shattered: the story of my gnarly leg scar

I originally penned this personal essay in December 2012.  On the fifth anniversary of my close call with death, I've decided to publish it here.

My life changed forever on May 18, 2012.  It was approximately 5:30 in the afternoon and I was 230 miles away from home in Ithaca, New York, helping my brother move out of his dorm.  I missed school on that Friday, and because of that choice, I missed the rest of the year as well.
   
My mom and I were loading the last of the contents of my brother’s dorm room into our car while he went back inside.  She was holding the bike rack and I was helping her attach it to the trunk.  She saw the lights.  I heard her scream my name.

I do not remember impact.  I remember sliding across the asphalt, the eerie silence and slow motion of the situation and the glass shattering.  When I opened my eyes, I was in the fetal position.  I saw that my jeans were ripped and my leg was sliced open, bending a little above my knee.  I knew right then my leg was broken.

I laid there with my body in shock.  My brother ran outside when he heard the crash and rushed to me.  My mom was screaming, “Call 911!” and holding her arm.  I told my brother I was “98 percent sure my leg was broken” but everything else was fine.  People were yelling to stop the bleeding from my head and my brother wrapped a dishtowel around it.  Within minutes, Cornell University Police were on scene and ambulances started to arrive.

The student who had hit us was crying and apologizing.  He heard my brother calling my name and asked him if I was his sister.  Once my brother replied, the student just kept saying to me, “I’m so sorry, Sam, I’m so sorry.”  I knew it was an accident and I was not mad at him; I actually felt bad for him.

I wasn’t scared until the EMTs were radioing for a helicopter.  That wasn’t even the worst part.  It was when news came that the helicopter was twenty-six minutes away and that we couldn’t wait that made me begin to worry.

My mom was in so much pain physically and emotionally that she knelt down on the ground.  Since I was so calm it made her think I was in worse shape.  She did not come speak to me while I was on the ground but she lipped, “I love you.”  That was when I realized the seriousness of the situation.

The EMTs loaded me onto the backboard and into the ambulance.  My brother got in with me and called my dad who was on his way home to New Jersey from a firefighting event in Pennsylvania.  No father, especially one in the emergency service field, wants to get that call.  I told my EMT that I wanted a plastic surgeon to do my stitches.  They put an oxygen mask on me and started an IV with morphine.  Seventy miles and fifty minutes later, I arrived at Upstate Medical Center in Syracuse.  My first thought when we arrived was “I don’t think we stopped the whole way here!” I then realized that would make sense because we were in an ambulance and was a lot less impressed.  In the emergency room I asked again for a plastic surgeon.  That was the least of their worries as they chopped off my cute outfit then asked me if I wanted to keep it.

I didn’t cry until right before surgery when I realized I would miss my dance recital.  I met my surgeon prior to going into the operating room and informed him that I wanted a plastic surgeon.  He told me the plastic surgeon was not working that night, but he had previously practiced plastic surgery.  Knowing that made me feel a little better.  

I remember waking up from surgery and being so parched I found it hard to breathe.

At some point I was transferred to a room in the pediatric wing, which featured a TV and an Xbox that my nurses kept encouraging me to use throughout my stay.  That’s great and all but they made me take out my contact lenses before surgery and my glasses were seventy miles away back at the scene of the crash.  When my grandparents came up to visit, they brought up some clothes and went with my brother to get everything that had been packed into our car before the crash.  To my relief, my TOMS that had been carelessly thrown into the glass by an EMT had been recovered and were barely damaged.  Finally, when my grandparents brought my glasses back to the hospital, I was able to watch American Ninja Warrior with my dad on the TV.

When I asked the hospital’s physical therapist how long it would take me to walk again she told me twelve weeks.  I told her that I was going to be walking by mid-July because we had a trip to Alaska planned that began at eleven weeks.

After a four-night hospital stay I was discharged.  My mom had been discharged the day before and that was the first time I had seen her since the accident.  She had suffered a broken ulna, radius and elbow joint.  My mom and I began to go through what clothing my grandmother had brought up.  There were three pairs of skinny jeans, a pair of pajama pants, and a few ill-fitting shirts.  I had a broken leg that was swollen to about two times its normal size, so skinny jeans were out of the question.  My cousin, two aunts and an uncle, all of who are on the ambulance corps back down in Jersey, came up to Syracuse with an ambulance to transport me home.
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After being discharged from the hospital and loaded into the ambulance for my ride back to NJ.

The closest I’d ever been with my dad’s side of the family was while I was injured.  Every one of my dad’s five siblings and their families stepped in, luckily they are all in emergency services.  My aunt, who’s a paramedic, would come over to change my bandage.  They made us food, would check in to see how we were doing and help us anyway they could, even if it just meant French-braiding my hair so it was out of my face.

I was unable to walk in my school's fashion show, but I still had the opportunity to support my classmates!

For the first few weeks I had trouble getting in and out of bed, felt incredibly weak, and was in discomfort more than pain.  I got to catch up on soap operas because my family doesn’t have cable, so nothing good was on during the day.  I cried when experiencing muscle twitching.  It was so painful and there was nothing I could do to stop it.  Going up and down the stairs was tiring and scary; the doctor had warned that if I fell I could do more damage.  Showering was difficult.  For the first month I probably showered a total of three times a week and my leg was kept outside the shower.  I would plastic wrap my healing wound; even though it could get wet, I was scared it would sting.  When I finally gained some motion in my knee, I was able to maneuver myself into the shower.  It was a huge accomplishment to be able to wash my whole body.  The swelling took about six weeks to go down.  It felt great to finally fit a shoe on my foot.  I wore basketball shorts, baggy t-shirts and my glasses the majority of the time I was homebound.  The first day I actually attempted to look put together was June 29th.

One of the positive things about being traumatically hurt is that many people say they will do anything to help.  One of my best friends told me, “If you need anything I'm a phone call away.”  I told her I needed VIP tickets to see Maroon 5 at the TODAY show, because her dad knew somebody who worked there.  She got them and so this past June 29th took the top spot in “Best Days of My Life.”  Because I was in a wheelchair, I got to be in the front row next to stage left.  We made a sign that she held that read “MY BEST FRIEND WAS HIT BY A CAR WHEN SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE AT YOUR SHOW,” which was a true statement that started a lot of conversations, both with the band and others.  Maroon 5’s bass player, Mickey Madden, pointed out our sign to Adam Levine, the lead vocalist, saying, “Wow, that’s a depressing sign” to which Adam asked me what happened.  When I told him he frowned and then kept looking towards my camera while performing, even coming over and signing to me part of their hit, “Moves Like Jagger.”  Before the show, the guitar player, James Valentine, talked to us, signed my album and passed it around to the rest of the band to sign, took pictures with us (even one where he asked to hold the sign), and gave me his guitar pick.  If a car hadn’t hit me on the same day I had planned to go to their concert, I might not have snagged tickets or have gotten such amazing seats, or have talked to Maroon 5, which is currently still the best day of my life.

I was in a wheelchair and on crutches for nine weeks.  On July 17th, I took my first steps without them.  I made my mom get them on video this time around because I’m the second child and so that wasn’t a big deal when I was a baby.  My dad pointed out the fact that the first time I learned to walk it took me nine months, so nine weeks was pretty good.  I missed the fashion show I was supposed to walk in at my school, my dance recital, one of my closest friend’s sweet sixteen, lost my summer job and missed the last month of school.  I took my last final on July 11th and so in a way school ended early for me but I had to do school work longer than everyone else.

I had always wanted to break a bone because then everyone at school carries your books for you, wants to sign your cast and you can boast about how many stitches you got.  I was unable to attend school, got a rod in my leg instead of a cast, and when I asked my surgeon how many stitches he put in he responded, “One running stitch.”  It was a disappointing injury in that sense, but I still have a pretty good story and the scar can pass as a shark bite as well.

Trying out the whole [OUT]standing thing at a leadership conference

Seven months later, I realize what stands out as important to me while retelling this story.  Whether it’s me being so conscious about not damaging the pearl earrings my dad had given my mom, which I had borrowed that day, or my quest for a plastic surgeon, the array of totally inappropriate clothing for our injuries my grandma had assembled for my mom and I at the hospital, or even when I called what happened “admissions essay gold” while still in the hospital.  In almost every picture of me while injured, I have a huge smile or goofy face, and most of the time that’s accompanied with a thumbs up.  Although I only noticed this while looking back, I was so lucky to have kept a positive attitude while hurt.  I also didn’t want to just get back to what doctors thought was acceptable from my injury, I strived to get back to what I considered normal.  By September I had been cleared to go back to dance class and by October I had been cleared for everything else, including lacrosse.  A week before the six month anniversary of the accident, my physical therapist got full range of motion from my leg.  He said I did what he had previously considered “impossible.”  We don’t get there every week, but with enough repetition, maybe it will not have to be forced anymore. My determination to restore my body to the state I had been accustomed to astounded me and has made me think that other goals in my life may actually be achievable.  What I still find the most troubling about what happened to me is that I don’t remember impact.  No recollection at all.  I remember what I was doing prior to being hit and then sliding across the ground after, but I don’t think I will ever know exactly what happened on that warm Ithaca day.  There were no security cameras and no witnesses gave statements.  It’s weird to be so aware of the moments before and after, but have no clue what happened in between.

Because an eighteen-year-old pressed down on his gas pedal instead of the brake, I might never have easy full range of motion with my left leg.  It will most likely never be comfortable to kneel on.  Although it fades everyday, I will always have a large scar on the inside of my left knee to remind me.  I will always be full of anxiety while in parking lots and while driving.  Because of a common error of judgment, I could have been killed.  It bothers me to think that I could have died.  Every time I think about it I cry, and I hate crying in front of people.  Right now tears are forming, but I need to stay strong.  I need to fight.  I need to prove that I am going to own my bionic femur and that it will not own me.