It seemed like such a grand idea at the time but suddenly I had no idea what I was going to say wandering the long hospital corridors that would lead eventually to the small room. I had no idea how I was going to start the conversation. What do you say to someone who has been paralyzed in a bike accident riding with her husband and two young children?
"Could have been worse" (Not really).
"How's it going?" (Fine if you like being in a wheelchair for the rest of your life).
For someone like me who has had more than his share of conversational disasters over the years the possibilities were daunting. Then there were my emotions to worry about. Everyone who knew Beigette was upset when they heard about her accident. It just didn't seem right that someone who quietly gave so much to others and a mother to two young children should have this happen. How unfair that someone who makes a living helping children feel at home in the outdoors should have her own ability to ever enjoy it again thrown into doubt. I was afraid I might fall apart instead of offering support. For as much as Fernwood Cove is now their life, Jim and Beigette met and married at Fernwood in what had to be one of the most unique ceremonies of all time. (Jim proposed at morning assembly, arranged for a Justice of the Peace to come to camp and perform the ceremony at rest hour in front of the entire camp all in one day).
A marriage is official essentially because two people say so in the presence of witnesses. We were the witnesses. We were the ones who danced the hora and picked them up on chairs not the civil flunky who couldn't understand why our mostly Jewish congregation pray to Jesus so as happy as I am that things have worked out as well as they have at the Cove, I feel like part of them is still part of us.
So as I wandered the halls of the Shepherd Center in Atlanta I tried to think of what I might say., deathly afraid I'd say something stupid or upsetting. I was more than a little relieved to find Beigette's mother sitting in her room with Beigette out at some class or other. This made it far easier to take care of the basic questions without the awkwardness of asking directly. I shouldn't have worried. Beigette came zipping down the hall in a motorized wheelchair a few minutes later with a beautiful smile and we had a very pleasant conversation. She talked about her accident as if it was yesterday's breakfast. Any worry about her two children or mourning for her loss of motion was not in evidence. I was stunned. I don't think I could ever be strong enough to handle it that well.
The visit was a short one since the center keeps them deliberately busy. But even the few minutes I had left me with a lot to think about. As of my visit, she has motion in both arms, can grip with the left hand but not the right. There is sensation in her lower limbs but no movement so perhaps there is hope for future mobility but it's a long way off at best. Every once in a while there are moments that make you stop and evaluate yourself. I went to offer comfort and was met with far greater strength of character. It was never about what I had to say after all. It was about what Beigette's courage said to me.