Part I - The Nightmare

I have lived in Arizona for about 2 ½ years and now have this amazing community of friends that I love dearly. I believe the more you get to know people, the more you find you DON’T know about them, and the treasures and pains they hold close to their heart. Sometimes unearthing these treasures and pains is like chipping away at a block of ice. Other times it’s like finding a geyser, looking inconspicuous at first, but when it erupts you stand in awe of what’s in front of you. Even with this amazing community of friends, I have yet to see so many treasures erupted and pain chipped away. We are all a work in progress, are we not? We all have these pains and treasures that have shaped our lives in ways we usually never see coming.

In my eyes, my story is no different than anyone else’s. I have suffered pain, have felt love, have experienced tragedy and have counted blessings innumerable. So, it is with that understanding that I write this. This is part one (and a VERY compacted part one) of a story I have been encouraged to write. What story? My dream. But the dream I have comes from a part of my life where I experienced tremendous hurt and pain. Isn’t that just the way of it? Beauty from ashes, blessings from curses, and triumph from tragedy? My dream story will be Part 2, so hang in there. I’m in the midst of school and traveling, and new jobs. Somewhere in there Part 2 will be written, but Part I needs to be shared first, because without it, the dream won’t make sense. So…here it goes.

There is a part of my near past that has really shaped who I am. For a long time it defined my very existence, but now it has become an unshakable part of my past, and a catalyst and purpose for my future. I have mentioned to people “an accident”, and they look at me strangely. Lots of people have car accidents. Lots of people go through tragedies…

In July of 2004 I was a 25 (almost 26) year old, very independent woman, living just outside Philadelphia, PA, where I had moved three years prior. Life was good. I was working at a private university where I stood ten classes short of finishing my Bachelor’s degree. I was also involved in an amazing church, sung in the choir, played piano in the praise band, acted in the Easter plays, helped lead a single’s group, and taught Kindergarten Sunday School classes. I loved my life. At 25, I made no time for any dating relationship. Who would have the time with that kind of schedule?! Hah! My days were full. My life was full…of all these things I loved. And I was started to feel like maybe this schedule was a bit too much, that maybe I was neglecting my personal life in all the business. After all, school was getting more difficult, it was probably time for something to go.

I was a couple of weeks into the second summer session of school. It was a Thursday afternoon, and I was headed down I-95 from my job in New Jersey, to my home in Levittown, PA. Since it was the summer, we got off early, which was great because I had a vet appointment to take my dog to as soon as I got home. It was a beautifully clear day, sunny and warm. I had the windows down, the radio up and cruising along…after getting through the daily traffic jam at the bridge, of course!

I was about 3 miles from my exit when I started to hear sirens. I could tell they were getting closer, but I couldn’t see any emergency vehicles. “Oh well”, I thought, “I’ll move over anyway, just to be safe.” Traffic was backed up on the other side of the divided highway. “Maybe there was an accident”, I thought to myself. Traffic was heavy, in a little cluster as I was trying to move to the outside lane. There was an entrance ramp there as well. If you know anything about driving in that area, you’ll understand when I say if you have an inch, you take it, and I was looking for an inch to squeeze into.

Off to the side in the large grass median area I saw a pickup truck, looking like it was trying to make a U-turn from the other side of the highway onto our side to avoid the traffic backed up on his side. This was pretty common practice out there, so I thought nothing of it. He wasn’t going fast, or driving erratically. I was more concerned about moving my car over because I kept hearing the sirens from this seemingly invisible emergency vehicle!

I turned my head back around from looking in the next lane for an open spot and there he was, his dark green pickup truck like a flash of white light. I screamed and hit the brakes.

“Ma’am. Can you hear me? Ma’am, can you hear me?! I’m ______ from the ______ department. If you can hear me, can you say something?” I don’t know if you consider groaning a response, but it was the best I could get out, and at least he knew I wasn’t dead. My body felt immovable, straight down to the vocal chords. That’s the first thing I remember.

What seemed like seconds later it was another attempt from someone (I think) from the fire department. Being down the street, it didn’t take them long to arrive. This time I was a little more responsive. I think he asked for my name this time, which I’m pretty sure I gave him. And then he asked me to move my foot. And I remember this clear as day because I suddenly became aware that I couldn’t feel it, nor could I move it. A slight panic set in. I couldn’t feel my legs, but I could feel blood running down my arm. I don’t remember hearing any other sounds until my next memory.

“Okay Ma’am, we’re going to have to cut you out of the car. You’re going to hear some loud noises, and a bunch of crunching metal. Don’t be scared. I’m just going to put this towel over your face to make sure we don’t get any glass on you. Just hang in there. We’re going to get you out of here.” I honestly had no idea what was happening. I mean, I knew where I was, I knew I had been hit, but other than that I was in an unconscious state. I do, however, remember the sounds of the Jaws of Life as they peeled the roof off of my car.

Up until this point I had no feeling of pain necessarily. It felt like my body was stiff, immovable and like someone had a heavy press lying on top of my body. That’s the best way I can describe it. I had no idea of what, if anything, in my body was injured. That is until it came time to extract me from the car. Enter…pain.

I’m no small fry to begin with, but now I was a large fry AND dead weight. Thank God for hefty firemen! As they lifted me out of the vehicle I knew I was injured badly. I would later find out that my pelvis and hip were completely shattered on my right side, all the way through to my acetabulum, a very hard bone to break (so I hear). Basically, my leg was holding on by skin, tissue and muscle. The bones that used to hold it together were now in pieces. So as my leg dangled there, as I was being lifted out of my car, the first words I screamed in pain were, “MY LEG!!!” And that is what I kept screaming.

I was taken to the local hospital where I was met by an amazing trauma team. I don’t remember seeing anything. I must have had my eyes closed. My right eye had been split open. But I remember the list of questions. Name, date of birth, social security number, phone number, emergency contact, their phone number, closest relative, their phone number, blood type, etc., etc., etc. I rattled them off like I wasn’t even in an accident. I even told them which pocket in my messenger bag my cell phone was in so they could contact my family. It was obvious I had no brain injuries.

Then they started asking about what happened, what color was the car that hit you, what do you remember? They told me I was doing great. I asked them what happened to the other driver. “He’s here too…unfortunately”, said the nurse. I asked what happened. “He was drunk, Sweetie. Unfortunately, we have to treat him just like we do you. But, don’t worry, he’s surrounded by police and he’s not going anywhere.” I asked if he was hurt. “Just bumps and bruises.” “That figures”, I thought to myself.

The doctor (who was super awesome) says to me, “It’s okay to let it out. If you want to be mad, you can just scream, yell, and cuss him out, whatever you want. You’re not going to hurt our feelings at all.” My response was “I’m not that kind of girl.” That made everyone laugh. That doctor remembered me for that, and reminded me of it when he came to visit me at a different hospital several weeks later. It was apparent at this point that along with no brain injuries, I also had no loss of my Midwestern sarcasm and good girl manners.

Despite my funny comment, I was actually in and out of consciousness the whole time, and very weak. I was able to talk to my mom. The nurse thought it would be good for my mom to hear my voice before she spoke with her, so she dialed the number and held the phone up to my ear. My mom answered the phone.

“Mommy?”
“Hi baby. What’s wrong?” (She could tell.)
“I got in an accident.”
“What?!”
“And I have to have surgery.”
“What???!!!”
“I have to go now because I’m starting to fall asleep again. The nurse is going to talk to you now.”

I was out again. But the next hour and a half became the quickest packing and preparation period my mom ever had in her life. With a suitcase full of magazines (for the hours of waiting room time she planned on having) and summer clothes (because she wasn’t staying long, of course), they hit the road for the 12-hour drive from Michigan to Center City Philadelphia, where I was being transferred.

By this point there was a small army of people from my church camped out in the waiting area praying for me. My family started calling everyone I knew. My friend Mary, who worked at the hospital started calling my family and friends, and passing out numbers from my cell phone to my sister, who called everyone to let them know what happened.

Because my injuries were so extensive, and the insurance I had allowed it, I was air lifted to a trauma hospital in downtown Philadelphia, where I would spend the next six weeks, undergoing two 10-hour pelvic reconstruction surgeries, at the skillful hands of my amazing, amazing, amazing surgeon, Dr. Susan Harding.

My parents and step-parents came in right away, my dad and stepmom arriving first. I actually don’t remember what I said to them. I remember being extremely anxious for my mom to arrive. It wasn’t that I didn’t want my dad there, because I absolutely did. But I needed my mom for this one. I needed my mom to tell me I was going to be okay, even if it wasn’t true. After I was airlifted, most of my church people had to go home, as the security staff strictly patrolled the waiting room and freed it from “evil after-hours visitors”. Shame on them!

My mom had only been there a half an hour when they tried to kick her out because visiting hours were over. I’m not sure if “angry mama bear” is an accurate enough description of what took place in that moment. Needless to say, mom was staying…after some intervention by hospital administration.

Three holes were drilled through my knee area, and a traction rod was put in. It was attached to a pulley that hung off the end of my bed with weights to keep my leg dislocated. The purpose was to keep the intact part of my femur from getting damaged further from the other pieces of bone. A week went by before my first surgery to allow time for the swelling to go down. In the meantime, I lay almost motionless, except for bedding changes.

Bedding changes started the day after I arrived. First, I was disconnected from the pulleys then I was turned on each side. I cannot describe the pain this caused. The thing about being loaded up on drugs is all of your inhibitions are removed, so when you’re writhing in pain, you scream…which I did - enough to send my mom to the hallway throwing up. I went through this every day. It’s the worst pain I have ever been in in my life. I can’t describe it any other way.

After 2 weeks in to my 6-week stay at the hospital, I was still under the assumption that my injuries would only need about 6 weeks of recovery time. I mean, what did I know?? They had just completed surgery number 1 and I was still optimistic. My spirits were still up, my determination still at peak. I was ready to get out of there! The first blow came when I actually asked the doctor about the recovery time. At this point, no one had told me anything. I think that was on purpose.

The words, “At least a year” hit my ears like a ton of bricks. “A year”, I asked, and then started sobbing. A year of my life, are you kidding me?! What about school? What about work? What about my life?!

I endured another surgery, and then it was time to start preparing for my exit from the hospital. It would have been lovely to go home and recover there, but that was not an option. Instead, my mom took on the task of trying to find a suitable nursing care/rehabilitation facility for her now immobilized daughter to start therapy in. After several visits to nearby places, we found a place not far from where I lived.

During this entire hospital stay, I had a constant flow of visitors, some I don’t remember seeing at all because I was so drugged I slept most of the time. My 26th birthday was three days before the accident. A couple of guys from my singles group brought in cake and sang to me. I missed that entire party. I was there, and have a picture of me sleeping with the cake sitting on my bed. Good times.

My constant visitors were people from my church mostly. My room was full of banners from kids that I taught at church, stuffed animals, flowers. You name it, it was in there. Food was brought to feed my family and visitors practically every day. The staff at the hospital made room for our stuff in the refrigerator, and we gladly shared food with them. We always had a ton of leftovers. Oddly, the thing I craved the most while I was there was fruit. Word got around, and fruit was put on the delivery menu.

My mom had moved into the hospital. You think I’m joking. No, she was literally sleeping there…on one of those horrible chairs. When they finally moved me to a private room, she was upgraded to being allowed to sleep in the empty bed next to me. She deserved to stay at the Ritz. Not only did she move in, she also took over my care.

Several times, my mom stepped in when mistakes were made in my care, saving me from massive infections, and delays in my progress. She became my advocate, fighting for me while I slept. She changed my bed sheets, gave me my sponge baths, handled all the bedpans (ewe), and kept me going. She became the rock I leaned on for every single thing. This was both good and bad, to be so reliant on her, but I am confident when I say if my mom hadn’t been there, my recovery would have taken a very different route.

When my dad and stepmom came to visit, I had friends who lent them a car, and gave them a place to stay. My stepdad was housed as well when he came out to visit and eventually stayed along with my mom. There wasn’t a need I had that was not taken care of by the people in my life. My church took up a donation for me to help with any extra expenses I had, in addition to everything else they did. They were such examples of Christian love.

My time in the nursing home was hard. There is no other word to describe it. I not only had to learn how to walk again, but I had to do so on one half of one foot. See, not only was my right leg damaged and completely non-weight bearing, but my left big toe had been crushed as well. Two 3-inch long pins were inserted into my foot to keep the bones set in place. I was fitted with a special boot that only allowed me to put pressure on the back side of that foot. Walking turned into more of a test of arm strength than anything else. It was a terrifying process.

I spent another six weeks in the nursing home learning how to walk. I was finally able to sit, but only at up to a 60 degree angle. That was how I would sit for another few months after I left too. That’s what had to be done in order for my pelvis to heal. I had a special wheelchair that allowed me to sit at different angles.

I had victories in the nursing home like being able to “walk” ten feet. Walking was with a walker and 3 people surrounding me, but still, I did it. I even learned how to do a stair. I actually sat on a toilet for the first time (at a 60 degree angle). I even got to take my first shower (in my wheelchair). It felt so good. I sat under the water for so long I got so weak. The Bible study group I was a part of at my church, relocated to my nursing home, holding their weekly meetings in the visitor’s room so I could attend if I felt up to it.

But my time in the nursing home also brought new challenges. Depression hit so hard I thought about taking my own life. I developed a Deep Vein Thrombosis in my leg, so that was another ER trip, and then anti-coagulant treatments for the next three years. And then I had to figure out where to go next after the nursing home.

Thankfully, word got around my church family (yet again), and a friend of a friend had a handicap accessible house for both my mom and I to stay in. Finally, a real bed! I wheeled around, becoming more independent in my bathroom and shower use, but still lacking a lot of strength when it came to getting around. I had in-home physical therapy and occupational therapy visits until I was able to travel more in the car to go to the office.

After about another six weeks there, it was time for me to make a more permanent decision about my care. I was about ready to start weight-bearing on my legs, and physical therapy was about to get more intense. I made the decision to go back to Michigan and continue my care. After almost 4 months, I said goodbye to my wonderful friends and second family, fully expecting to be back and working at the end of this “yearlong” recovery.

By January of 2005 I started pool therapy. I loved it. I used this machine that I slid onto from my wheelchair that would move me over the pool and lower me in. Then I would get out, but would have to hop on my better leg until I got into much deeper water. The deeper the water, the less pressure on my legs to hold me up. The first time I put both feet on the ground and stood up straight I was so happy. It felt amazing! I was only allowed to do this for very short periods of time at first. But the more time went by the longer the stretches, and the shallower the water.

Not only was there pool time 3 times a week, but also strength and mobility training the other days of the week. Every day my mom would drive me to doctor’s appointments. And it wasn’t just therapy appointments; it was the family doctor, the orthopedic, the x-rays, the MRI’s, the this, the that. It was painful…so painful. It was stressful, exhausting and laboring for me and my family.

Getting around my house was a challenge. Getting into the bathtub was a challenge. Getting into the car was a challenge. Everything was a challenge, took 50 times longer than normal, and was more time and stress on my mom, who was still wearing all the hats! There were people and things that helped along the way, but it was just hard. That’s all there is to it.

I’m skipping over SO MANY details during this time. I could go on and on, and tell so many stories of things that happened over what turned out to be my 7-year recovery process. I say seven years, because it was after that that I started working again, but honestly my recovery continues even today. I have pain every day. There are certain things I can’t do anymore, always precautions I have to take, and things I have to consider before doing many of the things I love. But I am walking, biking, hiking, dancing, and finally laughing again.

My move to Arizona was not by chance, but a choice I made for my own health. It turned out to be a great one! I feel like the weather and heat has allowed me to do many of these things. I wish I could live near the water, because I am happiest parking my butt on a beach and just listening to the waves roll in, and watching the sunset fall on the water. But my body can’t survive there anymore…at least not right now. So I survive in the desert!

I have looked back on this time in my life and grieve over the things that happened. Grieving for things is healthy. Ignoring the things I went through is just as detrimental as dwelling on them. So I grieve when I need to, and then I count my blessings. And this is what I stand on. Blessings, upon blessings, upon more blessings. I can’t even count them all, there are so many. And they came from this community of people I had surrounding me and my family. Most immediately were my church friends where I lived in PA, and my family. But my story made its way around the world, where people prayed earnestly for me about every detail of my recovery.

When I really think about the people praying for me, all the blessings, the protection, the providence in my life it gets really overwhelming. For a long time, I felt guilty for surviving, and even thriving. I met so many people along my journey that have lost loved ones, or have suffered horrific injuries in accidents similar to mine. I would feel so bad, and wonder why I survived, why I was given the blessing of walking, among other things. I questioned God so many times. Why did this happen to me? And at the same time, why save me and not them? Why let me walk again, and not them?

The answer is I don’t know. I don’t know why bad things happen to good people, why good things happen to bad people, and why some suffer, while others thrive. These are the questions I’ll bring to Heaven, because I think the answers are reserved for God alone. I do know that in the midst of my struggle I was given a verse from 2 Corinthians 2:4, “He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.” I hated this verse when it was given to me. Absolutely hated it!! But the more I have lived it, the more I understand it.

This brings me to Part 2 of my story, which will come later – The Dream. It’s been on my heart for about 5 years now, and I know it’s where I’m headed. It’s one of those God-sized dreams, the kind you know you can’t do on your own because it’s so huge you couldn’t possibly. With everything that He has allowed and given me in my life, I can only believe that it is with purpose, for a reason I may or may not fully understand in my lifetime. But I can be sure that my life has meaning, that this disaster in my life had purpose, and that without the people in my life I had carrying me through everything I would not be the same person I am today.
Please stay tuned for Part 2 of this story!