I Lived

In the midst of pain, it is hard to know where to start in explaining yourself. So, I will take a cue from Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and start from the very beginning...a very good place to start. And what a start it was when a small sports car crossed the center line and crashed into my SUV head on. As quickly as one can imagine, while also moving in slow motion, my truck spun and plunged forward into a tree where the world stopped. Two head-on collisions within breaths of each other.

I immediately jumped from the vehicle, hearing my 21 month old daughter screaming from the back seat. I was in shock and bleeding, and every airbag had exploded. Thank God, of course, for the airbags, but I could only hear and not see my baby. Suddenly, several women came from their homes and other vehicles to help. They removed my daughter from the vehicle. While these angels were unbuckling her car seat and carrying her to me, still strapped in her 5-point harness, the other driver approached me. He repeatedly touched my arm, as if to console me.

"You're okay," he said.

"Your kid is fine," he said.

I could smell him. I could see him sway. I could hear the overconfidence in the tone of his voice. The adrenaline from the crash turned to Mama Bear protection mode, and I unleashed my fury.

"Are you drunk?" I screamed.

He dare not respond, but only backed away as I cursed his existence. Police and emergency vehicles rushed to us, sirens blaring. I was soon strapped to a board. My daughter was removed from her seat and placed in the one on the ambulance. We were whisked to Shady Grove Hospital...

It was 3pm on a clear and sunny Sunday. We had just gotten home from an amazing vacation and were on our way to pick up our dog from camp. We went from bliss to terror in a split second.

This happened in October 2010. The terror was tangible and everywhere. There wasn't a space in my life not filled with fear. I was afraid I'd never be the same, be whole again. That fear was a truth, while I didn't know then, which would haunt me for years to come.

I lived. A broken finger. A branded burn in my arm of the emblem of my carmaker from the airbag exploding open. Neck pain. Back pain. Shoulder pain. Ugly bruising from the seatbelt across my hips, abdomen and shoulder. Then came hours and hours over months and months of physical therapy. Visits to a psychiatrist. Chiropractic care. Acupuncture. Surgery. Radiofrequency Ablations. Pain meds. No sleep. But I lived.

In living, I suffer. I mourn the loss of the carefree mom and wife that was left at the scene of that crash. I mourn the healthy, strong young woman I once was. I mourn the fact that I didn't appreciate my happiness or working body while I had them.

When sharing this story, I often hear, "Wow, but it could've been so much worse." While people mean well - and it is true - these types of comments attempt to diminish the pain I feel and the anguish I live with on a daily basis. It downplays my sadness and the medical procedures. It belittles the stress of mediation, bills stacking up, and years of documentation and conversations with attorneys. Such statements make me defensive of my pain and experiences, so I most frequently prefer not to discuss what you cannot see.

This trauma was first held close to the vest for legal reasons. And when that was resolved, I had become one with my pain, in a sense. I shared with those close to me when I scheduled a procedure or needed a ride, but not many knew the depth of the ache. The dark cloud that hung overhead began to loom inside me. Pain is lonely. It makes me angry and often unkind. I lash out and dislike myself and the reality that my body cannot respond as I want or need much of the time. It became easier to swallow the hurt than to be vulnerable and open. But to share is to trust - others with my story and myself in my truth.

I lived. I acknowledge my pain, and I work hard everyday to not let it define me. I live.