Fractured

By Rachelle Galipeau

Sometimes our journey is depicted by footprints in the sand. But it is the handprints that tell the true story of affliction and survival. We continue to walk. We continue to stumble. Through both, we find life lessons, and the journey continues for us all. This is mine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885050555

Book preview

Foreword

My mother was a keen observer whose advice came in the form of adages. She would often encourage one to pay attention to your spirit. Sixteen years ago, upon meeting Rachelle Galipeau, she said of her, "She really hears people." After reading Fractured, I realized something I suspect I’ve always known: always listen to your mother.

Rachelle’s achingly honest account of her journey navigating the fallout of a life-altering injury is a blueprint for self-discovery. Perhaps more important, it asks us to take an uncomfortable look, never glossing over the physical and emotional suffering, while at the same time providing a personal account of how to negotiate and make accommodations for it.

One of my mother’s oft-used adages was You’re never too old to learn. As one with a master’s degree in exceptional education, and who was blessed with an ethereal sister who navigated life with several disabilities, could there possibly be anything else to learn about living with physical, emotional, or cognitive impairments? Again, always listen to your mother, as I learned more about Rachelle and her struggles in the words and pages of Fractured than in the sixteen-year totality of our friendship.

As my wife’s closest and most treasured friend, who has repeatedly provided emotional and physical support during the most trying of times, my observations, opinions, and feelings for Rachelle have resided in pleasant, clear, confident universe, and that continues today. I have always believed that envy is the most useless emotion and have largely been able to avoid it. Yet looking at Rachelle’s life from the outside, it is certainly understandable to see how a twinge of envy could creep in: strong, confident, beautiful, secure, and of most importance, a cherished family. Unquestionably, there is danger in the assumption that one has it all together. But the wounds exist and persist. Fractured reveals that even with the appearance of having it all, there is a penetrating need to break through facades to reach self-awareness.

With the help of a trusted therapist and the assistance of a life coach, we learn the critical steps on how to live with guilt, loss, and the added strain of maneuvering through a life committed to raising a child with critical issues. The journey is not uncomplicated or seamless. And therein lies the importance of the messages in Fractured.

Physical and emotional fallout from a severe injury and living with the burden of pain management isn’t pretty, yet these pages bring the realization that with multifaceted self-discovery, self-trust, and self-acceptance, there is hope.

JoAnne M. Augugliaro

Preface

I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.

—Anne Frank

It hurts to write. I do not mean to say that it hurts me emotionally. Literally, it physically pains me to do so. This thing I love, the very thing that stables my being, also makes me grimace with every press of the pen. The fingers, hand, arm, and shoulder on my right side work a little differently than they used to. A raw stiffness coupled with irreversible weaknesses have settled in over the years, as my affected joints and nerves commonly swell to protect what will not heal.

I am almost twenty years recovered from a traumatic injury. One not suffered from any heroic undertaking—or at least not heroic in the traditional sense. A stubborn strength of mind (over minutiae of matter) shattered my arm and unquestionably altered my destiny. While my intention was to show strength, what resulted created a facade of weakness that did not reflect my true persona or grit of character. That personal discovery of flawed disposition set off a chain reaction of self-discovery, realized trauma, and the undeniable need for healing. All of it would take so much time, but of that I had plenty.

Guilt over, or regret for, the events of that day or what has come to be? No, I do not think so. Not in relation to my pain anyway. It is more a feeling of guilt over my own circumstance leading to the resulting personal benefit that has emerged. That, and with my military career cut short, there is still a sense of guilt over unfinished business. I should have been stronger, and I should have crushed the mindset of some that suggest women could not fill the role of defender.

As many people do, I reflect every year on the events of September 11, 2001. I ruminate over how this tragedy created a divergence in the path of my journey. So many people lost their lives or the lives of loved ones that day. I may have gained mine from chain-reaction events stemming from that same tragedy. The contemplation over that perception of things, that personal concession, is emotionally upsetting, to say the least.

I am in a place of acceptance and positive reflection now. I have, in fact, suffered, but I have done so with a quiet competence and recognition about it. And again, I am not without residual benefit. I am strong only because I have been weak, rich because I was poorly treated, grateful because I was rarely thanked, successful because I experienced the burn of failure. Yet I have always felt that I could win at life. In fact, I felt an undeniable confidence about it. Why? Simply because the possibility of its opposition was threatening—and I survived.

Survival was the easy part. Realizing that I had, in fact, survived took more than a minute. There was a lesson here, and after a significant amount of time in contemplative thoughtfulness, I would learn it. Oddly enough, I would not change it even if given the opportunity to do so. The perceived difficulty to maintain survival has somehow made me stronger, but the resulting burden has been and is currently a difficult cross. I suspect it will continue to be exactly that.

The physical hurt is deep and unrelenting. The magic pills that calm the pain, tame the grimace, and open my mind are dwindling in volume. My life has become about the count—the count of pills, the count of days, the count of breaths. I am currently two and a half days short on pain pills. I suspect I still have plenty of days and plenty of breaths. I am not addicted to this medication, but I can feel its grip, if only a noticeable afflict. With eyes wide open (as they usually are), I can walk this tightrope even when the dark shadows obscure my path.

It is getting worse—both the pain and the reach of the shadows. Maybe it is attributable to my increasing age, or maybe it is the new challenges that take me back to unfinished business. Writing the story. What story should I write? Which environment will allow it? Ah, that is the question. Write, I must. But my brain pushes so much information to the pen I often cannot decide where to start. Calming and organizing those thoughts into an intelligent product of story is the obvious challenge of this undertaking.

I prefer the summers, speaking of environment. Warm temperatures bring the sound of birds and allow for pleasant interactions with nature. My own interaction with nature calms my inner anxieties as I let the heat of the sun wash over me. My hair is warm to the touch, and I can feel the effects of a sun-kissed morning through the numbness in my fingers. The thawed pen then eases a flow of ink to paper in real time. Contrarily, the winters are just an offering of cold, reflective topography, and there is no escape from pain, anxiety, and a depressed state of being. Huddled under blankets, shivering, is not conducive to a productive level of writing. But then again, the chill and resounding silence of a late-night frost manages an internal calm that tends to (in the right moment and mindset) spark an inspirational brief.

The silent fall of soft snow seems to stop time, allowing for the development of eternal reflective thought that is stimulating, if not mind-blowing. The silence is brimming with comforts if you are willing to stop and listen to it. Ah, but those summer nights. The air is simply different. Warm and enlivening. It offers an intense solace that draws a longer story. My mind feeds the pen, and the page erupts in fascinating creativity. Writing this book has seen me through all seasons, and I have found significant musings in each. For each has the potential for both benefit and detriment—kind of like people.

The musings of nature are valuable indeed, but it seems to be the content of those pain pills that opens my mind. Regardless of the forecasted weather, regardless of consequential (or inconsequential) interactions with the environment, people, souls, or experiences. I must write. Chasing the edge of limitless borders has caused me to throw discipline to the wind, leading me to the predicament I find myself in quite often. Two and a half days short—and beyond retreat. I have found a solace with these painkillers, but I have a good doctor and a fail-safe in place. Awareness and limits serve me well, which allows me to venture into those shadows of mine to determine the how, when, and why of my current footing. I am not in danger; I am in awe.

It is a game of metaphoric chess—one move affects your next, and the environment yields a slight change. How then did I come to be short by two and a half days? Of course, this is an easy realization. I made the conscious decision to utilize my storage of medication to soothe a real-time need. It was an educated decision to take an extra dose one day, fully aware that meant a lack of a dose on another. When does this happen? When does it not happen? It has happened more than once. Often, in fact, but usually not until late into the time frame of my prescription. I am typically prescribed medication every two months. This has been the case for a long time. Eventually, those prescriptions would be given monthly as I began to engage in more frequent communications with my doctor.

I believe coming up short has less to do with the time frame of appointments and more about the time of year or what my physical or mental circumstance is on any given day. Why? Well, I would like to think that I am underprescribed. I am okay with that. In fact, I was underprescribed, and that was corrected sometime later, which ultimately satisfied the issue of being two and a half days short. After the correction was made, I would dwell on it less, though the draw to consider it was still a significant factor. The yield to addiction was a real consideration, but I managed that well.

Although I do need this medication every day, I do not need it for the same amount every day. Again, circumstance guides me. No circumstance ever translates to abuse, not that I do not fully understand how someone might find themselves in that place where abusive use seems a viable option. This has never been the situation for me, but I have a certain appreciation and compassion for anyone caught up in that web of addiction. For me, it is a visceral formula of reason coupled with the knowledge and concern for proper risk management that keeps me protected. As well, sometimes I am okay just feeling the pain, sitting with it, and knowing it. It is a vulgar reminder of my strength—or what is left of it.

No, my struggles are not as loud, not as open as for some. Certainly, they are purposely camouflaged to even the most perceptive eye. Some experience the sharp cutting pain of life (in an emotionally tragic sense), while mine is more like being stabbed with a spoon over and over in the same spot. It does not rise to the point of savage severity, but unrelenting it is, yielding only to rocky uncertainties. The bruising is visible up close, metaphorically speaking. Pain itself is all but invisible and certainly has its varying degrees. It rears its head at varying times as well. I have learned to brace for it.

Physical pain is more predictable, the chronic variety at least. Emotional pain is complex and unpredictable. The combination is a recipe for extreme torment. I guess what follows on these pages is the telling of my experience with both over the course of some time. It began with a broken arm, a broken spirit, and a broken will. That is now my identity to some degree. I remain consumed by the history of affliction. My hope is that it finishes with a satisfactory easement of all contributing stressors. I suspect it will at some point.

I have made mention of and suggested a concern for the count of pain pills I have at my disposal on a continuous basis, but what follows is not a story of addiction. It is not a story of failure or the rise from failure, although the fear of failure has always been at the forefront of any thought or action. It is rather an honest tell from an internal perspective regarding journey. Yours may not be the same, but perhaps you can draw some similarity to your own story and find some commonality of thought or easement of situational anxiety or both.

My process of thought runs a wayward course, which is interesting given my propensity for marked discipline. My journey is an interesting one, and the path along the way is profound in reflective, philosophical thought. I have tried to capture it as it happened, in the very way that it happened, in the sincere hope that my journey draws some interest if only to satisfy the curious pursuits of others. Some of my blessings have been inopportune but still qualify as blessings, nonetheless. As individuals, we may travel differently, we may travel in opposite directions and via different modes, but we all must make our way through it. Life may not be as black-and-white as a chess board, but it does require moves and strategies for achieving shocking and beautiful results. It is not typically an all-or-nothing dichotomy of linear events. Life is more complicated than that. Learn it, calculate it, and set it up! Your own awakening may be just ahead. Open your mind! Enjoy the ride! Cheers to our journey through this life!

Acknowledgments

Fractured has been inspired by my many years dealing with pain, the management of pain and emotion, the struggle to shroud emotion, and the yearning for focused thought to identify the deepest meaning of what my purpose, in fact, is. Writing has been my passion for as long as I