Reflections

Nineteen years ago:

I got ready to go to one of the few parties I went to in high school, despite my overwhelming desire to stay home and watch hockey on television.

I wore a new outfit, which at the time seemed super cool but in hindsight was probably incredibly dorky.  White jeans... um, hello?!

My friend came to pick me up, and while it seemed odd that she wasn't driving, I didn't question it.

Three high school girls got into a car to go to a party on OSU's campus.  Although I'd been to lots of parties at another local university, this would be my first OSU party.

I zoned out in the car while my friends talked in the front seat.  I wondered who was winning the game.

Looking ahead and to the left, I saw a car approaching the upcoming intersection a bit too fast.  Glancing forward, I saw that our light was red, but the turn light was green, meaning that the oncoming car should probably be going a lot slower.  We should have been going slower, too.

I yelled "stop," but we didn't.  Quite the opposite... it felt like we accelerated.

I put my hands up to shield my face, but through my hands I saw a Mercedes hood ornament crush into me dead on.  This is perhaps the biggest reason why I will never own a Mercedes.

I reached out to try to hold onto the back of the driver's seat.  I missed.

I woke up on the sidewalk, face down.  People were standing around me, staring.  I didn't know why, and wondered what I'd done at the party, and just how embarrassed I should be.

My face was wet, and I felt heavy.  The wetness turned out to be blood.  The heavy feeling I felt was the effects of shock, multiple fractures and internal organ damage.

I tried to lift my right leg, but only part of it left the ground.  With my right foot, I could feel the grass next to the sidewalk.  This was oddly reassuring to me, because it meant I could still feel things, and I was probably not paralyzed.  Woo hoo?

I tried to get up, but wasn't able to because moving my upper body was immensely painful, even through the heaviness and shock.

I asked my friend if I would live.  She said "yes." I asked her if I would ever walk again.  Silence.

The paramedics arrived, and brought out the backboard.  I panicked.

In the ambulance, the paramedics started to cut my clothes off.  I asked them not to cut my socks off, because they were my father's.  They still cut them off, the bastards.

In the emergency room, I vomited on the doctor's shoes when they intubated me.

On the way to the operating room, I saw my parents, and told them I was sorry.

In surgery, doctors fixed a crushed femur, torn spleen, and inserted a tube into my chest cavity to help keep my lung from collapsing again after it had been punctured by one of five broken ribs.  There was no treatment for the broken fingernail.  Modern science had failed me in that respect.

Nineteen years ago:

I learned about friendship and strength from the myriad people who came to see me in the hospital, including those I never expected.

I learned about devotion from the teachers who worked with me to finish my senior year during my recovery, who overlooked clearly-drug-induced sentences (and probably entire paragraphs) in my final papers, and from the very special teacher who came to my house on prom night to keep me company on the assumption that I wouldn't be able to go.  (I did go... perhaps a first glimpse of the party girl who would emerge a few months later?)

I learned that there really are awesome guys out there from my prom date who, by all objective accounts, should have ditched me in favour of someone more fun, but who didn't.

I learned that the ability to pivot and find other paths forward in life are critical not only to success, but sometimes to survival.

Nineteen years ago, my life changed.  As a result, today I know about gratitude - to the doctors, to my friends, to my family, and to everyone who has helped me deal with the immense life changes the accident brought and has continued to bring me over the last two decades.

Thank you.