Nightmare on Route 66

     Nightmares. 

      "Do I have them?", is a typical question from inquisitive minds.

     Truthfully, in the four years of my recovery, dreaming of the collision is not a frequent occurrence.  Recalling only a handful of night visions during this season of turmoil is frequent enough for myself.  Each session of my subconscious was emotionally exhausting, but oddly, only my first illusion was an authentic nightmare.

     Nearing three months of my husband and I slumbering in our living room, I introduced the idea of seeking out our bedroom.  Although we held hands between my hospital bed and the sofa, we had not slept beside each other since the collision.  He was beginning to ambulate in an odd fashion as the support from our old couch gave way.  

     Wheeling myself to his side of the bed, because that is the only place my chariot could fit, we quickly realized the bed was too high for my weakened arms to lift my delicate structure up efficiently.  Every action was slow and calculated because every action caused intense pain.  My body was seized into a chair pose, even in the hospital bed.  Positioning my legs to lie above the level of my heart was crucial and I had no tolerance to lie flat on my back.  Twenty-four hours a day, I pushed the buttons on the remote to position the mattress to conform to my tattered body.  Stacking pillows below my legs and upper body we finally lay beside each other.  I smiled back at my husband even though it felt as if I were laying on a stack of plywood.   He lay so close to me, almost as if he were afraid I would disappear if he did not.  After fidgeting with slipping pillows we fell asleep connected by intertwined fingers.  

     Promptly I was launched into a nightmare that reproduced itself unceasingly.  Never-ending it seemed.  The identical three seconds that is the root of my terror during the impact of our vehicles colliding, replayed incessantly in my imagination.  

       A  truck, popping over a small hill, rounding the corner, careening toward us.   I, watching as it's body leaned around the curve and it's tires tried desperately to grasp the pavement.   Crossing the center line, forcefully blocking our paths.  

 It was flying, literally flying!   Whipping back and forth across the yellow lines.  Back and forth, it was erratic.   Good Lord, it's not going to stop!  Panic was coursing through my entire body, creating violent tremors, my mind was screaming in hysteria !  This was happening so fast!   "No!" my mind roared, "No!"   It's too close, we're going to die.

 Enormous round lights, blinded my vision with complete whiteness.   They are in my face!    I screamed so loud my lungs burned,   "Oh My God!!!"

     Again, again, again, again and AGAIN!  Stop! 

      Fifty? Seventy-five times this horror cascaded itself upon me.  Waking in hysteria, my body had reacted as if I had just lived through the impact again.  Finding myself in my home, I felt droplets of sweat running down my skin as I released the sheets of my grip.  They were wet.  Reaching up to my stomach, my shirt was literally soaked with perspiration.  Beating like a war drum in my throat was my anguished heart.  My body was petrified in panic as I pried each one of my shoulders from the hardness  of the mattress.  Slowing my breath, afraid I was hyperventilating, I clutched at reality.

  I know where I am.  I know I am okay.  I know it was a dream.   Steadying my wild eyes to focus, I inhaled and exhaled deeply until twenty minutes later I felt myself drifting into a slumber.

    

A G A I N!!! 

     Immediately catapulted into another fifty episodes of the insanity of the same three seconds that had just molested me, my subconscious stole my sleep until morning light.  Having done nothing but lie in bed for seven hours, I was absolutely exhausted.  Physically and emotionally.  

     I only wanted for my pain to end.  Emotional pain.  My heart ached from it, my mind was consumed by it and my spirit fought diligently against it.  

     Although those same three seconds enter my mind often, that dream has never invaded my sleep since.  It is a horrible scene to translate, but it has taught me to not be afraid to live.  Now I have chosen to use it for a better purpose.

To intentionally inspire others to live each day 

as if it had just begun.

    

It's Time to Wake Up

   My last two blogs have been some of my most emotional.  Continuing this same path for the rest of this month makes me sigh when I choose what I want to work through next.  Only due to the high emotion is causes, but each week I purge and the part of me that hurts so much from that particular remembrance ebbs. 

  It is working. 

     Natural curiosity is abundant when an event of this magnitude occurs.  Asking ,"What was like when I awoke or what do you remember as you awoke?" was and still is a dominant inquiry.  Here it is as "I" relive it. 

      Six-thirty.  There were no sirens that I could hear.  I started to wake just like the actors do in the movies.  Trying so hard to pry my eyelids open.   Feeling as if they had weights hanging from them.    They blinked dramatically slow.   Fogginess obscured my mind and focusing was minimal.  I had no idea where I was or what had transpired just moments before.  When my eyes could focus, I ascertained I was looking out my drivers side car window, but there was no glass.  I believed I was looking at a hillside of grass.  It was at the level of my window and I could only see in black and white.  When our car finally stopped spinning  after the impact, we circled to a gridlock in a ditch along side of the rail road tracks.  

 I was trying to make sense of what I was seeing when I heard what I thought were people yelling at me.  Where was that coming from?   Did I hear, Mommy?   It had to be the girls, they were both calling my name, begging me, "Please wake up, please!" "Are you okay?" they demanded .   

Words finally penetrated through my lethargic mind.  "Mommy, I think I broke my arm", the oldest said softly.  Broke her arm?  What is she speaking of?  It started coming back to me, creeping ever so slowly into my confusion.  

Dear God, we were in a crash!  I knew it had to be terrible, there's no way we couldn't be hurt after a crash like that.   Her voice was trembling as she stated again, "Mommy, I think I broke my arm."    I thought I knew how strong I was until I heard the pain in my children's voices.  

  I  turned my head towards her voice and my movement seemed unusually delayed.   There was only darkness with a white light in the upper left corner of my vision when rotating my head to the right.  Why couldn't I see them?   I knew my eyes were open, I had just been looking at grass. 

 I was desperately trying to get the words that were in my head to reach my lips.  I needed to give them reassurance.  I spoke softly to them, " Calm down, people will be here to help us soon.  Call 911."  Only partial words were coming out, but they understood enough to take action.  She grabbed her cell phone from her pocket and called for emergency help. 

 Again I tried to move, to help the girls and yet still I couldn't see them.  Something was so close to my chest, it wouldn't let me turn either direction and the lower half of my body wouldn't move.  I was trapped and couldn't understand why my body wasn't feeling any sensations.  The shadows kept trying to envelope me, they were breathing down my neck.  I fought for consciousness every moment.

  I heard the youngest say in a small voice, " Carey, I think I'm cut on my belly pretty bad."  My heart sank as I wondered what injuries they had sustained.  My little angels were suffering.  I tried to ask her if she could see the cut.  She then stated confidently, " No, no I think it's okay" then just mere moments later, the worry is back in her voice as she whimpered, "No, Carey, I think it's pretty bad."  To hear her tone and the way she is dramatic one moment, then nonchalant the next, it is just so her.  I don't know how humor could show it's face in my drowsy mind at that moment, but it did.  Even though my heart was aching for the girls, it let me know her personality was still intact.  Their speech was coherent, this let me assume they did not bear brain trauma.  I did not hold this same confidence with myself. 

    I instructed the girls to call Dad.   A woman took my daughters phone to finish the 911 call. "My  phone is in my purse" I whispered.  Again the youngest asked with all her sassiness " Where the heck is that?"  Again a small smile entered my mind at her.  I told her it was on her floorboard before the accident.  Luckily it lingered at her feet.  

 I was so proud of these two girls.  They really did stay calm in light of what they had just been through.  The oldest took charge of getting us help. She was calm with the 911 operator and in relaying details to my husband about where we were located. 

 What he must have been thinking, I can't imagine.  We had just left the house maybe eight minutes before the collision happened.   

 It's odd that I couldn't get my thoughts to form out of my mouth, but I had so many inside of my head.  I was worried about how badly the girls were injured.  I was frustrated that I couldn't help them.  I wanted to hold each of them tightly and whisper comforting words in their ears.  They were frightened.   I must have hit my head so hard because I just couldn't stay focused on what was happening.  

      As the girls ended their phone call with my husband,  I again tried to turn towards them, then the most God awful, intense pain I had ever felt, hit me in my lower legs.  Never had I felt anything so explosive in my entire life. It was completely overpowering.  Sensation had come back to my body with such severity, rating it on a pain scale was absurd. 

  I reached down and could feel my legs had been pinned by the car.  Debris surrounded them.  Sharpness from the broken car was everywhere.  If I could move them, even a little, maybe it would give me some kind of reprieve from the monstrous agony I was in.   Gently I tugged on my legs and they did move just slightly as my body spasm-ed with pain.  I rested my forehead on whatever piece of the car was against my chest and decided to try a second time.  Pulling just a little harder this time the waves of sickness were too much as the misery escalated me into unconsciousness. 

 Had I been able to think clearly, I would have understood that I should not be attempting this action.  Thank goodness they did not move because I would have caused even more damage to myself as the fractures in my right leg had perforated my skin and were now exposed. 

                         
    There is pain that makes you cry and there is pain high enough to make you vomit.  Then there is the pain that is so severe, your body's natural response is to send you into shock because it cannot tolerate the reactions it's feeling. 

 Your body is in survival mode only. 

   

    I know what drinking and driving is, my story  is how drinking and driving feels.

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Another Page Turns on the Calendar

     October is a month full of activities.  Many of us are excited about the Fall Season and the holidays to follow.   Lots of gatherings, eating and drinking.  The last full week of October is celebrated as the Red Ribbon Week. The preceding and following weekends may also be included as celebration dates as well. During this period, students all over the country pledge to live a drug-free and alcohol-free life.   As long as I can handle it, I will write each week about details regarding my collision and recovery to help celebrate this month and support this movement.

     I want no one to make any mistake about this.  I am not against drinking alcohol or the excessive consumption of it.  That is a personal decision of the consumer.   I will never lecture or stand and preach about it.   I do not want another person to take my life or the lives of my family and friends into their own hands by then driving after that excessive consumption. 

     I choose large moments in my recovery to write about.  Again for my own healing and also to let you know about so many of those small stages that you would never think about, that are so substantial to those of us who are dealing with it.  I choose to speak about the day I read the accident report.  This is a public document, anyone can view it via the internet.  I am the only one who can divulge the emotion of reading about your own tragedy on a piece of paper.  

     This hour that I spent pouring over it, again and again, unsure of what I wanted to believe, piecing together facts that I could not elicit on my own, had more of an effect than I had anticipated.  Coming across it innocently as I was rifling through our "accident" folder looking for my surgeons phone number, I slowly removed it.  Nine months into recovery, I read through the entire document.

     I view in writing that indeed four vehicles were involved, not

just the two of us.  A section at the bottom of the page shows the damage to our car I was driving that cold evening.  One section is not circled.   The trunk lid.  The only part of our car that did not receive damage that night.  Timidly, I turn the page.   A full size pick up truck hit us.  Okay.   I view the other drivers names that were involved.  I wonder about them.  How are they doing?  How did they react?   Did they have passengers as well?   Our children's names are printed in black and white as victims.  My chest immediately tightens at the bold type.  Listing their names, address, birth dates, sex, numbers that indicate their seat in what became our cocoon.  More numbers that illustrate if their air bag deployed, if they were ejected or transported elsewhere.   Their ages, ten and twelve, hit my conscious along with their faces and I consider how terribly young they are to have survived an adversity of such magnitude.  Will they understand how close we were to becoming extinct?  Will they view life differently as they mature due to their unfortunate circumstances?  

     Statements.   Driver and witness statements.  Mine?   I could

actually give a statement?  Did I give the details while still trapped in the car, in the hospital, ambulance?   What did I say? 
      "We were headed east into Cuba.  I told the girls he was on the wrong side of the highway."  What woman says they were headed east and why did I assume it was a man?  
     While both accounts are correct, it baffles me how our minds work.  The other drivers both stating the same as I, that the pickup was driving in the wrong lane.  Witnesses accounting for a high rate of speed (excess 80 mph) as the pickup passed them around corners and up hills.  
     I picture this through their eyes, driving in the dark on that December eve, viewing it from their perspective, outside of my own car, as if as a spectator.  Piecing it together, for there are so many holes in my memory.  Trying to make sense of it.  "He tapped his brakes."  "He fishtailed." "As I came over the hill, lights were everywhere."  "Parts were falling from the air when I drove up."  My chest aches, it has become rigid. 

   (Olivia's seat)

  The girls statements came as a surprise.  I didn't realize they would take a minors statement.  "I saw sparks fly, and I saw the other car hit the truck and trailer in front of us.  I heard Carey scream, "Oh my God."  I gasp.  There is no room in my chest for the air has frozen in my lungs, like blocks of ice, unyielding, unwilling to allow breath.  I do not remember the trailer, but yes, I remember, "Oh my God" distinctly.  In my mind, I screamed it so loud the residents of Cuba could hear it. 
      "We were driving and all of the sudden my Mom yelled and all the lights went out." I was thrown right back in that car, feeling everything as if it had just happened seconds before.  Numbness and a dream-like effect had started to replace the rawness over the past nine months. 
      This moment, these words, tore at the thick scab I had grown over my hysterical wounds.  Sobs rose up and out of my body before I could call them to a halt.  Like a kitchen faucet had been turned on, the warm tears cascaded down my face as my chest caved.  It is always the girls pain that gets me.  I can handle my own pain, but not theirs.  
                                                                                  (my seat)
     Soothing myself, there is one last paragraph.  The assessment of what occurred.  Many, many times, I questioned myself, "Had I done anything to help avoid the collision, to save our children?"   Surely I would have done anything, right?   If anything, this report awarded me the confirmation that, indeed, I did try to help us.

  " Driver 2 took evasive action to the right, running off the right side of the road, in an attempt to avoid Vehicle 1. Vehicle 2 traveled off the south side of  Route ZZ and struck a tree before coming to a rest in the south ditch, facing west."  It may have been instinct to jerk to the right, but I am so ever grateful that I did.  This is why, even though hit head on, the impact was on my side of the car only. 
             Demolishing the front of the car and spinning the truck into my door.  Sparing our child in the front seat from the head on and our child in the left passenger back seat from a second impact.  This is one worry I may finally relinquish.  Relief, knowing I did all that I could.   I understood that the car had stopped facing the opposite direction we were traveling, I recall nothing about hitting a tree.

     Returning from work that evening, my husband sat with me as I purged the details of my impassioned afternoon.  Sobbing again over the pain of reliving the details.  Once finished, he looked at me apologetically and sympathetically, while holding my hands and stated softly,
 "Carey........ that is the third time you have read that crash report."  I sat in silence, gaping at him.  Completely astonished.  "What?"  "You mean, we have done this before?" I asked in awe.  A simple nod, yes. 
      I  have poured over these details, reliving this, feeling my children's pain three times?  Did I react this way on each occasion?  Did my heart clench this intensely each time I read their words?  How many more memories have I lost?  I am dazed.  I feel a sense of betrayal from my own mind.

     Stopping, I proclaim that it is possible that my mind was doing me a favor.  It is conceivable that my psyche only recognizes  this nine months later because this is when I can handle it best.  Well maybe my subconscious is smarter than I give it credit for.  My vision becomes more clear as I raise my confused stare to my husband.
       "You sat quietly, and patiently listened to me mourn over the same details three times and you let me finish?"  A small smirk.  "It's what you needed." he whispers.  My chest relaxes.  Air flows freely into my lungs, heaviness leaves my body as if it's fog being burned off from the morning sun.   This time my tears are for the man God sent to me, who has been unwavering in his support of my many and long recoveries.     

     As another season passes and I turn the page to another month, I accept that not knowing everything may not be as great of an annoyance as I previously thought. 
 

What we need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring us to this very juncture and guide us into the unpredictable future.

     

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Tough Times Don't Last, Tough People Do

     I recently acquired copies of some of my x-rays and came across the ones of my pelvis.   Three surgeries on my pelvis have been performed with the first occurring four weeks after the collision.  External fixators had already been placed in both of my lower legs.  The trauma surgeon had tried to piece my right fibula back together and he set my dislocated left ankle back in it's correct position, while screwing those pieces back together as well.   So I had already had a few surgeries before this first pelvic one.   Viewing these x-rays brought back the memories of that surgery because it was the first surgery that I remember.   I'm saying I don't have even a snippet of the first surgeries of my ankles in my memory.  None.  

     Apparently that was a blessing for myself.  Reconnecting my bones, tendons and nerves bore a pain so barbaric that my conscious has blocked it out.   The high and thick wall of Dilaudid was not enough to overcome the waves of torment that crashed into my body relentlessly those first few operations. But, let me tell you, that first pelvic surgery was combined with another surgery on my right ankle and I was blasted away by the severity of the pain.  

     We hadn't anticipated  a pelvic surgery at all because only 3-5% of the type of pelvic fracture that I have, doesn't heal themselves.  Well that was not the last time during my recovery I would enter into that narrow margin.  Just trying to write my own text book instead of following the one already written, I suppose. 

      During my first check up with my surgeon, Greg reminded me about the most important complaint I'd had.  How could I have forgotten?  Relaying to my surgeon that my pubic bone had been "popping" for the last week was imperative.  It gave a pretty big wallop, one that Greg could hear and if he was carrying me, he could feel.   My surgeon stopped walking and talking instantly.  I did not enjoy the look on his face.  After a few questions, he immediately scheduled me for some x-rays and a CT of my pelvis.  He dropped the bomb on us that my pelvic fracture did not heal as expected.  The surgeon must put two bolts in my left posterior pelvis and a plate and screws on my pubic bone to hold my pelvis together.  Had I known, how many more surgeries I would have to recover from, I probably would not have taken this unplanned surgery so hard.

     Fast forward to the surgery date,  as Greg and I entered the pre-op room, some of the hospital staff had recognized us because I had already been there three times in a matter of weeks.   I was baffled since none of these smiling faces were recognizable to me.

       It seemed the next minute I was lifting my eyelids open and knew instantly I was leaving the operating room. I awoke to the huge lights moving above me and noticed the door thresh hold as we passed through it.   Nursing staff were wheeling me to Recovery and only seconds had passed when an atrocious pain began to radiate from my lower abdomen.  Within moments it was unbearable.  I asked the nurse where I was and why I was feeling so much pain.     A male nurse stated that I wasn't supposed to be awake yet.  He  informed me that I was at Barnes Hospital.  I truly did not believe him.   My teeth started chattering violently, I had no control over my body as I began to shake.  He asked me if I was cold or if I was in pain.  I told him it was horrible and pleaded with him to make it stop.  As soon as we made it to Recovery I was given Morphine, but the pain would not lessen.  This was not any different than the other surgeries, the only difference was that this time, I was remembering the experience.  The nursing staff could not give me anymore morphine as it slowed my heart to only four beats per minute.  I was transferred to the Orthopaedic floor where I could be injected with Dilaudid and finally I slept.  

       The last morning of my stay the Physical Therapist announced that I would have to start rolling to each side if I wanted to leave the hospital.  I can't describe how badly I did not want this order.  I was in anguish laying flat on the bed and NOT moving as much as possible.  They also announced that I did not have a choice. 

      It took several nurses along with PT to accomplish this exercise.   The staff positioned pillows and pulled up sheets as they rolled me to my left side.  Uncontrollable, horrible groans involuntarily rushed past my lips and grazed hard against my teeth as it felt like muscles were being torn from my bones themselves.  My God, how much more, just how much more pain?  I wanted to sob and tell them to leave me!  They were patting me softly as they told me what a great job I had done and that they would be back in a few hours to roll me to the right side.  I mentally groaned as I thanked them for their unwelcome torture.

       The right side movement wasn't as terrible as the left roll, but the last feat I had to accomplish was sitting up.  This is killing me.  I must have given that poor physical therapist a look of,  "Are you flippin'  kidding me?"  because she snickered and told me that I could do it.  I knew I could do it, I just didn't want to!  She was patient as I was moving at the speed of a slug.  It was absurd how difficult this was.  I had finally sat up and she let me rest a mere  moment before exclaiming, " Okay, now into the wheelchair!"  For the love of Pete, just smack me with a two by four and put me out of my misery!  I knew of course I had to move or I would not be leaving.   I also realized she was correct when she told me the more I moved the better I would feel, so I obliged.

     Two bolts and four very long screws were installed that day.   Yes, we estimated maybe they were a little too long in length for my anatomy.  Six months later the plate and screws were removed, only to allow my pubic bone to start popping again.   This meant that one side of my pubic bone was overlapping the other and when I moved, it popped or scraped against each other to return to it's original position.  Not great.  Four months later  a plate and six screws were reinstalled and this is how I will always stay.

        Things do have a tendency to "catch".  At that time I stop and move around until movements are attainable again.  I cannot move fast and cannot perform some actions at all.  Exercising is a trial and error process.   My sanity is modification, being creative with my thought process.  I do develop frustration at times and I also develop patience and gratitude for the lessons that these injuries teach me. 

 Especially that

We Don't Call it Torture Anymore-it's Called Physical Therapy

     As physical therapy sessions approach again, flashbacks of my first session flood to my mind.  April was the month I began my first voluntary torture showdown.   Me versus induced pain.  It was a crap shoot which one was to win on those first visits.  Never having experienced physical therapy before, I had no expectations.  My bag of bones was petrified into the shape of a chair position.  Barely moving for over three months, muscle atrophy and inflexibility scolded my frail, skinny frame.  I had in this position since my car crash.   

     Pure terror consumed my mind over a stranger touching my ankles.  Unable to bear the thought of multiple strangers working on me, I asked to be scheduled with one therapist only.  Trust was essential in my participation.  As I sat in that cheap, blue contraption known as a wheelchair, my therapist asked what I wanted to achieve from therapy.  My desperate answer, " I want you to challenge and push me.  I want to live as closely to my previous activity as possible.  I want to walk," I declared.  Examining my x-rays and listening to me reveal my last three months made us both sigh.  "What is he going to do with me?" I speculated.  "What am I going to do with her?" he reciprocated in his own mind.  (he later divulged this to me)

     Transferring to a cot that butted up against a concrete wall, I was advised to lie on my back.  "Flat?" I asked incredulously.  My waist and pelvis were rebelling against the action.  Each part of my anatomy liked the position it was in, they didn't moved independently anymore.  Leaving my knees bent and lowering myself down to my left side, I met the white cot with my shoulder and rolled to my back.  I'm sweating.  My 'inducer of pain'  pushed my knees to the mattress and my lower back revolted by awkwardly arching upward. 

      "Roll to your stomach," was his next instruction.  My face went blank as if I didn't understand what he was saying.  "On my stomach?", I am appalled.  First off, my legs are in braces, I haven't rolled anywhere in months, my pelvis and lower back pain is atrocious and he wants me to roll over?  Terrible, just terrible is what this movement was.  To make it worse he asked me to then push up on my elbows.  He measured the angle my torso was able to bend.  I had barely moved. 

      "Are we done yet?", I prayed.   Perspiration rolled in droplets down my spine.  Plank like, I rolled to my back again and he announced he was going to stretch my ankles.  Like hell!  Oh no.  NO, NO NO NO and NO.  Don't go there.  Stay away, don't touch them.  Don't even look at them.  No. 

      "Okay," I sulked instead.  Just removing my socks was a time consuming chore as he stared at the damage.  As I sat upright with my legs stretched out to the end of the cot, he spelled out that he needed to extend my ankles downward.  Pushing down on the tops of my feet was the only way to regain movement.  I am panicked.  I don't want to do this, My God, I don't want to do this.  "Let's do this,"  I state with false enthusiasm.   

     My eyes squeezed shut as hot pain seared from my ankles up to my lower legs at the lightest push.  His hands shifted my feet downward even more.  My palm met the concrete wall to my right with a smack, sweaty with fingers splayed apart.  "Dear God!" I screamed inside.  The sound of my bones moving was nauseating as if they were breaking apart all over again.  Reciting internally that I could handle this was the only thing I could do to keep from sobbing. I wanted to sob, it was right there ready to bellow out.
 

 I can describe the feeling only as if my ankles were encased on old, crumbling concrete for a decade.  Now they were being removed from this unforgiving home.  Popping, grinding and my own gasps engulfed me.  Taking myself back to the pain that fateful night as I awoke in the car, I thought that surely today's anguish couldn't be as dreadful.  Could it?

     My nose began to run with tears that I refused to let fall.  A half sob, half laugh escaped me as my fingers clawed at the cold, beige  wall while he held my stretched ankles down for ages.  "That's enough for today," he admonished.  Air rushed out of my lungs as I sighed with relief.  My shoulders slumped and my head leaned against the wall as he strapped my braces back to my legs.  Throwing a narrow side glance his direction as he asked how my first visit went, said as much as if I had uttered the words aloud.  

     Leaving with sheets of exercises to perform at home, I started making my goals list as Mom wheeled me to the truck.  Determination set it's long talons inside of me right then.  Today, I have stopped surviving this trauma and started recovering from it.
Let's do this!

 #PCRMC Success Story!

Carey Portell 2011

My accident occurred on December 29, 2010.  I was hit by a drunk driver that luckily only left me with severe bone injuries.  The most severe were a pelvic ring fracture and severe bilateral ankle fractures.

All bones in my left ankle were broken and dislocated, causing the nerves to tear.  This left no feeling from the ankle down.

I had an open tibia/fibula fracture and all bones were crushed so severely in my right ankle that the physicians could not save all of the splinters.  I still have gaps that are trying to grow back in.

After many surgeries and lots of metal installed, I was put back together and able to start therapy.  With the help of my therapist, I was able to start stretching out my body from being in a wheelchair for so long.  Most exciting was learning to walk again.  Just to stand on my own two feet was exhilarating.

My choice of coming here for therapy is a confident one. The therapists have not just helped me physically, but mentally as well.  Some days are a challenge and you just need to hear someone else tell you that you can do this, then show you that you can.  I am in pain every day, but look forward to therapy days because I know I will be met with a smile from every staff member & I will be challenged to progress in my #recovery.  I leave with a feeling of accomplishment & that I can win this fight.