I don't remember waking up in the hospital and being told I was now a quadriplegic. It was just something I already knew. Whether or not I just don't remember someone saying those words to me could be the case (morphine is one hell of a drug). I have yet to go through anything as devastating as being told not only will I never walk again, but I will never move about 85% of my body again, or breathe without a ventilator. Oh yeah! Another zinger, I will now pee through a tube and have a set bowel routine. I can't even feed myself and now I have to worry about possibly pissing myself. Oh joy! As if things couldn't get any worse...but wait! There's more! Once I returned home, three months later, all my friends stopped coming around. So not only was I embarrassed of myself my friends were too.
I cried, but not as much as I should have. You see, the thing with being 100% dependent on others to live means holding a lot in because you don't want to bring down their day. Most of my tears were, and still are, shed when I am finally alone and going to sleep. Yes, eleven years later I still have moments where I break down. I don't think you ever really get over losing everything you once knew. You just learn to live with it and become a new (hopefully improved) you.
I like to think that I have adapted well, but I still feel sorry for my fourteen year old self sometimes. I am really good at being strong for everyone else, but myself. There are now more good days than bad. Eleven years later and I am no longer on a ventilator. I have more independence, but not much. This heartbreak is not easy and never will be, but I slowly add more band-aids to it. I would never wish this on anybody because very few have enough band-aids to push through it, and still shine bright.
