The Worst Day of My Life
Unpacking: The car crash that changed my family forever
It’s been six months since my mom was hit by a drunk driver that slammed into the back of her truck as she was getting into the driver’s seat, pinning her between it and the car next to hers. She was walking to her car on a sunny day after going to a food festival in town. The driver hit and ran. It nearly killed her, not only at the scene of the crash but also multiple times during her 6 weeks in the hospital.
It’s hard to put into words how this experience has changed me. To say “it’s put everything in perspective” is a cliché understatement but it’s the phrase I’ve fallen back on when I’m too tired to muster up anything else. Everything is extremely overwhelming and emotional yet grounding. I felt so present because I had to be - to try to understand the surgeries and drugs and injuries my mom was dealing with so we can best support her in her recovery, to give accurate updates to our loved ones, and to ease my own worries. I was exhausted from the emotional turmoil and lack of sleep but with my beautiful mom in a hospital bed connected to all the wires and IVs and tubes, nothing else mattered.
It was a nightmare, really. Memories are already starting to blend together which is probably for the best but there are certain moments I vividly remember thinking…is this really happening?
The first time her heart rate was sitting at 200 bpm for over an hour which prompted the rapid response team rushing in, slamming an injectable drug called adenosine through her IV that stops and restarts her heart, all while a defibrillator is on her chest in case it didn’t work. They ended up needing to do this four more times over the course of the month.
Having to explain the extent of the situation to my sister after she got off a flight from Brazil so she knew what she was walking into.
Setting alarms every few hours during overnights at the hospital to make sure she was ok and getting her pain meds so she wouldn’t wake up in agony. Worrying that I’d miss something if I had my earplugs in.
Getting a call from my sister when she realized mom was bleeding internally again. I was 40 minutes away at the District Attorney’s office, and the surgery lasted over five excruciating hours.
Waking up hearing her drinking water in her sleep which wasn’t allowed at the time so I freaked out but it was actually my boyfriend and I just forgot where I was.
Early foggy mornings and late nights driving back and forth to the hospital. And my phone ringing in the middle of the night because something was wrong and I needed to come over. I’ve never known exhaustion like this.
There wasn’t one specific day when we realized mom would be ok but at some point it was like someone started gently waking us up from the nightmare. A sense of relief came upon us that finally matched mom’s inexplicable faith she had throughout this whole experience. All of a sudden, the constant beeping stopped as machines were unplugged. IVs and her PICC line came out. Rehab transferred her into a shower for the first time. She had some good days and breaks next to an aptly-placed “circle of life” sculpture outside the hospital weren’t tearful. After seven surgeries and moving rooms ten times, she finally came home.
At the three-month mark, mom still had a long journey ahead. The chapter of healing looked a lot different than the last, mostly in good ways, but also some that were more daunting. For one, we were now her nurses. It was weird being home without medical supervision. I can imagine this is how parents feel bringing their newborn home for the first time wondering how they’ll make it through the night. She wasn’t able to bear weight on her right leg because of her knee and pelvis surgery. She also had lifting restrictions because of her new pacemaker. She was only comfortable in bed or the reclining/lift chair I bought her on Amazon. (It’s honestly cuter than it sounds.)
And now at the six month mark, thanks to physical therapy and modern medicine, things are starting to look more normal despite her penguin-like limp and the stair lift cluttering the entryway. She’s safe now, we can breathe easier, and I couldn’t be more grateful for every moment we still have with her. But aside from the physical stuff, we’re all still unpacking the mental aspect. Even I am having this bizarre separation anxiety from my loved ones that I’ve never felt before.
I’m trying to ease into life but nothing feels the same. In a way, physical disability aside, I don’t want to “go back”. I want to stay in this place of gratitude for life and time together. I want to remember this deep knowing of what matters and what doesn’t. What stress actually feels like so that I know when not to be stressed. The clear lens I’m now seeing the importance of family through. My curiosity for spirituality but also the anger I have towards people who drink and drive and kill people more frequently than you realize. I want to remember these things even if it makes it hard to feel normal.
My three lessons so far, more to be unpacked in this newsletter over time:
Life is so fragile. You don’t think something like this could happen to you until it does.
The new appreciation I have for nurses and doctors cannot be understated. I witnessed them save her life multiple times already. I start tearing up almost every time I thank them.
Don’t drink and drive.
Thank you for all your support! I felt it and it means the world.
Traumatic experiences tend to have a way of wrapping themselves around your being. It’s a slow process of untangling them. You seek normality but the version of life pre the event no longer exists so you find somewhere else in the hopes that it is equally as peaceful as the life before. I wish this for all of you. And yes, people need to stop drinking and driving.