11 months ago, I shattered a window with my hands. Purely accidental, of course. It started as a day like any other- I woke up, took a shower, ate breakfast, and went to a friend's house. I remember that I was wearing my favorite white shorts and a green shirt I'd never worn before. I was dropped off at the friends house- whose parents weren't home- and we did the usual. Ordered pizza, listened to music... hung out.
That part of the day is a blur. But it was the day my life changed.
It was a pane glass window in a door. When I pushed on it, my hands went through. I severed my main artery, so it got pretty gruesome right away. My friend was on the other side of the door, and I remember her shrieking a little as the glass broke. When it happened, I froze. It didn't hurt, but it felt weird... something was definitely wrong. My hands were buzzing and tingling and I was covered in blood. My friend ran around, getting the neighbors, making phone calls. I remember that I was standing by the fence while she ran next door. I was only standing there for half a minute, and as I turned to leave I looked down at the grass. It was scarlet. I was losing consciousness quickly. I would have passed out, but the neighbors finally came. People who I had never met before in my life showed more compassion than I have ever experienced that day. I lay down on my back as strangers held my wounds closed with their bare hands. The EMT's arrived, and I was carried away.
In the ER, I tried to distract myself. I listened to the woman on the other side of the curtain complain about her twisted ankle- she had fallen down the stairs. I sneaked a look at the computer. I was a code red, top priority patient. It was too much for me to handle, I think... So I didn't handle it. I pretended I had a twisted ankle. I was fine- everything was okay. Doctors ran in and out, my mom and sister came... My sister took one look at me and ran away. I was scary. I was in so much pain, but I didn't cry. I thought it was a dream. They rushed me into emergency surgery, and then into an overnight room. It was nice- the nurse was nice, and the jello was nice. I couldn't do anything because my arms were in bandages the size of my torso, but it was nice. Friends came to visit, people who weren't friends came to visit. Cards were sent and gifts received.
Then, I learned that I would need a second surgery. I was discharged from the hospital. I had to ride in a wheelchair, which made me feel more useless. I arrived at a new hospital, where my second surgery would take place... As I lay in bed, waiting to be put under, I cried for the first time. I was hungry, and all that I wanted in the world was to go home, to go back in time.
When I woke up, I was in a new room with new linens and new bandages on my arm- even bigger than before. I went home. I ate, I slept. And then, after a few weeks, I had to go back to school. I remember gathering up all of my strength and walking through the doors and into the guidance classroom. Everyone looked at me, but I ignored it. The teacher asked, "Do you want to tell everyone what happened?" I didn't want to. I wanted to forget. I had gotten my big bandages off and they had been replaced with splints. I needed a scribe to write for me, and other people to do almost everything else. I had completely cut my median nerve and a bunch of tendons. I had no feeling in my hands, and I couldn't move them at all.
After months of physical therapy, I was able to take my splints off to eat dinner. Then I could take them off to swim. Then I could take them off for days at a time. Then, I could write. Read. Type. Of course, I still am working hard at physical therapy. My right hand is almost completely back to normal, but my left has a long way to go... I have barely any strength, can't move my thumb, and my sensation is...wacky.
It's hard to explain nerve damage to someone who hasn't experienced it. When you go through what I went through, you learn the real definition of "feeling" something. To truly feel something is different than knowing something is touching you. When I touch something with my fingers, I know something's there. I just know. At first, I couldn't tell, my I developed alternate senses due to my lack of others. It's like when blind people can hear really well. When the nerves are regrowing, the tingle whenever touched. This still happens a little bit, but only if you press hard on my hand. Otherwise, I don't feel anything. I am able to tell that something is touching me because the skin sort of pulls when impacted. It very slightly pulls all the way down the hand, to a place where I can feel things. I know I'm touching something, but I don't know what it is. I can't tell anything- texture, heat, or where exactly it's touching me. I just know that something, somewhere, is touching me. As I said... it's complicated.
I have spent countless nights reflecting on my accident. The whole thing is one big flashback. The memories replay over and over in my mind... like I am forced to watch a scary movie again and again. I can recall how it felt... how I felt. It's been 11 months... but it still feels like yesterday. It still feels like a dream. I would give anything to be normal again- to open a can of soda, to paint my nails, to cut my own meat. My mom makes me where oven mits at all times in the kitchen- what if I put my hand on something hot, don't realize it, and burn myself? She's crazy, but that's beside the point. I sit for hours sometimes, just staring at my scars. I suppose I think that maybe, if I stare at them long enough, they will fade away. It's wishful thinking. I can never take back what happened that day. I'm going to have to live with the scars, the physical disabilities, the stares and the rude comments for the rest of my life. It's become a part of who I am. Even so, I don't let it define who I am. It's a part of me, but it's not every part of me.
I could sit here and write for hours. I have never shared this much about what happened before... However, I think I've gotten my message across. In other words, enough said. Always appreciate the things you have, you may not realize how lucky you are. I didn't know when I got out of bed that Sunday that I wouldn't be getting back in for weeks. I didn't know when I ran outside my friends house that I wouldn't be returning. When I casually popped open that can of coke, I had no idea how long it would be before I opened another. The point is, it was an ordinary day. I woke up in my bed, as I had done hundreds of times before, and went to sleep in an unfamiliar hospital rooms with my life forever changed. I suppose that's just how life works. It's a roller coaster, so appreciate it when you're going up. You never know when it could make a sharp turn and you could plummet into oblivion.
In the end, your scars are your stories... They represent the struggles and hardships you've faced. And hey, it's a great conversation starter.
Enough from me. So remember: curiosity kills. So do windows. Highly dangerous.
