Maryse Godet: Survivor and Mom

Two years ago, I got hit on the head by a TV that came off its brackets in a doctor’s waiting room. It landed not so gently on the right side of my skull sending me straight into hell. Some would say that it was a livable hell but for me, stuck in bed for four weeks with a concussion and severe vertigo, it was plain hell. Like all victims of freak accidents I spent the first few days in shock. Once I understood that it would take me a while to recuperate, I got angry and asked the usual “Why me?” Of course there was no answer to that question but a little book I kept on my bedside table helped me greatly. One morning, crying and discouraged, I picked it up and asked for guidance, any sign, any word at all. I opened the book at random and read “You are being prepared…” Funny enough, it did help. I could accept that there was a higher motive to what was happening to me. But prepared for what? Obviously not to follow into my mother-in-law’s footsteps; she took up ballroom dancing at the ripe age of 65 a couple of years after losing her husband; but seeing her pain at the time and the way she re-invented herself, I could definitely make friends with the idea that something good was brewing; that I would find my way to a higher calling.

The first time I was able to walk to the kitchen to make my own breakfast was a cause for celebration. My husband bought flowers and put them on the table. When I would sit down to eat, I would see them and smile; they reminded me that I was alive and that I would get better. They gave me hope. They kept me going. I found the strength to endure severe migraines, various tests, and a cancelled trip to Europe to visit my family. I would look at his flowers and remember the way he held me on my first trip to the bathroom the day I got hit; how gentle and patient he was; and concerned. How his strong arms became branches of his love for me when he almost carried me for the three steps it took to get there. As I write these words I feel the power of my love for him beating in my heart. I don’t know what I would have done without him. He took care of me as he promised he would the day we were married. It was a taste of “for worse” and he was very much there. Little by little, I began to dream again of all the things I would do when I would get better: I would take the family for a vacation to Scotland and enjoy walks in the wilderness of the Lochs, I would start meditating, and I would plant a little garden by the side of the house to watch my flowers grow.

I have made good progress over the last 24 months. I can drive, walk, run errands, and lead an almost normal life. Almost. Sometimes I feel as if I am mourning the loss of a dear friend. The Maryse from before is gone forever and I miss her when I want to ride a bike, dance all night, or go see a Broadway show. Those remain impossible pleasures. I have days when I feel lost like the child who plays by herself in the sand but secretly yearns to join the family picnic. I do not belong to the hustle bustle of everyday life anymore. My pace is slower, more controlled. I feel as if I have reached a fork in my path: do I continue to feel sorry for myself or do I embrace the new me that has emerged from the ordeal? Maryse, these days, does Tai Chi, sings, writes, and rests an awful lot. On a particularly sad day, a friend of mine suggested that I put together a vision board. I was to cut words and pictures from a magazine and display them on a poster board; they would represent my dreams for the future. I was to hang the board by my bed and look at it each time I would feel depressed. It sounded like a silly idea but I did it anyway. It worked like magic! Yes, I want to be well, I want to see my children grow up and be a grand-mother, I want to glow, feel fulfilled, and enjoy unbound creativity. I want to go back to the Swiss Alps and climb to the top of a mountain without assistance. I want to look at the white summits without feeling dizzy and thank God for being alive!