And suddenly, a week has gone by.

Each day, I ask what day it is—not the date—the day of the week. I stand in an elevator wondering why it isn’t moving when I haven’t pushed a button.

I can’t even tell you how long it has been since the accident—61 days, which means 3 months, yet it happened the 11^th of February, and it’s now the 12^th of April, so I guess it’s 60 days or 2 months (or almost 10 weeks), whichever is less depressing (or less confusing).

Over this time period, I have

• Gotten a new debit card 4 times (three are likely hiding under the driver’s seat in my car while the 4^th actually was taken from my unlocked-in-the-hospital-parking-lot car),
• Cut the tips off every pair of gloves I own so I could think and work in Ian’s ICU room,
• Worn a coat every day to the ICU, regardless of the temperature outside,
• Walked barefoot in Ian’s LTAC and neuro rooms every day (ICU was just too cold, and who can wear shoes all day?),
• Slept with my hood up every night that I’ve stayed with Ian because my ears are cold,
• Eaten 3 boxes of meal bars,
• Increased my caffeine intake to 4 diet cokes per day,
• Written what feels like 452 ½ posts for Facebook and 37 uncompleted drafts for this blog, AND
• Wrestled with Ian to keep him at a 30-degree angle for 1 ½ hours four times every day I’m with him to ensure that he didn’t aspirate while having a tube feeding.

I know all the places to hide and cry in the hospital, the vending machines that won’t be sold out of Coke zero, water, and peanut butter crackers, and how to help the Aide use a draw sheet to pull Ian up in the bed.

I know where I’m likely to get a parking place at various times of day. I’ve learned about spicy ranch dressing on taco salad made by the man at the “fresh grill” station who my mom taught in kindergarten.

I can’t give good explanations for anything, but I know what the different beeps mean, even in my sleep and can locate, replace, and reset the sensor for heartbeat and oxygen before the nurses’ station catches it. I know how to suction Ian’s mouth, and I can set and disarm the bed alarm to leave his room.

I mostly wear clean clothes to teach my graduate students who gently frown when a question I’ve tried to frame has too many moving parts and not enough clarity. I haven’t killed the fern in my office yet, but my poinsettia at home has been dead for weeks.

In sum, it’s all about moving parts—finding them, juggling them, figuring out how to hold them or where to put them, and mostly having faith that if one element falls or fails, and even if everything falls or fails.

Oddly enough, while I’m encouraged every day by someone to “let go and let God,” I’m finding that accepting gifts rightly to be crucial for coping.

Christian ethicist Samuel Wells argues that Christians should do better to  “accept gifts rightly,” meaning that we should “regard the world not as a given but as truly a gift from God.”  The “world” for Wells includes whatever we take for granted. That sounds logical and even lovely, but it stinks.

First, a caveat: it doesn’t mean accepting all things that all people think Ian and I need. I

What it does mean, though, at least for me,

• is not rejecting offers of help just because they come from those who I fear wouldn’t do things the way I would or from those who don’t necessarily have the body of knowledge I think I have.
• Is allowing another to help without judging their offering against my expectations and past experiences.
• is not worrying while the offering is being made, then responding with an uncritical “thank you,” and avoiding re-doing or criticizing when the offering has been given.

All of this is hard for me to do for different reasons.

Sometimes it’s because with fatigue, I can’t always articulate what I need or judge the validity and degree of arrogance of my perception. Sometimes, it’s because I fear giving up a duty or a task simply because it makes me feel powerless and unneeded.

Yes, I need to be accepting and gracious. And, after prayerfully living in the space of “accepting gifts rightly,” I still am able to say no.

Wells’ category is huge, yet it is also small in that it is focused exclusively on gratitude about the overlooked and taken for granted.

Today, I’m thankful for a particularly cross and difficult aide who made sure that I had a box of mouth care supplies for Ian. For having access to a clean up-to-date hospital facility for my son instead of a field med hospital in Afghanistan. For mown grass in my yard so that the couple who will bring food to my house won’t think they’d pulled up in front of a house no one lived in—a foolish, prideful thing to be grateful for, but one I’m glad for nonetheless. For a family friend who popped in to see Ian and stayed long enough so that I didn’t have to cancel or reschedule a work meeting.

So many things clamor to be on a list of missteps, including gifts I didn’t accept or didn’t accept “rightly.” As I fight the pull of sleep that creeps around me, I accept the screw-ups of tomorrow, offset by the gifts of the day.