Against All Odds
Story by Emily Graham
Photography courtesy of Emily Graham
People always ask me what was the first thing I remember after emerging from my coma. What was it like to suddenly wake up and not know where you were? They don’t comprehend that suddenly the light bulb doesn’t go on, your eyes don’t open and you don’t understand. Life isn’t a movie.
Memories come in bits and pieces. Nothing was left whole and nothing was left untouched. It has taken me every moment for the past 5 1/2 years to understand and try to accept what has happened. My life has forever divided itself into pre- and post-accident — two different worlds violently split by a car crash.
The misty blue sky and promising sunshine seem a perfect backdrop for the purple and gold flags imprinted with “James Madison University Graduating Class of 2004.” Blooming flowers and trees signify that spring is finally here. The overload of questions about future plans, along with tears and goodbyes, are reminders that this is the last year we all will be together. But it also helps me to remember how grateful I am to worry about the future — to have a future to worry about.
“Where has the time gone?” is on the tip of everybody’s tongue, or at least in the back of their mind. The excitement reminds me of how I should have been feeling — how everyone else was feeling — five years earlier when I graduated from high school. After all, as a high-school senior, your whole life is in front of you ... or so you think.
But for me, a life that had been sailing smoothly suddenly was blown off course. My 1999 high school graduation elicited tears from my eyes different than from those of my peers. Each step across the stage was a miracle, and each was as tentative and uncertain as were my “first steps” many months earlier.
By Dec. 13, 1998, the browns and oranges of fall had quickly faded into the dry, withered motif so characteristic of winter. On that particular winter morning, a light rainy sleet hung in the air, and on one specific curve — less than a mile from my home — the oil from so many previous accidents was brought to the surface of the icy pavement, making the notorious curve even more dangerous.
Yet in the safety of my best friend’s car we were shielded from the rain and cold as she drove along. We discussed dresses and rumors from our winter semi-formal the night before, and our plans for college. Lifelong best friends, Melanie and I had attended school together since nursery school. The thought of attending different colleges in the fall was scary.
But inside that car, time seemed to freeze as we sang along to Inoj’s new version of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time after Time.” If you’re lost you can look and you will find me ... Time after time .... Somehow these words silently reassured us that no matter what happened in the next year, we would always be friends. We gloated at the thought of having the pressures of school alleviated with our light course load the following semester and our acceptance letters to the universities of our choice. We drove up the road to my house, anxious to bake Christmas cookies with my family and welcome the holiday season. Silently, we both wondered what the future would really hold ....
The last thing I remember isn’t the night before, it isn’t driving along and it certainly isn’t the crash. A lifetime of memories were shaken — many floating away forever — as the impact of an oncoming car threw my head side-to-side, forward and back. I felt nothing. I remember nothing of the impact. I never will. No airbags cushioned my head. My seatbelt saved my life, preventing me from being flung through the windshield. But in the process of saving me it shattered my pelvis, broke my ribs, which punctured my lungs and made me gasp for every breath.
I was thrown so violently that the L1 vertebra of my back and the C3 vertebra of my neck were fractured. Paramedics had prepared to declare me “dead on the scene.” A passer-by came and held my hand, calling to me to “stay with him,” reassuring me that my mother was on her way. By the grace of God, I stayed.
With my hair still swept up and fastened with silver barrettes and hairspray from the night before, it was hard to fathom the severity of the situation.
The shattered glass and totaled car told the story to the gathering crowd of neighbors. With no visible injuries or blood, I simply looked like “Sleeping Beauty. ”
No one else was hurt in the car accident, but the Jaws of Life had to pry me out. A helicopter airlifted me to the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. Through hours of several emergency surgeries, none of which I remember, my lacerated spleen was removed. My back and pelvis were put back together with bars and bolts, another bolt was put in my head to alleviate pressure, a filter was placed inside my heart to trap blood clots, tubes forced me to breathe and eat and a catheter removed waste. The doctors gave me less than a 20 percent chance of survival through the night. But I made it through the night ... and then remained in a coma for nearly two weeks.
Family and friends kept a 24-hour vigil at my bedside. The outpouring of support was amazing! Relics from saints were faithfully given to my parents and placed under my pillow. Prayer networks were created literally world-wide through Melanie’s family in Brazil and my grandfather’s friends abroad.
And I slept.
My mother tells me she prayed to all her friends and family who had passed away –— her angels who watched over me. And although I don’t remember anything of this time, I do remember the presence of Susan, my mom’s friend and my beloved childhood piano teacher, as well as the presence of Melanie’s mom — both had tragically passed away as young mothers years earlier. I now believe Melanie’s mom had protected her, and Susan and my mother’s family had protected me.
And I slept.
Another close friend began folding cranes after the Japanese legend, Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes. Before long, kids in my high school were making cranes during classes and at home. And soon my room was covered with the vibrant colors of the origami cranes.
And I slept.
The machines beeped and blinked, but still the prognosis was dire. I had suffered a traumatic brain injury (TBI) with a condition called “diffuse axonal injury,” meaning there was extensive tearing of nerve tissues throughout my brain. One neurosurgeon matter-of-factly told my parents, “If she does survive, be prepared to place her in a nursing home for the rest of her life.” I had less than a five percent chance of full recovery, but I had youth on my side. At 17, the brain is still developing — had I been 27, I probably would not have survived.
My eyes fluttered one evening when Melanie was by my side, as she had been almost every day. Technically, I awoke from my coma on Christmas Eve — giving my friends and family the best present imaginable. That afternoon, when my parents were there, I opened my eyes and said in a casual but groggy voice, “Hi Mom.”
Shortly after the New Year, I was transferred by ambulance to a rehabilitation hospital. With an external fixator — two metal poles that were drilled into the bone and stuck out erect from my hips — screwed into my pelvis, I wasn’t allowed to bear weight. Consequently, I was in a wheelchair for months.
My 18th birthday — more than a month after the accident took place — is the first thing I remember. A dozen friends came to my room throughout the day to celebrate my birthday — and my life — with me. We “partied” with my first bite of “real food”— stir-fry and angel food cake — and had candy cigarettes and non-alcoholic beer. For the rehab center it was a party! It wasn’t the birthday celebration I had imagined months earlier, but then again nothing was the same anymore.
Even then fog clouds my memories, blurring the next few months.
I was utterly and completely helpless, but I was also completely unaware. I had gone from 17 to 75 overnight. Unable to shower or go to the bathroom alone, I learned the true meaning of dependency. Faces and memories flashed through my mind, but only for a second before they were lost. Nurses and doctors and therapists ... pain ... friends’ visits ... pain ... and confusion all blend together. For weeks the days were all one.
I had to relearn how to walk and talk. For a short time, I no longer knew my little brothers’ and sister’s names. My word recollection and cognitive ability were tested through numerous psychiatric and communication evaluations. But I couldn’t remember. I didn’t know the word for “apple.” My handwriting looked like I was just learning to write, and my ability to retrieve words made me sound like I was suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease.
I was moody and agitated. My parents were terrified.
But they knew I was looking to them for support. My mother and father gave up endless hours of sleep to be by my side. My friends and family were my biggest fans, cheering me on with constant words of encouragement. My mother’s mantra became, “You can do it, Em!” and before long I found myself relying on those words to do the simplest things.
On our locked brain-injury unit I was by far the youngest patient. The majority of my hallmates had suffered strokes, several had suffered gunshot wounds and all were at least twice my age. One of my rooms was located directly next to the elevator to the rest of the hospital and to the outside world. At night, I remember listening to family members discussing the code needed for the locked elevator and then patients attempting to remember it “to break out.” One friend and I even devised a “getaway plan;” only now do I realize her enthusiasm was only to appease me. My very being had suffered injury. After all, if your thoughts and memories define you, then what happens when these are lost? Who do you become?
Since I had turned 18, I was required by law to hear all the doctors’ reports. My neuropsychologist, a man I have come to hate, told me, “You have lost too much ... and it isn’t coming back.” I would never be able to fulfill my dreams of finishing my high-school honors classes and attending a competitive college. The emotional trauma of hearing a professional tell you that you have no future is indescribable. She’ll never be the same,” he explained to my parents, as if I weren’t there.
I wanted more than anything to prove him wrong, and to prove to myself that I could still fulfill my dreams and be the person I was before. I worked that much harder and hurt that much more. But things no longer came easily to me. Simple tasks, such as remembering whether or not I had put shampoo or conditioner in my hair became next to impossible. Everything took longer and was exceedingly harder.
Slowly, though, things began to make sense. The extensive occupational therapy and physical therapy, speech and cognitive therapies no longer intermingled. Each task was broken into minute goals. On good days, I met two goals. I could remember which was the dishwasher and which was the oven, and the purpose of each. There was a goal to each session, and gradually I was able to meet them. I was also able to remember the therapists’ names and what I had done the day before and, maybe, the day before that.
The days dragged on. I would take one step forward and two steps back. With hard work and the help of family and therapists, I tediously recovered cognitive ability and understood how close I had been to losing everything. I was more determined than ever to recapture what I had lost.
The “graduation march” booms out of the speakers surrounding the Quad. The students ahead of me rise to receive their diplomas. The butterflies in my stomach are getting worse. I bite my lip to hold back the tears and to stop it from quivering. I look down at my blue robe and ahead at the purple tassels — and the life — in front of me.
There was a time when no one would have believed I would graduate from college — from a competitive four-year institution. There was a time when I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to, either. Chronologically, I lost a year of my life. Emotionally, cognitively and mentally, I lost much more than that.
The year I spent at home in rehabilitation and attending the local community college part-time was the hardest of my life. The question “Why me?” constantly ran through my head as I lamented over what I had lost. Depression is common post-TBI, and I struggled to overcome that as well as a multitude of other issues. Being “left behind” by friends, I angrily asked where I fit in and where I was going. With college admission on hold, I worried and wondered and prayed over whether I would ever be able to leave home.
Through the continuous support of family and therapists, I learned coping strategies. I learned to accept who I had become. And I slowly began to agree with the belief that “everything happens for a reason.”
The accident nearly destroyed the life I had known. But the detour I was forced to take led me to the life of compassion and strength that I know now. As I step onto the stage and reach out to accept my diploma, I know that I have learned more about being alive than many of my peers. I know who I am and who I want to become.
I know that I have learned beyond the walls of the institution from which I am graduating. I have learned how to be empathetic and compassionate working with people with disabilities. I have learned the power of faith and the virtue of courage. I have learned that things do happen for a reason, and that the lessons that can be derived from one’s struggles are endless.
Like everyone else in my graduating class, I have gone through highs and worked through lows. I remember struggling to put simple words together to make coherent sentences and then writing my first college essay. I remember the fear of admitting that learning was hard, and that I would need accommodations. But I also remember the joy of getting my first “A” in college and meeting my goal of graduating in four years despite warnings that it would be too challenging.
I remember the fear of not waking up after reconstructive surgery — eradicating my myriad of scars. But I also remember feeling beautiful when I was voted “Prom Queen.” Most important, I will always remember that “everything happens for a reason” — that with faith, determination and love, miracles do happen.
Among the many cheers at Bridgeport Stadium, words from the past resonate through my head: “You’ve lost too much. It’s not coming back. You’ll never be the same,” countered by, “You can do this, Em!” And I can do this — I can, finally, look to my future with hope and with joie de vivre — counting every day as a treasure, every challenge as another miracle to pursue.