This year, my One Little Word is
Story.
I want to tell the little stories, the ones who shape us into the people we are, or in the kids cases, are becoming. But I also want to tell the big stories. The ones that radically alter us or change us.
This is one of my big stories. And, it's such a big story, that this isn't the entire story. To tell the whole thing would take more than one blog post.
It also has a couple of pretty intense photos, so please be warned.
Eleven years ago, today, it was Super Bowl Sunday. It was also the day before the spring semester of my sophomore year at Oklahoma Baptist was to start. My parents, sister, Bridget, and I had just left church and were on our way to pick up my Grandma Mary from her apartment to go eat lunch. My youngest sister, Jessie, was at church with her friends from school. I remember BB and I arguing on the way to pick up Grandma Mary about who was going to get to sit in the backseat of our parent's minivan and who was going to sit next to her.
I won and got to keep my seat on the back row.
As we picked her up, we finally made a decision about where to eat lunch - China Wok. Not my favorite. We pulled out of her apartment complex parking lot and started toward the restaurant. The last thing I remember is waiting at the stop sign to make our turn and hearing BB scream.
The next thing I know, I'm sitting in the middle of 89th street, in a puddle of half-melted snow and can't see a thing. I can barely breathe and I remember my Daddy-Man, who I'm pretty sure was sitting or kneeling behind me, holding my face together and telling me I was going to be okay. The remainder of the day I remember only in flashes: Mom praying while I'm still sitting in the middle of the street, waiting for the ambulance; being intubated in the ER; and waking up, for the second time in just under a year, in the ICU at Hillcrest Hospital.
Throughout the next few days, I found out what happened: as we were turning left onto 89th, we were hit by another car. The driver of that car was drunk. He accelerated into us as we were making the turn. And he had narcotics in the car. And a suspended driver's license. He was arrested on seven different counts and, as far as we know, spent a grand total of a week in jail.
I, on the other hand, spent six hours in major reconstructive surgery the day of the accident, four days in the ICU and then six more in a regular hospital room. When his car hit us, the minivan did a 180*, the back hatch was sheared off, and I was ejected from the back seat. My maxilla was broken in two places leaving my teeth practically hanging out, severe lacerations all over my face, and my nose had to be reconstructed. Luckily, my injuries were the worst: Daddy-Man had a pretty deep gash on his head, Mom and BB were a little banged up, and Grandma Mary had a couple {?} of broken ribs and a bruised kidney.
{Not sure of the exact date of this photo, but it was after I was in a regular room - so at least five days post-accident/surgery.}
It was,
without a doubt, one of the most difficult times in my family's lives. And looking back, I'm totally amazed and grateful for how well my parents handled it all. I don't remember ever being left alone in the hospital once I was out of ICU
{in ICU, I could only have visitors for 30 minutes, every four hours during the day}. I do remember my parents
{whichever one was there for the night} staying up all night to hit the button on my morphine drip periodically so that I could sleep. And having lived through two of my own kids being in the NICU now, I've got an even greater respect for them...
and a more complete understanding of why they were by my side at all times. Not that I didn't want them there, because I did -
I needed them there - but I can understand,
having been on their side now, why it would have been nearly impossible for them to leave. I'll never forget my Mom sitting with me, complimenting me on my eyelashes and helping the nurse wash my hair, and then braiding it, like when I was a little girl, so that it stayed off my face. I'll never forget my Daddy-Man practically growling at the nurse who failed,
repeatedly, when trying to replace my IV or making me laugh by causing my favorite teddy bear to move his head to look at me.
I love them for those things... and more.
Recovery took a while. My mouth was wired shut to allow my bones to reset and heal, and to this day, you can still see the "chain link" on my dental x-rays. The summer of 2001 I had a second reconstructive surgery to smooth out the scars on my chin and cheek, and to help repair the scar on my shoulder from surgery during the first grade
{yet another one of my big stories}.
{Almost three weeks post-accident, still have mouth wired shut}
For a long time afterwards {and, understandably so}, I had difficulty dealing with anyone drinking any amount of alcohol around me. At that point in my life, I had never even had a drink. {Fact: first drink = honeymoon.} It took a while for me to even get a handle on the fact that one drink doesn't make you drunk. When Ben and I first met, actually, we had several long and serious conversations on the subject. It was actually him who helped me see and understand that like in all things, moderation and a plan are necessary. That doesn't mean that I haven't lost my cool a couple of times with people over the subject of drinking. I have. And, probably will again. However, to this day, if you do have a drink at my house or with me while we are out, no matter how small, you absolutely will not be driving. And I have no sympathy for those who do drive drunk. We were the unfortunate victims of a person who decided that not only was he above the law and could drink and drive, but who took every single person's lives who was on the road with him at that time in his hands. I can honestly say, I wish it was him who had suffered these injuries, both physical and emotional, instead of me and my family.
We didn't deserve it.
There's a million and one little side stories that go along with this bigger story. Stories that may or may not be told here on this blog, but that I'll write down
... and that I'll probably beg my family to write down too. Stories like how while I was still in the hospital, a friend from high school told me that he prayed,
for the first time ever, for me. Or how I
{and Mom} about jumped over the counter and attacked the lady at the insurance company when we went to pick up my check for hospital bills, etc. when she said, "
I guess next time you'll wear your seatbelt."
{Umm, Lady.. maybe next time you should make sure the people you are insuring don't repeatedly drive under the influence.} Like how for the second time, OBU went out of their way to help me get caught back up in my course work. Or how a year later, when I was speaking as a part of Victims Impact Panel at Shawnee Middle School, one of my former students came up to me and told me that my story was what he would always remember when he was tempted to drink. Like how,
to this day, I still struggle with being happy in how I look -
scars, new nose, and all. Or how it was all that I could do to not cry when Noah touched my cheek and said, "
Mommy hurt. Mommy what happened?"
Above all - God is good. All the time. And through it all, He was in control. And if all of this happened, simply to give me and my family the story and testimony to tell my kids, our family and friends in which all glory, grace, and healing is pointing back to Him... so be it.
Not fun. For her. For Ben, who cleaned up her room and crib. For Erin, who finished up the rest of the shirts herself. Or for me, who washed her bedding for the second time and her for a third time today.
