28 years of learning

28 years ago today, I woke up to what I thought would be another normal day in my 15-year-old life.

Little did I know that by the end of the night, I would find myself on medevac flight to Fairbanks with a life-threatening spinal cord injury.

I could see the panic in the eyes of everyone around me at the scene of the accident, but I honestly thought I would get sent to Fairbanks and be back to normal life in a few weeks.

Overwhelmed with an uncertain future

5 days later, I would wake up in the intensive care unit with a tube pushing air into my lungs through a hole in my neck, to be told that I would never use my hands or walk again.

Everything I knew was now unknown.  I would have to be hospitalized in Seattle for 6 months of physical rehabilitation.  While I was stabilized in Fairbanks, I had to lay flat on my back in a neck brace, on a bed that turned from left to right, so pneumonia wouldn’t set in.  I had to learn how to communicate with others without using my voice because the tube in my neck blocked air from getting to my vocal cords. 

I had to learn how to drink water again without it going into my lungs.  I had to learn to look people in the eye knowing that they now looked at me as someone with a severe disability.  It took 2 nurses to shower me.  My mom and my sister had to learn how to stick a separate tube down into my lungs to suction out built-up fluids.

When I woke up in the ICU, my mom had already sat for 5 days with the news that I would not walk again.  She was now the single mother of a 15-year-old daughter who would be physically dependent on her for everything.  She had a home in Galena, and a fulfilling full-time job she loved there. Everything that was our life was there. 

When she got on the medevac flight with me that night, she left with nothing but the clothes she was wearing and her inhalers for her asthma.  She literally went from relaxing at home on the evening of August 20, to the scene of a serious car accident, to the clinic emergency room, to a medevac flight, to the emergency room.  She created a sleeping area in the ICU waiting room where she waited day in and day out, night after night for the doctors to inform her as to whether or not I would make it through another day. 

We had no idea what was ahead.  My mom was now out of a job.  We didn’t have health insurance.  We had to apply for Medicaid.  Would I have to go to Seattle by myself?  How could she go with me and afford it?  Where would she sleep?  How would she be able to afford food while there?  Should my sister go back to her studies at the university in September?  What about all of our belongings in Galena?  What about my sophomore year that was going to start in a matter of days? 

It was overwhelming.  The future looked so bleak on so many days.  There were days when I didn’t think life was worth it.  Most days, I didn’t think I would ever be truly happy again. How could I ever graduate high school without the use of my hands?  Could I please just have a drink of water?  With a breathing tube down my throat, there was a fear that any liquids or food would go down to my lungs, and cause my lungs even more damage.  I was sick of ice chips and being fed protein shakes through a tube in my nose.  Could I please just have some flavoring in my ice chips?  What would Seattle be like?  Why should I even go there?  It wasn’t like I was going to leave their walking, or with further physical abilities. They could fix me either. Would I ever feel pretty in a wheelchair?  What could the future possibly look like when you can’t use your arms or legs?

All of these questions.  All of the uncertainty.  All of the unknowns.  Non-stop information, and so many gaps in understanding the whole picture.

Keep going

I don’t know what you are facing today, or what you might face in the future, but if you are feeling overwhelmed, uncertain, anxious, hopeless, depressed or like giving up, I’m here to tell you to keep going.

Keep going does not mean you have to have a perfect, beautiful life.  Keep going does not mean you have to excel at everything.  Keep going does not mean that if you are on the road to healing, it feels good.  Sometimes keep going means crying through the day, and then just acknowledging your strength for making it through that day.  Sometimes, keep going means breathing through the overwhelming feelings and allowing yourself to break down and cry when you need to.  Sometimes keep going means allowing yourself to fall apart and hurt, because healing doesn’t always feel good.  Keep going means letting others around you know you are struggling and allowing them to love you and support you through it.  Keep going means knowing that what you are going through is temporary, even if temporary lasts 2 years like it did for me.

Know that healing and rebuilding can take time

It took me 2 years to climb out of the depression I fell into after my injury.  I had to learn to let go of all of those expectations I had for my high school years, and embrace what I could do.  I had to learn to allow myself to grieve for the life that I thought I would always have.  I had to refocus on what I could do, and what I was happy doing.  I had to realize that happiness can exist in many different ways.  I had to let go of some people who couldn’t accept me for who I was, or who I became.  I had to learn new coping mechanisms.  I had to swallow my pride day, after day, after day, after day.  I had to learn that swallowing your pride is okay to do, and often the healthiest thing to do.

Have hope.  Today, I still sit in a wheelchair without the use of my hands and legs. I no longer rely on a breathing tube for breathing, but physically, I have not had any improvements. If anything, I have had decreases in my physical ability because of aging and being so sedentary. However, I have a beautiful life that I would not trade for anything. 

Is it perfect, or always happiness and positive? Definitely not.

I’m still healing, still learning, still growing, still making realizations.  I’m still learning new coping mechanisms.  I’m still learning to be graceful with myself.  I’m still learning to be graceful with others.  I’m still learning to remind myself that it’s temporary when I feel anxious and overwhelmed.  I’m still learning that it’s okay to feel anxious and overwhelmed at times in life.  I’m still learning to remind myself that difficulties are part of life. I’m still reminding myself of the lessons I have learned along the way.

As I celebrate 28 years in my wheelchair today, I hope you will join me by being graceful with yourselves, learning to be graceful with others, being okay with all of life’s imperfections, redefining your happiness if you need to, and committing to continue to always have hope.

So, breathe. Remind yourself that you are worthy. Remind yourself that you can have a beautiful future, Remind yourself that often times, terrifying and painful experiences are paths to something more beautiful than we could ever imagine.