Accidents HappenA Story by selkietalesA girl's recovery from her car accident.No crying. “Are you alright?” I must not cry. “I’m just going to staple this.” Staples? Even if they hurt, no tears. “Hold it in, I’ll go get the nurse!” Hold in the tears? No, I need to throw up. “I’m going to cut your hair so we can put in the traction, ok?” Traction? They told me about that. It’s supposed to fix my neck, right? No tears. “Cut it all off, please just get rid of it!” If it’s gone, maybe I won’t cry. “Here, open your mouth, don’t throw up yet. Okay, go.” Relief, I won’t cry. All these flashed through her consciousness, she remembered questions asked and her slurred answers, her clearest one being to beg the nurse to just get rid of her hair. She could feel the dirt, some sort of substance clinging to her skin, and the matted hair pressing against the back of her sore scalp. She felt that if it was gone she would feel much better, as though her hair could solve all her problems. She also felt an underlying need, interwoven amongst all her thoughts. I must not cry. She didn’t know why this was so important, just that it was necessary. Maybe because she knew that if she cried, her head would hurt more? Maybe because it was the one thing she could control? Or maybe because from a young age she was taught you only cried when you absolutely could not stop yourself. No matter the reason, her bleary brain put forth its best effort to control the natural urge to cry. Unlike her success with tears, as hard as she tried to remember, she couldn’t seem to recall the date, where she was headed, or even leaving her house. All she knew was the fact that she was in a car accident and now resided in a hospital. She noted the bed; it wasn’t as comfortable as she had always imagined a hospital bed to be. It did nothing to help the pain in her neck, her hip, her calf, and her ankle. Time was an abstract notion to her. She slept for ten minutes, an hour, three hours, it all blurred together and her times awake were filled with her mom, her dad, nurses, members of her church, even her brother a few times. She was told about her traction in one of her lucid moments. “It’s screwed in to your skull on both sides and is attached to twenty pounds of weight hanging off your bed. That’s why you can’t move your head.” Her right hand, clumsy and only half controlled, fell on her face. Knowing a second attempt would have the same result, she let her hand slide over her face towards her right ear. Upon contact with the metal she felt her skull throb and she reacted, hand thrown back to her side. They said the traction was to unhook the two vertebra wings in her neck from each other to prevent surgery, but she wanted the contraption off her head. It was pinning her, she couldn’t sit up or move, she felt helpless, utterly defenseless and it made her want to -- No tears. She wondered why having surgery was such a big deal. It seemed safer than letting her spine be twisted on itself and broken at the same time. The traction didn’t work. Despite her loathing for the metal screwed into her skull, she had secretly hoped it would work. She’d never had surgery before. She hoped they wouldn’t stick her with a needle, yet at the same time she didn’t care. There were already needles in her arm, feeding the drippings of an IV to her blood, so what were a few more? After surgery she noticed the presence of the neck brace. It had been near the back of her thoughts, traction foremost, but then she was told it was to be her friend, companion, living so close for so long they needed to come to terms with the arrangements now. It was only there to help her, like a live-in nurse that didn’t even need to be paid. When her neck was healed enough for her to sit up, the nurses helped her, one on each side. Maybe it was the blood leaving her head, or the head trauma she suffered, but she felt light headed and found she could barely breathe. Don’t you dare tear up, don’t cry! “Is the brace pressed against my neck? I can’t breathe right, this isn’t okay!” “It’s all in your head, the brace is in the same position as when you were lying down. Just take some slow, deep breaths. It will be okay.” Sure enough, it was okay. She steadied. Over the next few days she started to eat again, being fed and then feeding herself. They brought in a walker to use since crutches were too unsteady, removed the catheter, and brought in the commode. She missed the catheter. A nurse
or Mom or a lady from church was always there to help her to the commode, but
rather than wanting the catheter because she was embarrassed, she wanted it for
its convenience. She was on the road of recovery. Five broken bones and head trauma and she would make it out good as new aside from three scars: an already fading one on her forehead, the one on the back of her head, and the eight or nine inch bright red surgery scar running down from the base of her skull to in between her shoulders. Despite knowing that if she left the hospital she would be away from help if anything went wrong and she would no longer have little juice cups at her beck and call, one presence determined her motivation. A shot injected into the thin layer of fat on her stomach, fat that had decreased from her time on an IV only, stung when injected and, she had timed this, for ten minutes afterward. Don’t cry. If she could show enough liveliness and recovery and walking with the walker then maybe they would let her go home sooner which meant no more stinging shots. She was released the next day. She had stayed a mere ten days in the hospital for head trauma, two broken neck bones, two places in her hip broken, and a fractured ankle. No one hesitated to say what a miraculous recovery she was enduring. She felt only sadness to leave behind the cold juice cups and their bendy straws. She reminded herself: No tears. © 2012 selkietalesAuthor's Note
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7 Reviews Added on May 18, 2012 Last Updated on June 29, 2012 AuthorselkietalesIAAboutHi I'm Vivian Wallace and I'm 17 :) My friend Randi and I plan on becoming published authors, so we are working on our skills and just having fun by writing a silly super hero story together (S.H.O.V... more..Writing
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