Tomorrow I'll be back to my old goofy self, but for now I need to take this trip down memory lane.
May 1, 1998, was the night my world changed forever. I was scheduled to work the midnight security shift and to my dismay, I overslept. I put on my uniform, kissed my slumbering family goodnight, and rushed out into the rain to my car. I glanced at the clock on the dash before backing out the driveway. Darn it. It’s already 11:45, I thought. I’ll have to hurry. My rear tires squealed in protest on the slippery street as I sped away.
One of the last things I remember as I sped down the interstate was looking into the rearview mirror and seeing a vehicle approaching me from the rear, blinking its headlights rapidly. The speeding vehicle drove in the median to pass traffic. To my horror, the reckless driver got back on the road and swerved at a white car, then me.
With a screeching of tires, the faceless driver whipped his car into my lane, and then slammed on the brakes. Unthinking, I slammed on my brakes, but to no avail. My tires couldn’t get traction on pavement slick as ice. “Oh my god, no!” I screamed as my tiny car veered out of control. The high grasses in the median were a blur in my headlights as I plunged through it and into oncoming traffic. I head the frantic honking of a horn, which was followed by a sickening crunch of metal on metal. I’ve been hit! I thought as a welcoming blackness enveloped me.
The murmuring of voices and a woman sobbing penetrated the thick veil of my unconsciousness. Groaning, I wiped my face with my hand and felt a sticky wetness on it. Blood! Groaning, I opened my eyes and saw the spider web shaped cracks in my windshield. Every part of me hurt, and I offered no resistance as the welcoming black fog once again engulfed me, protecting me from my pain and fear.
I felt like I was in a dark well, and I was floundering, struggling to keep my head above the brackish water. In the distance, I heard a male voice calling, “Debbie, can you hear me? If you can, I want you to respond.” The voice was a lifeline, pulling me back to the land of the living. I opened my eyes and saw. . .nothing.
“I can’t see! Something is wrong with my eyes!” I screamed. I tried to wipe my eyes, but found my arms bound tightly to my sides. What sick game are these people playing with me, I thought, struggling frantically.
“Deb, calm down,” the unknown voice crooned, “you have some blood clotted in your eyes. The paramedics will get it out.” Saline solution was flushed into my eyes and my vision cleared. I saw the faces of paramedics and a highway patrolman smiling gently at me. “Welcome back,” the patrolman said. His was the voice that had brought me back to consciousness. “Can you feel me holding your hand?” he asked. I nodded.
A stiff wind began to blow, and the sound of thousands of birds’ wings flapping filled the air. “You’re badly hurt, and they’re going to take you by helicopter to the emergency room.”
A chopper, how neat, I thought, drifting off to unconsciousness.
When I awakened, I was in the emergency room. The entire room was white, and had a cold, sterile, emotionless feel. This must be a nightmare. That’s it; it’s a nightmare. If I close my eyes and re-open them, I’ll be in my own bed. I tried, but I couldn’t wish myself back to the comforts of my home. I choked back a sob. Dear God! This can’t be happening to me!
The door flung open, three doctors entered the room and walked over to my bed. I shut my eyes; I wasn’t in the mood to answer questions, even if they were trying to help me. I just wanted to be left alone. “The accident victim is a young female in her late 20’s,” one doctor said. “My concern is her right arm. I suggest we call in a specialist.”
“What about her teeth?” a second doctor asked. “Open her mouth and check her teeth.” Check my teeth? I’m not a horse! I fumed. I wanted to scream, to tell those uppity doctors in their fresh starched shirts I was a human being, and had a name; instead, I remained silent. I waited until the left the room before I opened my eyes. Giant tears rolled down my face unchecked. I was tired of being brave. I longed to be a little girl again, to have my mama hold me in her arms and whisper in my ear everything would be okay. Instead, the door flung open and a nurse dressed in colorful scrubs walked in.
“Oh sweetheart, is your pain unbearable?” she asked, seeing my tears. Her compassion caused the dam holding my tears back to break, and I was engulfed in heart-wrenching sobs. I was indeed in pain, but my emotional pain was worse. “I’ll be right back,” she promised. She returned a couple of minutes later with a syringe.
“I’m going to put this pain medication in your I.V. bag. You should feel better shortly.” After she was done, she smiled gently and patted my hand. “You’ll be okay, hon.,” she said, before leaving. I don’t think I‘ll be completely “okay” ever again, I thought bitterly. Within minutes, the pain medication took effect, and I drifted off into a peaceful slumber.
I spent the next few days in a medicated haze as a stream of well-wishers entered my hospital room. On the third day, even though I felt I had been through a meat grinder, I felt well enough to sit up in the lumpy hospital bed; but my emotions took another beating. I learned the person causing the accident had gotten away, and my car was destroyed. My left hand shook as I held a picture my husband, John, had taken of my car after the wreck. The mangled wreckage of my Nissan Sentra resembled a red ball of tin foil.
If my car looks that bad, I must look like something from a horror movie. I noticed visitors never made direct eye contact with me, never looked me in the face. It bothered me. I turned to the one person I could trust, my husband. “Hey John. Do I look as bad as I feel?” There were no need for words; the heartbroken look in John’s eyes said it all. Swallowing hard, I asked him to give me the small hand mirror in my purse.
I gasped at my reflection. I looked like a poorly sewn patchwork quilt. I had smashed into the windshield upon impact, and there were over 200 stitches and staples in my face and in my scalp. My physical appearance, for the moment, was the least of my worries.
The doctors found I had massive head trauma and whiplash. On the evening of the fourth day, an emotionless doctor entered my stuffy hospital room. “Mrs. Roppolo, you have inoperable nerve damage in your right arm.”
“W-What does that mean?” I asked. In my heart, I knew what he meant, but I wanted to find a grain of hope in the layman’s translation.
“It means you’ll never use the arm again,” he said flatly. He turned and left, offering no empathy, not one bit of compassion. I’m just a number to him, he could care less, I thought bitterly. From that moment on, I began building a shell of self-pity around me; like a turtle, I retreated into it. I thought of the last class that I had taken on the day of the accident, and remembered how I effortlessly threw a baseball to a friend across the gym, and heard the smack of the ball as it hit her bare hand. Well, those days are over. So much for being a coach, I thought bitterly.
I wanted to give up, for everyone just to go away and leave me the h*ll alone. That wasn't going to happen. Seth, then five, made sure I did my physical therapy; when I balked, John used reverse psychology. "I thought you were tougher than this," he said. "If you won't do it for yourself, do it for your child."
As time passed, my face healed without a single scar; I wish I could say the same thing for my soul. For five long years, I was an angry, bitter, person who withdrew from everything and everybody. I still can't remember why, but I began walking at night. I felt a little more relaxed after every walk, a little more at peace. On night it hit me like a ton of bricks. The little inner voice I had buried deep inside of me pushed its way to the surface.
You're still a young person. Are you going to be bitter for the rest of your life, or are going to start living again? I thought about all the time I had wasted, all the time I had spent feeling sorry for myself. "I want to live again!" I yelled, tears coarsing down my cheeks. From that moment on, I lived my life, I find joy in almost everything I do. I try and live every moment as if it were my last.
Sometimes life gives you the "old one-two". It's your choice whether you get knocked out, or fight back.
I have the use of my arm back, and no scars are visible.
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