Fighter
“Chrissy,” my mom gently said, “you’ve
been in an accident.” I groggily rolled my eyes around the room. I knew she was
telling the truth because I was lying immobile in a hospital bed, and the smell
of antiseptic, gauze, and burnt flesh assaulted my nose; however, I could not
remember the last few weeks of my life. That was the first day that I had
gained consciousness. Later that day, I was wheeled down the hall, down stairs
by way of elevator, and through double doors to have my second surgery. The
lights on the ceiling raced by dimmer and dimmer as the anesthesia took hold.
While recovering from surgery, I took
inventory of my body. I stretched my face and wiggled my fingers. Right hand?
Check. Left hand? Bandaged and pulsing with pain. Right leg? Check. Left leg?
Nothing. No movement, no feeling. Temporary paralysis resulting from a tear in
the right cerebral cortex: doctor words for “your leg can’t move.” My brain
tore in the spot that controls the left leg. The same head injury that impaired
my walking, running, and dancing left an empty trail through my memories. I could not remember the accident, that week,
and bits of my previous. In addition to my immobility, my back was a constant
dull ache, and no amount of morphine could take away the pain. With thirteen fractured vertebrae, battery
acid burns on my stomach, chest, face, and left hand, and a tear in the right
cerebral cortex, I was confined to my bed.
Time has no meaning when you cannot
move. Days and night were marked only by
the amount of activity in my room.
During the day, I had constant visitors: family, friends, and
strangers. My room looked like a stuffed
zoo with animals stashed all around my room.
Teddy bears hidden behind bouquets of wilted flowers. At night, I had a reprieve from others but
not from my mind. Before my evening pain
meds would kick in, I could hear my mom sleeping on the couch beside me, and I
would try to grasp my circumstance.
I would stay up night after night, as
long as I could, trying to move my left foot. Paralysis.
That word seemed strange coming from my lips. Paralysis.
That word happened to football players and daredevils not to a timid
fourteen-year old girl. After I had a brace fitted for my back, I was taught
how to move myself from bed to a wheelchair. Nurses, doctors, my parents,
everybody seemed all too willing to accept my fate.
“You will never walk again. You will
never go to college. You will never, never, never” the doctor droned on. My future looked dim. Doctors predicted that I would not finish
high school, that I would, at best, be restricted to a walker. I did not want
that future. Despair slowly morphed in
rebellion. “No! I will walk! I will finish high school! And, I will go to
college!” my heart cried. I stubbornly
refused to accept the limits so many had placed upon my future. Within a month of the accident, I was able to
twitch my foot. Within six weeks, I
could climb stairs with a walker. I did all I could to start school on time with
my friends. Then, I did all I could to
keep up since I had physical therapy three times a week for the first four
months. I was determined to fight to achieve a normal life, to fight to
survive.
Dealing with the physical wounds was so
much easier than dealing with the emotional ones. A few days after gaining conscious and
discovering my physical handicaps, Mom told me, “Amanda did not make it.” My
friend was dead. She died on impact.
Guilt is harder to deal with than pain. Physical
pain can be handled through willpower and determination. I understood physical
pain; however, my heart had never dealt with the pain of losing a friend or
survivor guilt.
I had never heard of survivor guilt
until my accident. Amanda and I had switched seats moments before the bus
driver passed out from ingesting cocaine and valium mere hours before leaving
the parking lot. The thought that I should
have been the victim, not Amanda, haunted, and still haunts, me. My mind was convinced that I should have died
in order for a better person to live. I
did not tell anyone about switching seats with her for years because I feared
people blaming me. Although I blamed
myself for her death, I could not cope with friends and family looking upon me
with resentment.
In addition to the guilt which racked my
soul, I felt like an outcast. How many
freshmen start high school wearing a back brace, using a walker, and sporting
pressure garments? I seemed older and
wiser than my peers due to my experiences. Whenever my friends would complain
about bad hair days or silly boyfriends, I would shake my head at the pettiness
of it all. At the same time, I also felt younger because my mind struggled to
move past a frightened, confused fourteen year old. While my friends were exploring their
independence, I would have anxiety attacks upon entering a new environment. My mind concealed a split identity of a wise,
old woman and a terrified, little girl.
Every year in high school, I would miss
at least twenty days, and my junior year I missed over thirty days. The absences were due to surgery and to going
to court. I had two surgeries once
starting high school and would have to miss a few days due to recovery and to
pain. I remember attending school not
long after the tip of my left index finger was removed. My hand was wrapped in a bundy, which
resembled a club. Sitting in class with
throbbing pain and unable to use my left hand made concentrating in class
difficult. I fought to not be held back;
I fought to excel academically.
About two and a half years after the
accident, sixteen of the teens in the accident, including myself, sued the bus
owner for neglecting to perform a drug test or a drive test on the driver, who
ended up in pieces. I missed most of the month of November because I became an
icon of the accident. Besides having
four different lawyers talk about me, I was called to testify. I limped pathetically up to the stand and
swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing about the truth. Once settled on the stand, my lawyer asked me
to parade in front of the jury with my scarred left hand on display, so I
limped off the stand and began my runway walk of pain. To make matters worse, pictures of my scarred
chest and legs were shown to the entire court.
As a self-conscious teenager, I found that almost as unbearable as the battery
acid. Once back on the stand, I was
asked to relive a moment that I do not remember.
Although I did not remember the
accident, or even the two weeks following the accident, most of the other
survivors did. I heard stories of teens having
to climb over dead friends in order to escape.
Some kids were caught in the wreckage and thought they were going to die
in the twisted metal. While going to
court, a flashback I thought long buried was resurrected: The color is faded.
All I hear is screaming. Screaming from children. Screaming from my wounds.
Mrs. Meehan, Amanda’s mom, holds my hand while I am on a stretcher. “Amanda is
dead,” she whispers. Physical and emotional pain work together to squeeze my
throat and stifle my cries as I am wheeled away. It becomes dark, and I am
scared, so scared. A fear that is all encompassing. Flashbacks
still attack upon occasion. A particular smell, sound, or sight can catapult me
back to the terror I felt.
I survived high school by refusing to
feel sorry for myself. Even though I had to work twice as hard due to brain
trauma, missing school, and emotional healing, I knew that anytime spend
wringing over “what if?” and “why?” and “not fair!” was wasted time. I am
grateful for my experiences because I am a survivor, not a victim. The grit I
learned as a young teen helped me to persevere through college and graduate
magna cum laude from TCU despite a traumatic brain injury. I have participated
in softball, volleyball, tennis, and martial arts despite a limp. I seek to
inspire others with my tenacity. Although I had to endure more than I ever
thought I could, I learned that I am a survivor, I am a fighter. Lessons that I
will never forget.
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