Ripple - A Novel by Joey Carlson
PART 1 — INCOMPLETE INJURY Entry 1 - The Crash
1.1 – May 15, 2024
As you probably know, my name is Neil Howard. I’m a recreational therapist at our local rehab facility — Spirit Center. Things have been weird at work lately. My hours have been cut and they have been reducing the time I get to spend with patients. To hopefully avoid boredom and help as many people as possible, I thought I'd share a little bit about myself and how I help my trauma patients.
In my previous entries, I've shared info on adaptive equipment and given some tips I thought would be helpful for those who have recently been injured. After every post, I get the same questions from people in the comments.
1.2 - August 3, 2000
There's a lot about August 3rd of 2000 that I'll never forget. That was the day I confronted my brother about his drinking. The day I took my last step. And the day I ate my final meal with my mom.
It started out as a typical summer day for an 18-year-old in Minnesota. Some video games. A bike ride. And a few preparations for my upcoming first year of college.
I remember our dinner from that evening vividly. My mom made her world-famous wild rice hotdish. As I ate the delicious meal, I was lost in dreams of college and all the girls and parties that awaited me.
Midway through the meal, my black and white cocker spaniel, Maggie, made her rounds begging and pleading for some scraps. I eventually gave in and slipped her some ground beef from the hotdish.
My dad was completely checked out that night. He was angry about not being able to watch the Minnesota Twins game on TV. My mom insisted that we get together as a family for at least one meal a day. My dad loved his family. But I had a suspicion that he loved Twins baseball even more.
My 22-year-old brother, Mike, didn’t want to be at the table either. The night before he had been out drinking again and was super hungover. Earlier that day I'd brought up the possibility of him going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. He was still mad at me for asking and hated the idea of anyone thinking he had some sort of problem.
My mom, the beautiful soul that she was, wanted everyone in the family to have the best meal of their life — every single night — including Maggie. So, after my mom had her fill of the hotdish, she tossed our pup a few pieces of meat and a cheese covered mushroom.
I had baseball practice that evening, my dad wanted to go to the bar to watch the rest of the game, and my mom needed groceries. Since our family only had two vehicles, my mom and I needed to ride together so she could shop for groceries while I was at practice.
My mom cleaned up dishes, I loaded my baseball gear into our Toyota Sienna minivan, and we took off down the road to fill up our van’s nearly empty tank at the closest gas station.
At the station, I pumped gas and then ran inside to use the restroom. As I relieved myself, my mom paid for the fuel along with a pack of my dad’s favorite brand of gum. She must’ve known that my dad was low on gum, and she always tried to keep us fully stocked on the little things we enjoyed.
When I opened the door to leave the station, I immediately noticed a dark figure scurry across the parking lot and crouch behind our van’s front left tire. I sprinted toward the Sienna, but before I got to the other side, the figure rustled away through some bushes and into a nearby forest.
I examined the van — inside and out — to see if the person had done something to it, like graffiti or a prank, but I couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. Eventually, my mom and I agreed that it was probably just a kid playing hide and seek and his friends were most likely laughing at us from a distance.
So, knowing that I was already running late for practice, we jumped back in the van, got on the county road, and made our way onto the highway.
As we pulled onto the busy interstate, I remember my mom asking me what I thought we should do for my brother’s upcoming birthday. Since it was my too-cool-for-school-bro, I told her we should probably just keep it low-key. If my mom went all out, my brother might bail and just head to the bar. She was always looking for ways she could make others feel good, especially her three boys -- me, my brother, and Dad.
As I was about to bring up the subject of my brother's drinking, I suddenly felt a huge jolt from beneath the car and heard a loud THUMP!
“Mom, what’s that?” I asked.
My mom stuttered... but before any words came out, the car suddenly lurched. She tried to correct our course by cranking the steering wheel, but we were beyond her control.
The van skidded sideways into the center median at full speed. Dust and debris shot everywhere. My whole world went upside down and I felt sick to my stomach. It was like we had just gone down the slope of the world's largest roller coaster. I tasted a stomach-acid-soaked version of the world-famous hotdish I consumed earlier that evening.
We rolled. Twice, I think. The van landed upright with glass and debris broken all around both of us.
One of the prickly pieces of glass landed on the tip of my nose. I tried with all my effort to raise my arm and brush the glass away. My arm felt heavy as I tried to summon all my strength to overcome gravity. When I had raised my hand about a foot off my lap, I lost control and my hand fell downward. When it smacked my thigh, I didn’t feel a thing on either my leg or my hand.
That's when I knew something was wrong — something was seriously… seriously wrong.
I turned as much as I could, looked next to me, and saw my mom. Her head was against the steering wheel and blood ran from her forehead down her nose.
That was so hard. So hard to see her like that.
I tried to stand up so I could help, but my body refused to respond to my commands.
My mom's face rotated toward me. I held my breath.
Her teeth and nose were broken. Her eyes looked distant.
“Never give up, Neil,” my mom gasped. “Never give up.”
After that, everything was a blur. Blackness spread across my field of vision.
I've got several scars from that day. A reddish-purple surgical scar on the front of my neck. An even bigger surgical scar on the back. And a few smaller scars on my arms and hands from the glass and debris in the car.
But those are nothing.
It's the scars that you can't see that are the worst – the scars in my memory. At night, I often see that last tainted image of my mom. Her faraway eyes. Her scratchy voice. Her broken nose. Blood running down her forehead.
I feel the fear that I felt that night every time that image creeps into my head.
But my mom also gave me something else. Something much more powerful than a nightmare image.
Before I passed out, she said, “never give up.”
And I never will give up. I'll keep pushing forward for my mom and try to keep thinking of others like my mom always did. That's why I chose my career as a recreational therapist. And that's why you'll never see me give up on a patient, a friend, or a random person on the street.
I owe my mom everything for my first 18 years and for her beautiful last words.
I love you, mom. And I always… always will.
Entry 2 – Aftermath
2.1 – May 17, 2024
Things have still been weird at work. Today I met with a group of organizational consultants… whatever that means. They grilled me over my job duties and how much time I spend doing billable work. Rumors of layoffs at the rehab center have been running rampant over the past few weeks, but now I know they weren't just rumors. The higher ups are looking at cutting costs and I know recreational therapy is not a money-making department.
Anyone have any job-leads?
When I first had my accident, I never thought about the cost of the healthcare I received. Or the payment structure that reimbursed my caregivers. Wonderful people simply showed up and took care of me. People like the first doctor I saw after the accident — a neurologist and critical care physician named Dr. Combs.
My last entry about my initial injury was kind of popular and there were a bunch of questions, so I thought I'd continue and share a little bit about the people I met during my first hours as a quadriplegic.
2.2 - August 3, 2000
When I woke up after blacking out in the car with my mom, it felt like I was transported into an episode of a TV medical drama. I heard terrifying medical terms and code words being tossed everywhere. Phrases like “Trauma team to station 1” and “I need 160 mg of methylprednisolone” echoed around me.
The stretcher I was lying on was parked directly under a ceiling mounted mirror. I gazed into it and looked at my paralyzed body. Staring at the tattered piece of meat that I had become made me think of my mom.
Had I seen her lifeless eyes? Or was she just hurt like me?
In the back of my mind, I heard her perfect voice. I prayed that I would live to find out that she was alive and well.
The doctors hooked me up to all sorts of machines — heart monitors, oxygen, IVs — the works.
A nurse asked for my family's phone number so they could let them know I was being taken care of. I gave him my mom's number, not even thinking that she wouldn't be able to answer.
Moments later, a man named Dr. Combs introduced himself as a specialist in the type of injury that I suffered and explained what was going to happen next. “Neil, we’re here to help you. You were in an accident and bruised your spinal cord. Now, it’s very important that you keep your head absolutely still until we get your neck stabilized.”
I started to nod, but then realized that this would mean moving my head and neck, so I just said a whispery, “Okay.”
Dr. Combs wiped some crumbs from his mustache, put on a plastic glove, slapped a gob of lube on his pointer finger, bent over, and I felt a pressure in my butthole.
"Hey! What the hell?" I huffed with what remained of my weakened voice.
"That's a very good sign," Dr. Combs said. "Since you are able to feel your anus that means that your spinal cord is not completely severed."
This was good news. But I didn't have much time for rejoicing. All I could think about was how weird it was to have a forty-something year old man stick his lubed-up finger into my butthole.
I felt like I'd been raped.
Next, I was off to the MRI. A herd of nurses, EMTs, and doctors rushed with me to the radiology portion of the hospital. I flew through the hospital with hundreds of thoughts still racing through my mind.
What is going to become of me? Where are my dad and brother? What happened to my mom?
A group of men pulled my stretcher up to the side of a flat table that was next to an MRI machine. They grabbed the blanket that was beneath me and yanked it over to the table. My body slid onto the MRI table along with the blanket.
"Try to hold completely still," one of the technicians said.
I'm freaking paralyzed, how still do you want me to hold? I thought.
Everyone moved out of the MRI room, which meant I was alone for the first time since regaining consciousness.
Despite having oxygen flowing through a tube connected to my nose, I still found it impossible to breathe. I gasped. I yelled. I yelled for help again — no one came. I yelled out one more time.
"Can you lie still a few more minutes?" I heard from the speaker inside the MRI machine.
"I can't breathe," I screamed at a volume that was nearly inaudible over the noise of the imager.
A few moments later, a group of nurses and doctors ran out to the machine as I was slowly moved into the open. As soon as I saw other people and the open air, I was able to breathe again.
Quit being a pansy! I told myself.
The doctor placed a clamp on my pointer finger.
“What’s going on is scary,” Dr. Combs told me. “But we’re here to help. This clamp will monitor your oxygen and make sure you can breathe. Are you ready to give this another go?”
Slightly embarrassed by my outburst, I took as deep of breath as I could muster and told them I was ready. After what seemed like days of clinking, clanking, and whirling, I was done and wheeled into another dark room.
“Where’s my mom?” I demanded as I was pushed out of the radiology department on a gurney. “I need to see her!”
“There are a lot of people here,” An older nurse said. “We will try to find your family as soon as possible.”
All I could picture in my mind was my mom’s beautiful face. A nurse pushed some sort of medication into my IV and I slowly drifted off into blackness.
***
Awake.
I was no longer at the hospital and no longer felt intense pain and morphine dulled senses. Instead, red clouds of fear and anguish surrounded me.
Slowly, the red clouds dissipated, and a horrifying image burned me to the core. I was back in my van and certain my life would soon be extinguished. I cocked my head to the side and there sat my bloodied mom. I looked into her eyes and was jolted as they popped open.
“Neil, never give up,” my lifeless mom said. My mom’s eyes rolled to the back of her head, and I once again heard the beeping of hospital monitors. I screamed, flung my eyes open, and was jolted fully awake.
The nightmare was over, but I found no comfort. I was still fighting for my life in the emergency room.
***
A few minutes after I woke from my nightmare, an orderly pushed me back into my designated spot in the emergency room. Here, Dr. Combs shared the results of the MRI with me. He told me that I crushed several cervical vertebrae and severely damaged my spinal cord. The good news was that although my spinal cord was badly injured, it was what Dr. Combs called an “incomplete injury.”
I inquired about my mom again, but no one seemed to have any information.
After my insistence on knowing more about my mom, Dr. Combs told me the steps that needed to happen next. I couldn’t help but cringe.
Before they began the hard part, they numbed the sides of my head, and increased the delivery rate of morphine.
Next, I was transferred off the gurney I had spent nearly the entire night on and onto a brownish yellowish bed that Dr. Combs explained would rotate back and forth until I was ready for surgery. After getting on the rotating bed, a group of surgeons approached me with a giant drill.
My memories of the drill and rotating bed are foggy and out of focus. From what I can recall, the drill looked like every other power drill that I had ever seen. It was large, silver, and had a bit that I was notified would be boring into the sides of my skull.
As weird as it is to get a lubed-up finger shoved into your butthole, it's even stranger to have two holes drilled into the side of your skull. This was a weird, frickin’, day.
The drill started with a roar, and I shut my eyes as tight as possible. Thank God the sides of my head were numbed beforehand, so I didn't feel a thing. But the smell of burning bone alone made me gag.
After the holes were drilled, two Frankenstein like bolts were screwed in both sides and a horseshoe shaped device was attached that connected the bolt on one side of my head to the bolt on the other side. At the very top of the horseshoe, there was a hook that hung off the side of the table. This hook had a chain attached to the end. At the other side of the chain there were weights hanging off the table. The idea behind this device was that the weights hanging off my head would pull my crushed vertebrae apart from each other, hopefully undoing some of the compacting that the accident had caused earlier that day.
After they finished attaching the Frankenstein bolts, horseshoe, chain, and weights, they started the rotating bed where I would lay until my vertebrae had been uncrushed enough for the surgeon to operate.
During the hours I spent on the rotating bed, I faded in and out of nightmares.
To this day, no matter how much medication doctors pump into me, my mom never completely leaves my sleeping thoughts. Sometimes I relive my pleasant memories with her. Sometimes I just see my mom in the background of an otherwise ordinary dream. On rare occasions, I am back in the crumpled van staring into my mom's beautiful but dead eyes.
1.1 – May 15, 2024
As you probably know, my name is Neil Howard. I’m a recreational therapist at our local rehab facility — Spirit Center. Things have been weird at work lately. My hours have been cut and they have been reducing the time I get to spend with patients. To hopefully avoid boredom and help as many people as possible, I thought I'd share a little bit about myself and how I help my trauma patients.
In my previous entries, I've shared info on adaptive equipment and given some tips I thought would be helpful for those who have recently been injured. After every post, I get the same questions from people in the comments.
- First, people are interested in how I incurred my spinal cord injury.
- Second, they want to know if I am THE Neil Howard that was in the news twenty years ago.
1.2 - August 3, 2000
There's a lot about August 3rd of 2000 that I'll never forget. That was the day I confronted my brother about his drinking. The day I took my last step. And the day I ate my final meal with my mom.
It started out as a typical summer day for an 18-year-old in Minnesota. Some video games. A bike ride. And a few preparations for my upcoming first year of college.
I remember our dinner from that evening vividly. My mom made her world-famous wild rice hotdish. As I ate the delicious meal, I was lost in dreams of college and all the girls and parties that awaited me.
Midway through the meal, my black and white cocker spaniel, Maggie, made her rounds begging and pleading for some scraps. I eventually gave in and slipped her some ground beef from the hotdish.
My dad was completely checked out that night. He was angry about not being able to watch the Minnesota Twins game on TV. My mom insisted that we get together as a family for at least one meal a day. My dad loved his family. But I had a suspicion that he loved Twins baseball even more.
My 22-year-old brother, Mike, didn’t want to be at the table either. The night before he had been out drinking again and was super hungover. Earlier that day I'd brought up the possibility of him going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. He was still mad at me for asking and hated the idea of anyone thinking he had some sort of problem.
My mom, the beautiful soul that she was, wanted everyone in the family to have the best meal of their life — every single night — including Maggie. So, after my mom had her fill of the hotdish, she tossed our pup a few pieces of meat and a cheese covered mushroom.
I had baseball practice that evening, my dad wanted to go to the bar to watch the rest of the game, and my mom needed groceries. Since our family only had two vehicles, my mom and I needed to ride together so she could shop for groceries while I was at practice.
My mom cleaned up dishes, I loaded my baseball gear into our Toyota Sienna minivan, and we took off down the road to fill up our van’s nearly empty tank at the closest gas station.
At the station, I pumped gas and then ran inside to use the restroom. As I relieved myself, my mom paid for the fuel along with a pack of my dad’s favorite brand of gum. She must’ve known that my dad was low on gum, and she always tried to keep us fully stocked on the little things we enjoyed.
When I opened the door to leave the station, I immediately noticed a dark figure scurry across the parking lot and crouch behind our van’s front left tire. I sprinted toward the Sienna, but before I got to the other side, the figure rustled away through some bushes and into a nearby forest.
I examined the van — inside and out — to see if the person had done something to it, like graffiti or a prank, but I couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. Eventually, my mom and I agreed that it was probably just a kid playing hide and seek and his friends were most likely laughing at us from a distance.
So, knowing that I was already running late for practice, we jumped back in the van, got on the county road, and made our way onto the highway.
As we pulled onto the busy interstate, I remember my mom asking me what I thought we should do for my brother’s upcoming birthday. Since it was my too-cool-for-school-bro, I told her we should probably just keep it low-key. If my mom went all out, my brother might bail and just head to the bar. She was always looking for ways she could make others feel good, especially her three boys -- me, my brother, and Dad.
As I was about to bring up the subject of my brother's drinking, I suddenly felt a huge jolt from beneath the car and heard a loud THUMP!
“Mom, what’s that?” I asked.
My mom stuttered... but before any words came out, the car suddenly lurched. She tried to correct our course by cranking the steering wheel, but we were beyond her control.
The van skidded sideways into the center median at full speed. Dust and debris shot everywhere. My whole world went upside down and I felt sick to my stomach. It was like we had just gone down the slope of the world's largest roller coaster. I tasted a stomach-acid-soaked version of the world-famous hotdish I consumed earlier that evening.
We rolled. Twice, I think. The van landed upright with glass and debris broken all around both of us.
One of the prickly pieces of glass landed on the tip of my nose. I tried with all my effort to raise my arm and brush the glass away. My arm felt heavy as I tried to summon all my strength to overcome gravity. When I had raised my hand about a foot off my lap, I lost control and my hand fell downward. When it smacked my thigh, I didn’t feel a thing on either my leg or my hand.
That's when I knew something was wrong — something was seriously… seriously wrong.
I turned as much as I could, looked next to me, and saw my mom. Her head was against the steering wheel and blood ran from her forehead down her nose.
That was so hard. So hard to see her like that.
I tried to stand up so I could help, but my body refused to respond to my commands.
My mom's face rotated toward me. I held my breath.
Her teeth and nose were broken. Her eyes looked distant.
“Never give up, Neil,” my mom gasped. “Never give up.”
After that, everything was a blur. Blackness spread across my field of vision.
I've got several scars from that day. A reddish-purple surgical scar on the front of my neck. An even bigger surgical scar on the back. And a few smaller scars on my arms and hands from the glass and debris in the car.
But those are nothing.
It's the scars that you can't see that are the worst – the scars in my memory. At night, I often see that last tainted image of my mom. Her faraway eyes. Her scratchy voice. Her broken nose. Blood running down her forehead.
I feel the fear that I felt that night every time that image creeps into my head.
But my mom also gave me something else. Something much more powerful than a nightmare image.
Before I passed out, she said, “never give up.”
And I never will give up. I'll keep pushing forward for my mom and try to keep thinking of others like my mom always did. That's why I chose my career as a recreational therapist. And that's why you'll never see me give up on a patient, a friend, or a random person on the street.
I owe my mom everything for my first 18 years and for her beautiful last words.
I love you, mom. And I always… always will.
Entry 2 – Aftermath
2.1 – May 17, 2024
Things have still been weird at work. Today I met with a group of organizational consultants… whatever that means. They grilled me over my job duties and how much time I spend doing billable work. Rumors of layoffs at the rehab center have been running rampant over the past few weeks, but now I know they weren't just rumors. The higher ups are looking at cutting costs and I know recreational therapy is not a money-making department.
Anyone have any job-leads?
When I first had my accident, I never thought about the cost of the healthcare I received. Or the payment structure that reimbursed my caregivers. Wonderful people simply showed up and took care of me. People like the first doctor I saw after the accident — a neurologist and critical care physician named Dr. Combs.
My last entry about my initial injury was kind of popular and there were a bunch of questions, so I thought I'd continue and share a little bit about the people I met during my first hours as a quadriplegic.
2.2 - August 3, 2000
When I woke up after blacking out in the car with my mom, it felt like I was transported into an episode of a TV medical drama. I heard terrifying medical terms and code words being tossed everywhere. Phrases like “Trauma team to station 1” and “I need 160 mg of methylprednisolone” echoed around me.
The stretcher I was lying on was parked directly under a ceiling mounted mirror. I gazed into it and looked at my paralyzed body. Staring at the tattered piece of meat that I had become made me think of my mom.
Had I seen her lifeless eyes? Or was she just hurt like me?
In the back of my mind, I heard her perfect voice. I prayed that I would live to find out that she was alive and well.
The doctors hooked me up to all sorts of machines — heart monitors, oxygen, IVs — the works.
A nurse asked for my family's phone number so they could let them know I was being taken care of. I gave him my mom's number, not even thinking that she wouldn't be able to answer.
Moments later, a man named Dr. Combs introduced himself as a specialist in the type of injury that I suffered and explained what was going to happen next. “Neil, we’re here to help you. You were in an accident and bruised your spinal cord. Now, it’s very important that you keep your head absolutely still until we get your neck stabilized.”
I started to nod, but then realized that this would mean moving my head and neck, so I just said a whispery, “Okay.”
Dr. Combs wiped some crumbs from his mustache, put on a plastic glove, slapped a gob of lube on his pointer finger, bent over, and I felt a pressure in my butthole.
"Hey! What the hell?" I huffed with what remained of my weakened voice.
"That's a very good sign," Dr. Combs said. "Since you are able to feel your anus that means that your spinal cord is not completely severed."
This was good news. But I didn't have much time for rejoicing. All I could think about was how weird it was to have a forty-something year old man stick his lubed-up finger into my butthole.
I felt like I'd been raped.
Next, I was off to the MRI. A herd of nurses, EMTs, and doctors rushed with me to the radiology portion of the hospital. I flew through the hospital with hundreds of thoughts still racing through my mind.
What is going to become of me? Where are my dad and brother? What happened to my mom?
A group of men pulled my stretcher up to the side of a flat table that was next to an MRI machine. They grabbed the blanket that was beneath me and yanked it over to the table. My body slid onto the MRI table along with the blanket.
"Try to hold completely still," one of the technicians said.
I'm freaking paralyzed, how still do you want me to hold? I thought.
Everyone moved out of the MRI room, which meant I was alone for the first time since regaining consciousness.
Despite having oxygen flowing through a tube connected to my nose, I still found it impossible to breathe. I gasped. I yelled. I yelled for help again — no one came. I yelled out one more time.
"Can you lie still a few more minutes?" I heard from the speaker inside the MRI machine.
"I can't breathe," I screamed at a volume that was nearly inaudible over the noise of the imager.
A few moments later, a group of nurses and doctors ran out to the machine as I was slowly moved into the open. As soon as I saw other people and the open air, I was able to breathe again.
Quit being a pansy! I told myself.
The doctor placed a clamp on my pointer finger.
“What’s going on is scary,” Dr. Combs told me. “But we’re here to help. This clamp will monitor your oxygen and make sure you can breathe. Are you ready to give this another go?”
Slightly embarrassed by my outburst, I took as deep of breath as I could muster and told them I was ready. After what seemed like days of clinking, clanking, and whirling, I was done and wheeled into another dark room.
“Where’s my mom?” I demanded as I was pushed out of the radiology department on a gurney. “I need to see her!”
“There are a lot of people here,” An older nurse said. “We will try to find your family as soon as possible.”
All I could picture in my mind was my mom’s beautiful face. A nurse pushed some sort of medication into my IV and I slowly drifted off into blackness.
***
Awake.
I was no longer at the hospital and no longer felt intense pain and morphine dulled senses. Instead, red clouds of fear and anguish surrounded me.
Slowly, the red clouds dissipated, and a horrifying image burned me to the core. I was back in my van and certain my life would soon be extinguished. I cocked my head to the side and there sat my bloodied mom. I looked into her eyes and was jolted as they popped open.
“Neil, never give up,” my lifeless mom said. My mom’s eyes rolled to the back of her head, and I once again heard the beeping of hospital monitors. I screamed, flung my eyes open, and was jolted fully awake.
The nightmare was over, but I found no comfort. I was still fighting for my life in the emergency room.
***
A few minutes after I woke from my nightmare, an orderly pushed me back into my designated spot in the emergency room. Here, Dr. Combs shared the results of the MRI with me. He told me that I crushed several cervical vertebrae and severely damaged my spinal cord. The good news was that although my spinal cord was badly injured, it was what Dr. Combs called an “incomplete injury.”
I inquired about my mom again, but no one seemed to have any information.
After my insistence on knowing more about my mom, Dr. Combs told me the steps that needed to happen next. I couldn’t help but cringe.
Before they began the hard part, they numbed the sides of my head, and increased the delivery rate of morphine.
Next, I was transferred off the gurney I had spent nearly the entire night on and onto a brownish yellowish bed that Dr. Combs explained would rotate back and forth until I was ready for surgery. After getting on the rotating bed, a group of surgeons approached me with a giant drill.
My memories of the drill and rotating bed are foggy and out of focus. From what I can recall, the drill looked like every other power drill that I had ever seen. It was large, silver, and had a bit that I was notified would be boring into the sides of my skull.
As weird as it is to get a lubed-up finger shoved into your butthole, it's even stranger to have two holes drilled into the side of your skull. This was a weird, frickin’, day.
The drill started with a roar, and I shut my eyes as tight as possible. Thank God the sides of my head were numbed beforehand, so I didn't feel a thing. But the smell of burning bone alone made me gag.
After the holes were drilled, two Frankenstein like bolts were screwed in both sides and a horseshoe shaped device was attached that connected the bolt on one side of my head to the bolt on the other side. At the very top of the horseshoe, there was a hook that hung off the side of the table. This hook had a chain attached to the end. At the other side of the chain there were weights hanging off the table. The idea behind this device was that the weights hanging off my head would pull my crushed vertebrae apart from each other, hopefully undoing some of the compacting that the accident had caused earlier that day.
After they finished attaching the Frankenstein bolts, horseshoe, chain, and weights, they started the rotating bed where I would lay until my vertebrae had been uncrushed enough for the surgeon to operate.
During the hours I spent on the rotating bed, I faded in and out of nightmares.
To this day, no matter how much medication doctors pump into me, my mom never completely leaves my sleeping thoughts. Sometimes I relive my pleasant memories with her. Sometimes I just see my mom in the background of an otherwise ordinary dream. On rare occasions, I am back in the crumpled van staring into my mom's beautiful but dead eyes.
