The girl who lived

After seven weekly posts, you know a bit more about me, and I think it’s time to share a small part of my recovery story with you. The following sections are taken from my still untitled book, about a car accident in 2002 that nearly took the lives of my sister and me.  These two excerpts pick up about a week after I came out of a two-week coma…

I reach to smooth my hair. It’s always been long; that’s how I feel most like myself. My fingertips remind me of another loss as they are met with scabs covering bald skin on the right side. Mom said I had a rare basal skull fracture, which I’d never heard of, but now I know is bad. The windshield ripped my scalp as I crashed through it. Thankfully my face and neck were spared, except for raccoon eyes, a scraped cheek, and a tiny scar where my tooth punctured my lip.

I begin picking at my scalp, in an effort to smooth one of the many “rough patches” covering the body I no longer recognize. During my two week coma, CAT-scans showed a series of “mini-strokes”. Me waking up with an intact sense of humor, although loopy on meds, was a huge relief to my supporters. I’m not so convinced. If my mind had been dulled a little more, at least I wouldn’t be so painfully aware of my plight.

“Honey, you’re awake – oh, stop that – we need to let those heal,” Mom says as she reads my expression, “Sweetie, your hair will grow back. When you’re up to it, we’ll let Rachelle stop by- do you remember her?”

My blank expression reminds her I hardly remember my own name. She sighs and continues, “Rachelle’s the nurse who spent hours untangling your matted hair, picking out glass and asphalt. She saved your entire head from being shaved, like the doctors had wanted. She’s been checking on you, but you’re always asleep when she comes…”

Of course I’m asleep; it’s my only escape.

“Your dad and Jean will be visiting soon. Let’s get you perked up a bit” she says.

Her enthusiasm makes me feel both desperately grateful and incredibly annoyed. However, if there’s anything I naturally gravitate towards, it’s being a nice girl and a good hostess. I try to appear alert and excited to see my family but pull this off about as well as a drunk claiming sobriety.

These thoughts are derailed by a tap on the door- Crap, not her again.

The speech therapist has stopped by for a routine analysis. Translation: I’m asked stupid questions, have trouble answering, she smiles, I feel patronized, and receive advice on how to dust the cobwebs from my memory. The suggestion of the day is for Mom to pick up some workbooks with simple word and math problems.

I try to be cooperative, but as the therapist bounces out of the room, I roll my eyes and sink further into the pillows cushioning my broken bones. She’s not much older than I am and has worked hard to be in a career she enjoys. Lucky. I did my own work and earned a Bachelors degree, but a career is probably shot now. Everything accomplished in undergrad has been reduced to my struggle to point out words like “apple” and “wheel” in a short reading.

***

As the sun descends, twilight casts a pinkish hue on the white walls. I dreamily watch the colors change and think of the beach- my favorite place, and sunset- my favorite time of day. I wonder if I’ll see them again.

“Here, take a sip,” Mom says, as she puts a straw to my lips. “You have a fever, but we got some good news- there’s a room ready for you on the fourth floor. You won’t have as many disruptions and it shows you’re improving!”

“I have to move?” Relocation sounds like an overwhelming hassle.

“Don’t worry, we’ve collected your things and there’s a shelf for all of your flowers,” she says. “You’ll see in the morning, Honey, I know you’re not feeling well. They’re having trouble keeping your fever down; your body is fighting so hard. Just rest now.”

Through a fog, I watch as the remaining items are gathered up. The only reminders of home and my former life are a few items salvaged from the accident site. My real life is sitting in an abandoned bedroom in Ocean Beach, over four hundred miles away.

A few nurses come in to transfer the final item: me. As they count “One, two, three,” and lift simultaneously, I close my eyes and brace for the inevitable pain that accompanies even the slightest movement. I’ve been lifted to the rolling bed and taken to X-rays and CAT-scans multiple times, but all seem to run together. Many were done while I was in the coma.

As I’m wheeled from the room where I’ve been fighting for my life, nurses congregated at their station look at me with teary eyes. A few say they’ll come up to visit. I’m touched by their affection. They’ve helped keep me alive, even when my chance of survival was slim.

The stretcher maneuvers through the hall, into the elevator, and down another hallway. My breath draws sharply with each bump in the flooring and doorway thresholds. The last one leads us into a room with real walls and a real door. Gone is the transparent wall with sliding glass doors that made me feel like an animal in the zoo.

A nurse comes in to take my vitals as Mom sets up the room.

“This is home now, Sweetie, for as long as we’re in Modesto. There’s more space for visitors and we can find some decoration for these walls. Would you like that?”

“The beach, please,” I murmur.

“We’ll find a poster of the beach. Oh, you’re burning up!” she says, touching her wrist to my forehead.

The new room is confusing me; when I open my eyes between brief fevered naps, I don’t know where I am. I moan something that even I don’t understand. Through squinted eyes, I look up to see the worried faces of both Mom and my step-dad.

He coos in his thick Romanian accent, “It’s going to be okay, Linds. Do you want some music?” He reaches for my headphones.

Within moments, I’m transported to another place. Music has always done this for me. As the familiar, smooth voice of Diana Krall coats my weary mind, I begin to dream of my home in San Diego. Not much of my life makes sense anymore, but her voice and lyrics remain the same, as if I’m back in my bathtub enjoying a candlelit soak. Life had been ideal. I’m comforted knowing I took nothing for granted. That girl may be lost now, but as my soundtrack plays, it reminds me: I lived.

*The title above is a reference borrowed from Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling.  Most of the names in this story have been changed.