 |
| Taken less than a week before his accident. |
Tomorrow is the three-year anniversary of my brother-in-law's motorcycle accident that resulted in his traumatic brain injury. It's been three years but I can still vividly recall the day of the accident and the months that followed. I would have suspected that everything from the day of the accident to the months following the accident would be a blur, but they aren't. I remember what I was doing and where I was sitting when John called to tell me that there had been an accident. I remember giving the EMT correct identification for Scott, seeing Scott's bent up motorcycle, getting hugs from all the people I know who happened to be in the vicinity when the accident occurred - I got a hug from a girl I had not seen since college. It still blows my mind how many people I know were at the accident site. We had plans to go out for a Birthday dinner for my mother-in-law the night of the accident. I had a list of funny stories from the trip we took to Florida the weekend before I especially wanted to tell Scott. That night I stood at his hospital bed and told him the stories, even though he was in a coma. I awkwardly laughed at the points in the story I knew Scott would find humorous. My awkward laughs and forced enthusiasm were met only with the haunting sounds of pumping oxygen and Scott's oscillating bed.
I remember the eery sounds of the ICU waiting room, especially at night. On the opposite side of the spectrum, I remember the overwhelming gratitude and love I felt when I came out of the ICU to see dozens of friendly faces in the waiting room. I will be forever indebted and bonded to the friends who gathered at the hospital that night and for the days to follow. I can recall the chilling sounds of the emergency helicopter - probably the same one that transported Scott - as it would land on the helipad by the parking garage. We watched the sun set over the city by the helipad multiple nights in a row. It was a bittersweet experience each time. The smell of the ointment that was lathered on Scott's scraped up skin will forever be with me. The first time I used a specific diaper cream on Grayson I was struck with the familiar smell of Scott's hospital room. Needless to say, I quickly found a different brand of diaper cream. The days following the accident I took a shower immediately when I got home, trying so hard to scrub off the distinct smell of the ICU waiting room. A few weeks after the accident, after Scott was transferred to The Shepherd Center, I caught a whiff of the ICU waiting room on my purse. I have not used that purse since.
There is so much about Scott's accident that we have had to process and so much we have yet to process. There is so much left unknown. I don't know how to describe a traumatic brain injury. Repeatedly heartbreaking. The Wild West. Isolating. Life-changing. Utterly confusing. Every time I think I begin to understand something about this whole situation, I realize how much I can't make sense of any of it. The Bible says that God's ways and thoughts are not the same as ours. That has never been made more clear to me.
Scott was fortunate enough to transfer from the ICU go to The Shepherd Center. Since our experience with The Shepherd Center, I have met so many other families who have had their own experiences there. On average I meet about one person a month that has a connection to The Shepherd Center. Most families who get involved with The Shepherd Center have a commonality - they are new to the world of traumatic injuries. It's not a place where anyone's life is as it should normally be. Looking back on those days and evenings, making our home in the family room of The Shepherd Center, it still amazes me at how quickly we adapted to the way of life that comes with traumatic injury recovery. We started using terms that had never entered our vocabulary before. We moved our expectations so that a simple smile was major news. We took every piece of news with so much weight, even though we knew it best to be emotionally cautious.
One of the most striking things about The Shepherd Center is that it is a time of limbo for everyone. Everyone is working on recovery, and it is uncertain for anyone what their recovery will look like. Everyone at The Shepherd Center has a story of two lives. Life before the accident and life after the accident. One of the most emotional days I had at The Shepherd Center snuck up on me. Scott was sitting in his wheelchair in the general therapy room. He was not yet verbal and had very limited response to conversation. As I approached him I could see his various tattoos through his white t-shirt. I could make out his tattoo that spread across his back, spelling out his last name. I looked around the room and I saw three different men with multiple tattoos peeking out of their shirts. Each person in the room had a life and interests before his accident. The Scott I was visiting did not acknowledge his tattoos. I tried to imagine each man in the room working with an artist to create his tattoos. I could not picture any of the men sitting in a tattoo chair. That simple thought made it was obvious how different their lives were.
Three years after the accident Scott is still on the road to recovery. It's proven to be a long and winding road. The more time that passes the farther we get from Scott's old life and the more we are forced to adapt to his new life, life post accident. The new Scott is not likely to sit in a tattoo chair anytime soon. The accident gave us a new Scott, a Scott who is intrigued by the little nuances in life. So much of the confusion about Scott's accident lies in what to expect for the future. The only way I know to deal with that confusion is to pray that Scott will be able to live his post-accident life to the full.
