Two months ago yesterday, my sister’s boyfriend Shane was rushed to the hospital after a bad reaction to pain medication caused him to lose oxygen for an unknown period of time. It was immediately clear that he had suffered extensive heart, kidney and brain damage. At age 26, he had eight strokes.
That Friday, the doctors told my father he wouldn’t survive the night. Sunday, he was still alive, but the family was being advised to take him off life support—but then Shane squeezed his father’s and my sister’s hands, the first in a series of physical and mental improvements that defied the doctor’s most optimistic expectations.
This week, Shane went home from residential rehab, walking, talking and with a mostly functional memory, though still experiencing moments of confusion. Today he joined our family at Thanksgiving dinner. He was the Shane I remembered, only a little subdued.
My dad did what he often does on Thanksgiving, asking people to share one thing for which we were thankful. My siblings and I teased him for the question
, but then Shane spoke up: “Well, I’m thankful to be alive.” No one could or wanted to top that.
I continue to struggle with how to think and speak about Shane’s story. Not every story of suffering or tragedy ends with a miraculous recovery, and Shane still has a long road ahead of him. But today, in that moment, we were all thankful that he was with us.
Even if he was wearing the wrong shade of blue.
