Puddin's Story

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September 11 reminds us that in an instant our world can change. And, when it does, the ripple effect is immeasurable and we look for a “new normal.” So it was for us over twenty years ago when Philip sustained a catastrophic closed brain injury. Our world was changed and we had to learn a “new normal.”

In 1984, there were no roadmaps or directions for our journey, but an unshakable belief that Philip would have a future and a hope. It would take many crossroads, turning points and stops along the way for this tiny seed of faith to grow and flower into the vision of Hinds’ Feet Farm. The positives and negatives of each stop along the way were our teachers.

Our first steps were at a local trauma center where grief was great, but grace was greater. This would be the only place in our 17-year journey that provided a large and comfortable gathering place for family and friends. It was here that we first discovered that Philip would leave his mark wherever he went. We were told many times that our love for Philip willed him back to life and profoundly affected the staff in the care of patients. Their hospitality had a lasting impact on us.

The stay at our first rehabilitation facility was a huge reality check. Barely out of a coma, Philip was commanded with abusive and foul words to brush his teeth. When I intervened, the nurse explained that most brain injury victims were rough sorts and only understood one language. She was replaced, but we quickly learned something about stereotyping, a patient’s need for strong advocacy and the merciless timetable of patient stay. The therapists were excellent but Philip was not moving fast enough.

At the strong recommendation of Philip’s neuropsychologist that a certain medical center was the best, we moved to Houston, Texas. The spacious rooms and natural light of our local rehabilitation facility were replaced with the glare and cramped rooms of a typical hospital setting. But, the superb interdisciplinary program and the unconditional love and care of Houston residents who adopted me kept us grounded through some pretty tough times. Philip had several bad, avoidable accidents, one that resulted in a two-hour surgery. I had to face the fact that staff does not always read or comply with orders and that the best is never good enough for your child. It seemed as if every patient made more progress than Philip, and the clock was ticking.

We returned to our local rehabilitation facility to continue therapies, knowing we needed something better than the best. We asked where to go; no one knew. A group was assigned the task of research and came up with two possibilities, one in Atlanta and the other in Illinois. There was tension in the air and the staff created a rift between Martin and me. I moved into a hotel for a week to chill and thought about the sacred duty of health providers to under gird the family unit.

Where was Philip’s future and hope? I did not know, but I was beginning to see the best and the worst of rehabilitation programs and to feel the growth of that tiny seed.

We visited the choices. I prayed all the way to Carbondale, Illinois - on the plane to St. Louis; on the bus to a small airport; in a “puddle jumper” to the outskirts of the city; and, in the rental car to Illinois facility: “Lord, my emotions have clouded my judgment. Please tell me where to go. Make it plain. Write it in large, red capital letters that hit me in the face so that I cannot miss it!” After touring the facility and checking into the motel, we drove around to our room and parked the car in the one available space. Right in front of us was a huge gas tank on legs with “GO ATLANTA” painted in red across its breadth.