It Began One Day in May

Do you remember when you were 19 years old? When I was 19, I loved cars and motorcycles and one special gal. My job as a hot-tar roofer earned me enough money to customize my Camaro and buy a brand new Yamaha 650 Special. To make life even sweeter, I had a gorgeous girlfriend named Cheryl who wore my diamond engagement ring. She loved to ride on the back of my bike, her arms wrapped around my waist, and her golden hair flying behind us.

On May 7, 1980, a friend and I planned to meet after work and go to a Van Halen concert. I stopped by Cheryl’s house on the way. Time flew by whenever we were together, and before I realized it, I was late for the concert. I jumped on my bike, gunned out of the driveway and raced down the street. Wind screamed past my helmet and tore at my leather jacket. I should have slowed down, but I sped up. The orange speedometer needle climbed toward vertical.
I loved the wind in my face. I kept giving my bike more gas. The wind made me free, happy, powerful!

Wham!

I never saw the pick-up that ran a stop sign right in front of me. Judging from the distance that my bike knocked the truck, police say I was going over twice the speed limit. My bike hit the truck and stopped dead, I shot over the handlebars like I’d been fired from a circus cannon. My head slammed into the truck cracking my helmet and breaking bones in my face. My limp body crumpled to the pavement. Someone called an ambulance.

My heart never quit beating, but because of massive internal hemorrhaging, my blood pressure was too low to read. Paramedics fit me with pressure pants to help squeeze blood from my legs toward my heart and head. Smooth and efficient as a Swiss watch, they laid me on a stretcher, loaded me in the van and raced to Harborview Hospital in Seattle. I was rushed into surgery where doctors removed my spleen and transfused seven and a half pints of blood into me.

No one knew if I would live or die. The pastor and his wife from my parents’ church came to the hospital to be with my parents. A 24-hour prayer vigil began among church members. After two weeks in critical care, I was still comatose, but my vitals had stabilized so they moved me into a private room. Because of the type of brain injury I’d sustained, a doctor told my parents to start looking for a convalescent home. The hospital would have to move me if I didn’t wake up within two weeks. I’m told that when my primary-care physician heard what they told my parents, he erupted in anger.

I’m not sure if he got mad because he was the one responsible for making decisions about discharge, or because the other doctor’s insensitivity made my parents suffer more than they had to. Either way, I wholeheartedly agree with his reported agitation. Why cause more suffering than there already was?

Tears flooded my mom’s eyes and ran down her cheeks as I lay in ICU. The doctor told her, “Even if he lives, he’ll never be the same.” Physically and mentally, she was warned, I would be a different person. And there would be behavior changes, maybe drastic changes.

Several years ago, I discovered that my Mom had kept a poetic journal of her thoughts during this period. years after writing them, she sent me a copy of the lines she wrote. Those lines, which appear in my book No Limits, plus the fact that she walks her talk, convinced me that having a praying mom is a son or daughter's most valuable resource, and being a praying mom or dad is the best choice anyone can make, for everyone involved.