She was twenty-four years old. A young teacher, driving home from work. Valentine’s Day. Distracted, not in love. Was he distracted too? Their cars met at a three-way intersection. Head on. The impact was hard, but no shattered windshield involved. His big car, her small one. Ok? Only her knee hurt. The next day in front of her third-graders she passed out.
Hospitalized. X-rays, probes, neck out of alignment, discs slipped. Saw the X-ray. Curve of her neck had been yanked straight. Hospitalized in traction. Stretched tight both ways. Pain. Unable to sleep. Days go by. Many visitors, balloons, then they dwindled. Not getting better. Time was going by. Still in so much pain. There was still more going on, she tried to tell them. They didn’t believe her. After a while they agreed to more tests. Nuclear medicine, suggestions of cancer. Pain joined by fear, then terror. The doctor apologized for doubting when he gave the news. “The accident also cracked your hip,” he said. “A cyst inside the size of a baseball. Lucky you had this accident. You might have been walking one day and it would have just broken.” Lucky? She had already been in the hospital for weeks. Now there would be a long serious surgery and everything that would follow.
The doctor had said there would be a small scar, but it was a long scar down her thigh, another up her pelvis on the other side. She wondered, Would anyone ever fall in love with me?
Moved out of her apartment. Job given to another young teacher. The hospital her new address. Needed to learn to walk again. She was sinking, 5’8” under 90 lbs. maybe dying. Sinking down deep, she doubted, they wondered, could she pull herself back up? There were many dark days when only shots of Demerol-induced sleep gave her relief. Her stay in the hospital would be three months.
Asleep after one of those shots, somewhere deep inside, she realized there was a choice to live or die. It wasn’t an easy one. Leaving would be so much easier. There was a brave voice in there that said rally, you can do this. Live, the voice said, live and if you do, you can do anything. She deliberated, then decided yes. It was a strong voice, but she was so weak. Her voice would have some assistance.
Enter Denise, a young nurse’s aide, not much older than she was, who happened to walk into her room not long after this decision. It was her first day on the job. She remembers her healthy, tall, slender body, dangling silver bracelets, short dark hair, long neck, bright eyes. A vision in the cold white hospital room. As the doctors were considering more tests, Denise had a different idea. “You need to get out of here.”
“First, let me raise your bed so you can watch the sunrise, see the sea in the distance.” The next day she washed her long, neglected hair, braided it, tied it up on top of her head, sprinkled it with flowers. “You’ll start to feel yourself again,” she said. “Remember your beauty. The health you knew. When you are ready, I’ll take you outside.”
It didn’t work the first time. She passed out. Denise knew to persist. She had a hunch this might save a life. She knew what was needed: air, sky, sunshine. Little by little, with more and more days outside, still frail, she was finally able to leave the hospital. Soon after, Denise invited her to dinner at her apartment. “You can do this,” she said, as she guided her, still frightened, slowly up the tall stairs. It was the beginning of her journey upward and outward. Slowly with some steps backwards, some fear, moving back home, time in a wheelchair, months and months of rehab, she started coming back into her own. The voice inside cheered her on. You can do anything, it reminded her.
The following fall, her new life began. A teaching position opened in Northern California. With the new voice echoing inside, she drove herself there, explored the San Francisco hills while still on crutches. Interviewed for the job. Got it. Teaching position was in the small town of Benicia. Denise, now a friend outside the hospital, gave her a present before she moved. A silver bracelet. She has it still. Two silver spoons welded together. To celebrate the day she could walk on her own. Inside it says Me, Nov. 1973.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Birdland Journal Founder and Editor Sharon H. Smith is a writer/poet and is a member of Laguna Writers of San Francisco and has enjoyed writing with The Writing Salon’s Round Robin. Along with cooking, traveling, drawing, she has produced Birdland Writing Retreats and Workshops in West Sonoma County where she lives with her husband and frequent collaborator, David Wakely. Her work has been published in From the Depths by Haunted Waters Press, Lake: A Collections of Voices, Juddhill.com, gravelmag.com, Tell Us A Story Blog, Eunoia Review, Adanna Literary Journal, Dime Show Review, Glassworks Magazine and has written essays for KQED Perspectives. Her book, Held: A Father Lost and Found was published by Red Bird Chapbooks. You can learn more about her at www.savorsmith.com.