Welcome to my Website!
If you're here, you've come to find out about my accident.
I'd certainly hate to do you a dis-service by cutting out bits of my story (as tends to happen in most retellings), so I've dedicated an entire page just to its faithful representation. I hope you enjoy! Read on, curious visitor...The Fateful Day
One day in early April 2005, the 6th to be exact, as I was on my way from an Air Force pre-separation briefing in the Baltimore/DC area, I ran into something that changed my life forever - an 18-wheeler (actually, by virtue of our system of traffic control - red lights - the truck ran into me, but...that's another story for a much angrier place). I survived, my motorcycle did not. An '03 Honda Shadow Spirit, as beautiful a machine as man can make these days, may she rest in peace. I'd very likely have joined her on her trip to motorcycle heaven if not for some very serendipitous circumstances. If you believe in luck, then that's what kept me alive. I tend to think there was a more divine force at work, though...Son, It Is Not Your Time
There are several of what I'd call Heavenly factors involved in my revival and subsequent speedy recovery. 1) The person behind me just happened to be an off duty EMT. He actually revived me twice before the med-evac chopper arrived to carry me to the hospital. 2) Within minutes, the police called my mother using the resend button on my cell phone. It just so happens that I'd called her shortly before leaving for lunch on a whim - just to say "I Love you, Mom." At least I'd have died with that being my last message to my mother - I hope I can one day say the same (just not any time soon). 3) Instead of sending me to any of the nearby (and much shittier) military hospitals, I just happened to be taken to Baltimore Hospital's Shock Trauma unit, one of the best in the nation. After several hours in emergency surgery the bleeding from my various wounds (including a major artery in the pelvic region) was stopped and my status was changed from "certainly dying tonight" to "very likely dying tonight". Having been under the care of military doctors both before and since I can say with some certainty that if I'd been at any of their hospitals, I wouldn't be here today. 4) My mother immediately called her parents to let them (and thus, the rest of my extended family and their friends and their friend's friends and so on, and so forth) know about my accident; she then set out to get on the next flight to DC, and was on her way to be at my bedside within hours. She asked every person she saw, from the time she heard about my accident until nearly two months later (at least), to pray for me - actually, after talking with her again she says that even now she asks for prayer on my behalf if the subject of my accident comes up. By the time she got off of her flight in DC, congregations of various churches around the nation were praying for me. I've met one such church that was praying for me and still is; it's very humbling.Things Turning Around
It was nearly a week of intensive surgeries before the doctors became fairly confident that I would survive; my family was relieved when they finally started enforcing their "2 visitors at a time" rule - this meant things were indeed looking up (hospitals only enforce the "2 visitors" rule when they're certain that the patient will survive - until then, everybody should have a chance to say goodbye.). On day 10, I woke up for the first time since the accident. ("What is this? Why is my jaw wired shut? How did I get here?") I definitely did not remember deciding to take a nap on my way to lunch, and I certainly wasn't at Rocky Run... It was then that I found out what had happened to me, that I'd been in an accident; my wired-shut jaw was fairly easy to notice - I found out that I'd broken that, my left leg's femur, my left arm's humourus, several ribs, and I'd taken a good hit to my noggin. Oh, my pelvis was broken in an "open-book" fracture, tearing several muscles, damaging nerves, and severing some major blood vessels (which nearly killed me. Again.). I spent a very drug-induced delusional month at Baltimore Shock Trauma (of which I have some very vivid memories that I'm sure did not happen...unless there was an apocalypse that's been neatly tidied up since...) before Tricare decided that I must be transferred to a military (and thus free to them) hospital. It was also this long before B.S.T. was fairly certain that I would survive such a transfer with little chance of further damage.A Barely Bearable Month
I was then transferred to Walter Reed - the Army's premier hospital. There was black mold on the walls in my room (and several others' on the ward, it turns out...). Hoo-ah Army, right? (Or "Go Army!" for you non-crazy civilian types out there.) Also, within days (the next day, actually) the Physical Therapy team came in and stood me up. Nothing wrong with that, right? I mean, what harm has standing done the vast majority of the world's population? Well, luckily for them, the vast majority of our world's population hasn't had a major pelvic surgery that needs time to heal. Standing me up popped the screws which had been holding a plate to my pelvis (and thus my pelvis) in place. Gee, thanks guys. I really wanted to have another surgery to fix my pelvis. So, second pelvic surgery done (it turns out that the orthopedic surgery team at Walter Reed actually is amazing - all told, I'd say about one out of every five or six doctors there actually cares about their patients), my time-table for standing up was again reset to twelve weeks later (as this is the amount of time it takes for the pelvic bones to heal to a point where they can take the stress of standing).The Road to Recovery
After a very trying month at Walter Reed (which I do not care to go into, it sucked that much), which was made bearable by daily visits (from day one of the accident, actually) from a true friend of mine who is more like a brother to me (That's you, Tai!) and the various wonderful and amazing nurses that took care of me, I was released to go home on convalescent leave, with instructions to continue doing my bedridden therapy. A physical therapist came out to my house for the first three weeks of my time home, helping me do the various exercises that would strengthen my muscles and keep them from atrophying. After seeing that I knew what to do and could actually do it, she stopped coming out here. Fine by me, I suppose watching someone work out in bed isn't terribly entertaining. In early August (month four of being in a wheelchair and/or bed) I went back up to Walter Reed to have my pelvis checked out by the orthopedic docs there. I was finally (!!!) cleared to start bearing weight on my legs again, and that night I stood up and took my first baby steps (again). The next day, at my first "walking" therapy (where I was probably supposed to stand for the first time), after a few minutes of watching me walk around on crutches the therapists decided that my strength and balance had returned to a point where I could use a cane! Amazing! I didn't expect to be able to use a cane until almost Christmas, much less the day after I was told I could walk. I was again released to come home (my unit is absolutely amazing, if not for them I'd be stuck in Maryland...), this time with instructions to continue my rehabilitation at the Vanderbilt V.A. hospital. After two months of therapy, I can now walk unaided for ever-lengthening amounts of time and it is a goal of mine to be completely crutch(cane)-free by Christmas. Probably before then.That's All Folks!
My story ends here (at least this one does...), I hope you've enjoyed it! Please visit the page I've dedicated to all of the wonderful people that helped me in my recovery - I believe a bit more of the story will become clearer there.Latest News
This section finally has its own page, so...check it out if you'd like to know what's goin' on with me now. Have fun, be well, and know that you are Loved!Top of Page
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