was beside myself that Keane felt it was ok to share this.  Deep down I think I ultimately felt humiliated.  Ashamed I needed to be fed.  Constantly feeling “less than” because I couldn’t walk or bathe myself.  It was probably the first time I was faced with how I was feeling emotionally about my situation as opposed to how I was feeling physically during the recovery process.

I know that Keane never intended for me to feel any of those things.  He was apologetic.  He told me he would stop sending the emails. And he did.  Then the phone started furiously ringing after a week.  People who Keane had previously been emailing were now calling.  They hadn’t received an update in over a week and were concerned.  Was I ok?  Was I back in the hospital? Was I dead?  Apparently those updates were important to more people than just Keane. 

After I don’t know how many calls Keane told me people were concerned. They were asking about me and wanted to know how I was doing.  He joked and said, “Your minions are concerned.  They want to follow your progress.” I laughed.  He then told me what was actually in some of the emails. He read a few to me.  Some of the stuff made me squirm a bit in my mind, but overall I guessed it was ok at the time.  Honestly, there are several emails that are pages upon pages long that I have never brought myself to read.  To this day I don’t want to actually reveal to myself what Keane shared with our family, friends, and colleagues.  The reception of those emails always seemed positive so I never really felt the need to know what was actually in them.  I can’t imagine there was ever a line that read, “Really tired today.  Had to hold Angela up five times over the toilet because her meds are giving her wicked runs”, but I am sure there are things that might make me uncomfortable to read.  Not as uncomfortable as that, per se, but uneasy just the same. Keane assured me his prose was about my positive strides and physical accomplishments.  There was nothing unsavory or negative that would put me in an unflattering light.  And I know that.  I knew it then.  I was just too self absorbed in my embarrassment and desire for privacy to think about what those emails did for him. 

It also made me think about how many people came to see me in the hospital.  At one point Keane was wondering if he should turn people away.  The ICU nurses told him if he or I needed a break from visitors to say the word and they would run interference.  They could be the “bad guy” if we didn’t want anyone to see me.  It got to the point where the nurses did intervene and sent people away because the stimulation was too much for me and I really needed a break.  I was drugged up and in pain, and only remember some of my visitors coming to my bedside.  For every one person I recall there are three I don’t.  It doesn’t bother me so much now. The idea that people in both my personal and professional lives saw me at my absolute worst. At the time though, it shook me to my core.  Frightened me to death that people wouldn’t or couldn’t see me the same again. 

 I know now that seeing me in a vulnerable state didn’t diminish what people thought of me.  I am still strong.  I am still me.  It was easy to stay in that mindset of caring about other’s perceptions of me.  Would I still be regarded as a strong and sound businesswoman? Were people going to handle me with kid gloves from now on?  All kinds of stupid things rolled around in my clot filled brain. All of which I know were manifestations of the insecurity I had always carried around.

Looking back I know sharing those updates was how Keane coped with everything that was happening.  He had a ton to deal with.  He was very much alone in that experience.  I mean, I was there but I was really out of it most of the time. 

I also do see the irony of how I am now putting out my most intimate thoughts about this experience, not to fifty people comprising of family and friends, but to anyone on the Internet who feels like reading them.  That is not wasted on me.  I have come to understand why Keane wrote and I have since apologized for being so guarded and upset about his emails.  I am in the process of growing.  Each day I realize I am becoming a little more ok with myself.  Kindness to one’s self is the greatest gift you can give.  I am embracing and learning that more each day.