The Gift of Gab

My parents called this morning to remind me that it’s an important anniversary, one I honestly would’ve forgotten had they not remembered.

Exactly a year ago, I regained the ability to speak.

Though I hadn’t known the precise date, I do remember the moment. There had been some buildup to to it, and my anticipation, expectations, and anxiety were all high. I had had a procedure to replace my breathing tube with a narrower one, and with that done, I could rasp, with great effort, an “I love you” to my husband. Shortly thereafter, the speech-language pathologist, by happenstance the one who’d helped put in my tracheotomy in the first place—an incredibly nice, optimistic, and encouraging woman—came by my room to “cork” my trach. I’d been told that there was a chance I wouldn’t immediately be able to speak; there was also a chance that my vocal cords, worn down by many intubations and plenty of time on the ventilator, would decide to quit working altogether.

She fiddled with the thing sticking out of my throat and told me I could try saying something. I did, and I could. It was pretty darn clear. It didn’t matter, at that moment, that things were still very tenuous. It didn’t matter that I still couldn’t move. I could communicate.

I insisted on calling my closest loved ones. First were my parents. My husband dialled the number and held up the phone so I could talk into it. My dad picked up, and I congratulated him on his retirement (he’d had a belated celebration the evening before).

“Thanks,” he said, “but who is this?”

I told him that it was his daughter. Three seconds of silence, and then: “K?!? Sweet Jesus!”

Sweet Jesus indeed.

It’s easy to forget how much I almost lost. It’s easy to forget how much hard work I and my support network have put into getting me where I am. It’s also easy to forget how much has come down to blind luck. It’s important, though, to remember: to celebrate the victories, big and small, and to keep going every single day, even when I’m frustrated with my situation and/or with myself, so that it never happens again. The ability to complain to my husband when I’m in a bad mood is a gift, as is, of course, the ability to have long conversations with him about videos of orangutans driving golf carts (yep, that just happened). The ability to nourish myself by mouth is one I’ll never again take for granted. So tonight I’ll celebrate this anniversary with a few rambling chats and a big container of Menchie’s. A year ago, it seemed as if I’d never again be capable of either.