Learning to walk again
The week that lasts a lifetime
It’s easy to embellish. Nothing’s more satisfying than to talk up experiences, hardships, and our power to overcome them. In a world where making a mark is valued above all else, it’s almost unavoidable to see ourselves as a superhero waiting for our big break. We just need our tragedy, our superpower, some secret that our role models MUST have that makes them successful.
This ain’t that.
My life had an experience that drastically altered the rest of it. An obstacle that halted everything and forced me to reconsider everything. To change so much. So many people respond to my story with admiration and fondness. Like they’ve found an example of their superhero. Everyone has a different impression, a unique perspective, a personal judgement.
The problem is, I don’t feel that way. When I share my story, I feel like I’m lying. I find myself hoping that, with every new person I meet, they won’t notice my limp and ask why. I’m tired of the response. I’m tired of what they see or, more importantly, what I think they see. I’ve been hiding from my story.
So this is about understanding. For you and, hopefully, myself. This is for myself as much as anyone else.
Every hero has an origin story…
I needed something… trivial.
It was my senior year of college. I grew up learning how to program and Computer Science felt like the natural path. My friends and I were doing really well and we’d compete with each other for the best grades. We… we were some cocky bastards.
We were also bored. My good friend Daniel and I decided to go on a service project that our school provided over spring break. The school offered a choice of service projects in different cities. Daniel went the year before and had a great time. The one we picked was to help refugees in the country acclimate to American life. We helped them build their own communities, engage their kids, stuff like that.
It was amazing. The people were grateful, the memories were lasting, and I still interact with our service group. We made lots of interesting friends and it really felt like we made an impact on these people’s lives. I don’t usually go out of my way to do things like this and, all things considered, I’m really glad I had this experience.
Enough exposition? Cool.
…too bad they usually come with tragedy
When people talk about a state of being in “the zone,” being entirely focused, I think of that moment.
The trip was over and we were driving back in two SUVs. We decided to drive through the Grand Canyon National Park on our way back. You don’t get a lot of sleep on trips like these and we were supposed to make it back by a specific time. We lost the other SUV so we turned off the music, called them to find a place to meet, and kept driving. We left the music off. We all fell asleep.
Including the driver.
In the span of (what felt like) a second, I woke up to a rumble, saw a tree fill the windshield, and registered what was about to happen.
It’s surprising how the front of a vehicle compresses like an accordion. Maybe instantly losing my glasses added to this, but I thought I was still dreaming. Natasha, who had been sitting next to me, was nowhere in sight. Instead Karly, who had been sleeping in the back, was there in some position I still don’t understand. Everyone slowly shifted as reality dawned on us.
Movement. The driver and the passenger hopped out and started running around. They helped Daniel and Karly get out of the van. We were lucky enough that a pair of EMTs had been behind us and rushed to help out. I got the idea in my head that the SUV was going to explode. The door next to me didn’t work. I was going to shift over to the other side when I realized… I couldn’t. My legs weren’t responding. What the —
No time. Remember, explosion.
I dropped onto the seat, laying down. I started scooting upwards, towards the open door, dragging my legs behind me. My head reached the door and I started wondering what exactly I planned to do when I fell out of the car onto my head. Luckily, an EMT ran over, grabbed my head, and made me stop. Turns out nothing was going to explode. The EMT tried diagnosing what was going on. Something about a possible C spine… something. Natasha had ended up in the leg space, sprawled out. Her thigh had swollen up like a balloon. Ambulances were on their way to take us to a helicopter to get to the hospital. Natasha had been screaming in agony this entire time.
This is when the pain set in. I don’t remember where I felt the pain, just that I haven’t felt anything like it before or since. When people talk about a state of being in “the zone,” being entirely focused, I think of that moment. Nothing else mattered. The situation I was in, the people that were there, nothing in my life. There was only one reality and that reality was pain.
Natasha and I somehow ended up holding each other’s arms like that photo (which is of a tattoo I got two years later). Me, unable to move and with all the breath knocked out of my lungs. Her, with a ballooned thigh and freely emptying her lungs. From my angle lying in the seat, looking up, I could see people swarming around, talking, panicking.
After an eternity, ambulances showed up. They cut off the door with a machine that made a noise… I’ll never forget. I couldn’t hear Natasha screaming, it was so loud. It was nearly as enveloping as the pain. They cut off my clothes (RIP most comfortable hoodie I’ve ever owned), got us into ambulances, drove us to helicopters, and I finally fell unconscious.
I have to try… what else is there?
I woke up, high on morphine, being rolled down a hallway on a gurney, asked to sign papers, and give them consent to tell my mom what had happened. It would have been terrifying except I was on a steady stream of drugs. I vaguely remember making really bad jokes. They put me back under for surgery (and to stop the jokes, probably).
A lot of this gets foggy. Morphine is one hell of a drug. Apparently a spinal surgeon just happened to be in town at this time and was called upon to do surgery on me. Eventually, the surgeon entered the hospital room and told my mother, my brother, and I what the damage was.
He said that one of my vertebrae had exploded. They put it together, but it needed support. That metal thing is in my back now and is attached to that vertebrae and the four around it. He also explained that I may or may not walk again, it’s up to my work in rehab and a lot of luck. About a 50% chance of walking again.
Then he left.
Apparently I was crying. My brother and my mom were saying comforting things, trying to help the best they could in a shitty situation. “There’s hope,” “it’s not over,” all that good stuff. This went on for about ten minutes. I didn’t register much of that. I spent those ten minutes in my head. It went something like this:
My life is over
My life is over
My life is over
What can I do?
I can’t do this
My life is over
Why should I try?
I have 50%
50%?
My life is over
Well
Is it?
I might be lucky
No
My life is over
I can’t do this
Well
I MIGHT be lucky
But I don’t know
I don’t KNOW
The only way to know is to try
I might be able to do this
I have to try
My life is over
My life MIGHT be over
But
My life isn’t over YET
I have to try
What else is there?
I decided right then that I wouldn’t be sad. Not until I had done everything I could. I was going to power through this until it was clear what the results really were. Only then would I let myself be sad. Until then it was pure motivation, positivity, determination, and
Yeah, no.
…I was my favorite me.
I’ve gotten lots of questions (and strong opinions) so here it is: I don’t blame the driver. When I first saw him from my hospital bed I asked him if he blames himself. Because I don’t. The problem wasn’t him, it was the fact we had to drive on basically zero sleep. Our group had a discussion the night before about it and we still did the drive. He was the only one of us who volunteered to drive. Anyone who thinks I should blame him: please stop telling me.
Heroes never die!
It was a while before I even had the option to do anything. For a week I was on morphine and there wasn’t a moment I was vertical. At the end of that week, they tried to sit me up and an instant migraine knocked me over. All my days were a blur and the morphine gave me terrifying dreams. I was living in a haze.
Everyone from the trip visited me. Well, except for Natasha since her femur had snapped in half and they had stuck a titanium rod in it to put it back together. It was years before I learned that she had also suffered some brain damage. It might be selfish, but knowing that someone else had “broken” gave me an emotional comrade. It helped knowing I was rooting for someone while they rooted for me.
They moved me to a medical center for rehab. I was somewhere I hadn’t lived before. My legs didn’t work. That didn’t stop them from doing their job. Weightlifting with whatever body parts that moved. Physical therapy, which was mostly rolling around on a mat. Occupational therapy, where I learned how to live life from a wheelchair. Racing with everyone else who was in wheelchairs. Plus whatever activities they threw in when necessary.
This doesn’t sound too bad until you add in the drugs, constipation (this actually became a serious (and hilarious) problem), disorientation, nausea, haziness, the resignation of others, hypersensitivity, catheters (it might have been the hypersensitivity, but this was the most painful), lack of any leg movement, complete reliance on others, blood thinners, still having to graduate, being dirty (can’t shower with a hole in your back), migraines, constant pain, exhaustion… there were a lot of things. I was trapped in a life I never asked for.
And for quite a while, it felt like nothing was happening. I couldn’t exercise my lower body because… well, it didn’t move. I couldn’t shower. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t get in and out of bed without help. I really couldn’t do a whole lot. Just a lot of rolling around and hoping something would happen. It felt like my efforts were just to be doing something. It was hard to see any indication of progress.
I hated that wheelchair. I ended up with a nice fancy wheelchair and I hated it too. I had dreams where I was in it. I started remembering memories from before the accident from the perspective of sitting in it. My high school memories were now from three feet off of the ground. Slowly, I was rewriting myself with the wheelchair in mind. It was creeping into my self image. No offense to others with wheelchairs, but fuck that thing. (Also, fuck catheters. This is important. These are worse. I get mad just thinking of them.)
A lot went right considering how much went wrong.
It was hard work but I had lots of help. The value that support has is immeasurable. My mom lived five minutes away and was always there. I lived with her when I left rehab and she still worries about me now. Some friends visited as often as they could. Even more skyped and texted me. Nurses, doctors, physical therapists, and other patients all kept me sane and moving. When I felt resignation y’all helped me back up. I became addicted to my phone because of y’all. I don’t give y’all enough credit. Y’all did more than you know. Y’all.
One day, as nurses were putting on my socks and shoes, I felt a zap. It felt like my leg was electrocuted. Then I felt something moving. I demanded they take off my socks and shoes. I could wiggle my big toe! Not much, but yes. Later that day, a thunderstorm happened in my leg as the rest of the toes joined the party.
Finally, progress.
Since then, I’ve relived a lot of “first moments,” some in rehab and some since. Having ankle movement. Lifting my leg, first from below the knee, then up to my hip. Then the other leg. Rebuilding all the muscle from the atrophy. Showering (so good). Shaving (I could have been doing that the whole time, I was lazy). Peeing on my own (ahahahahAHAHAHAHA... HA... ha). Standing in a brace. Standing and falling. Standing… and falling a bit later. Standing. Walking with railings. Walking with crutches.
Walking.
I still don’t have full motion in my right ankle. I still legitimately have a hard time walking if I don’t exercise. I don’t feel temperature in one foot… sometimes (haven’t figured that one out, yet). I still don’t have everything back. And, statistically, I won’t. And that sucks. Despite how great it all turned out, what I’ve lost and had to go through isn’t something that lives in my past; it lives in my now.
But how lucky I’ve been hasn’t been lost on me. First, I’m not dead. None of us died. That’s a pretty good deal. Second, EMTs who could help us were literally driving right behind us. Third, a surgeon who could help just happened to be around. With 50% odds I got most of what I wanted. The fact that I even had those odds. A lot went right considering how much went wrong.
Sounds pretty heroic!
I get that. It was an intense experience and I’m lucky to have things turn out well. I worked hard and I have myself to thank for a lot of it. I had a pretty good attitude throughout. The people in my life stuck around. Teachers helped me graduate and the job I had lined up wasn’t affected.
But I’m stuck.
I’ve been asked if this experience changed me and I don’t think it has. Before, I was stuck in a dissatisfying contentment and, afterword, I’ve returned to it. I needed to be a different person during rehab so I was. I was bored in school, so I found a trip to ease that. I thought the car was going to explode, so I tried to escape. I was tossed into a handicapped purgatory, so I escaped. It felt like the “easy” decision because it felt like the only decision. I don’t see any of it as “heroic” or really impressive.
It’s been five years now. I’ve had a great job and promptly quit. I’ve found amazing new friends. Old friends have made themselves lives that are fantastic. I see their futures lining itself up and it’s beautiful. And, for me, nothing seems to have changed since we hit that tree.
If this reads like an aimless ramble, that’s because that’s what this is. This vague idea is something I’ve had an impossible time properly addressing. That I can find strength in rehab but I’m unable to endure a 9–5. That I could do therapy through a cloud of pain and drugs but I can barely muster what it takes to wake up. That I’m more afraid of the question “what do you do these days?” than I am of another injury.
That this was when I was my favorite me.
And I think I enjoyed it.
