Lived Through This
How I Broke My Neck and Became a Quadriplegic
16 years ago, my entire life changed in an instant
No, this isn’t the story about the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Don’t get me wrong, it was a singularly miserable experience filled with pain and tears, frustration and depression. But if you’re looking for “sorrow porn,” look elsewhere.
If you read the title and thought, “That sounds like the worst thing that could happen to anyone,” you would be partially correct.
For some people, suffering a spinal cord injury and becoming a paraplegic or quadriplegic is the worst thing that will ever happen to them.
For me, it wasn’t.
For starters—spoiler—I survived. I’m here typing this in an air-conditioned coffee shop, enjoying a big-ass iced coffee. Also, this is only one scene in a much larger story that has a happy ending, at least so far.
And if you’re wondering what, then, is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, that’s another story for another time.
But enough introspection. Let’s get on with why we’re all here.
July 2, 2005, was the day it happened. On the first day of a long holiday weekend, I was excited about the 4th of July festivities my friends and I were planning on enjoying.
The first of them was a pre-4th party at my shithole apartment with my shitbag roommates and some friends from work. One of those friends was my former co-worker, Jane. At that point, I had been single for a little over six months, having gotten out of a five-year relationship with my high school sweetheart.
Jane and I had worked together for a year or so, and after my breakup, I developed a crush on her. She was tall and blonde with an athletic build and a great smile; I looked forward to going to my shitty pet store job when I knew we’d be working together.
Well, “looked forward to” might be too strong a phrase. Maybe “hated it less” is more accurate. Anyway…
Jane had also gotten out of a rocky relationship two months prior, and we’d been talking and hanging out with increasing frequency since. So when I invited her to this 4th of July weekend kickoff party, she enthusiastically said she would come and that she would bring several of her girlfriends from the store she had been reassigned to, if that was okay.
I told her it was.
I should point out that this was a period in both my and Jane’s lives in which we were drinking too much. In my case, part of it was a sense of newfound freedom. I was 22, living on my own for the first time, and had no obligations other than going to work. And getting utterly shit-housed on weekends was simply part of an overall good time.
The other part of it was self-medicating. I had failed out of college at that point, was working at an office supply warehouse (which I really enjoyed, but the 12-hour shifts and heavy lifting were taking a toll on my body), and, if I’m being honest, I was numbing the feelings I still had surrounding my ex and our split.
Jane was also dealing with her own internal struggles.
Hey, unhealthy coping mechanisms are still coping mechanisms, am I right?
In preparation for that evening’s festivities, I went across the street to the liquor store my roommates and I frequented and stocked up on beer and assorted spirits.
By the way, one sign that you may have a drinking problem is if everyone at the place you normally get alcohol from, regardless of who’s working that day, knows your name and your birthday from your ID.
The sun was setting as Jane and her friends arrived at my apartment complex. They were also already varying degrees of drunk. That should have been a red flag as to how the evening was going to go, but I was too excited to notice.
Once inside my apartment, the booze flowed freely as we all played darts, cracked jokes, caught up (I hadn’t seen some of my former co-workers in a while), and played some card game that I can’t recall anymore.
I’ll point out that, while I had been drinking, I wasn’t drunk yet. Another sign that you might have a drinking problem is if you can knock back a few shots and several beers and still feel relatively sober. This was the state I was in when it happened.
The girls had been there a little over an hour when one of them proposed we all go swimming at the complex’s pool.
“But none of us brought bathing suits,” another one of them said.
Jane glanced between her friends and me and with a small grin said, “Maybe we don’t need bathing suits.”
To which I very quickly responded, “Hey, guys, I think we should all go swimming.”
I grabbed some towels, and, if I remember correctly, my friend Shawn grabbed several to-go beers, and we exited the apartment.
Once we were outside, Jane jumped on my back. “Giddy-up, horsey,” she said flirtatiously into my ear. I happily gave her a piggyback ride to the pool.
When I set her down, she stripped down to just her panties and got into the spa. The other girls followed suit.
Jane gestured for me to sit next to her, which I did. She smiled and said something about the weight I had lost.
Working 55–60 hours a week in a warehouse moving things like filing cabinets, conference tables, safes, and desks, I’d lost 35 pounds in six months. I’d also packed on roughly 10 pounds of muscle. It was the best shape I’d been in since I’d stopped playing high school football.
Speaking of football, someone—I don’t remember who—had brought one to the pool. And as I was talking with Jane and trying my best, but not always succeeding, to look her in the eyes as we chatted, I tossed the ball back and forth with a few of the people who’d gone into the pool.
I’m guessing she decided it was too hot in the spa or it was still too crowded or some third irrelevant thing because after I’d sent the ball back to the pool, she stood up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out of the spa. She took a few steps before she slid out of her underwear and jumped naked into the pool.
And then she turned and gave me an over-the-shoulder “come hither” look.
I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening as my most educated guess seemed too good to be true. Moreover, it was growing increasingly difficult to think as my brain had lost its claim on my body’s blood supply.
All I knew was I wanted to go thither—and I wanted to get there as quickly as possible.
So I ran and dove in.
There were two problems with this approach, however.
The first was that the deepest part of the pool was only six feet. And I was diving in at roughly the midpoint. I’d estimate the depth between three and three-and-a-half feet.
The second was that I entered the water nearly straight up and down. Why I thought the Greg Louganis swan dive was the fastest way to enter the pool, I can’t rightly say. Between the liquor and the flood of hormones, I was doing well to simply not drool on myself.
I slid right through the water and smashed my head on the bottom of the pool.
Yes, “ouch” is right.
Facedown, I floated to the water’s surface, dazed from the blow to the head. I didn’t realize I’d given myself a massive concussion nor that I’d split my head open. I just knew that it really hurt and that I’d just done something stupid. I made a mental note to be more careful in the future.
Dizzy, I went to stand up.
I knew something was seriously amiss when my legs didn’t respond.
I could still feel them. They were still there.
They just wouldn’t move.
And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make them.
Panic set in as I was facedown in the water and couldn’t stand up. Nor could I pull my head above the surface.
I had no idea I’d broken my neck. It didn’t even hurt. I just knew I needed air.
My heart hammered in my chest as I scrambled to figure out how I was going to breathe. My lungs were starting to burn as I desperately tried to pull my head above water. I could get my head up enough to see my friends close by but not enough to pull in air.
I tried calling for help, only to make a barely audible gurgling noise. What’s worse was I wasted most of the air I had left trying.
My chest was on fire as I tried to bring my arms together in a giant clap, hoping I would generate enough upward thrust to get a breath. But this, too, failed.
I was exhausted, out of air, and out of options. So I just floated there for a moment.
No, my life didn’t flash before my eyes. I simply had a moment of clarity: I was going to die in that pool.
I felt disappointed that I had left so much undone and would leave behind the people who cared about me. That I’d only had 22 years on this Earth.
Despite that, I felt an odd sort of calm — probably due to oxygen deprivation — and I thought to myself, “Well, it sucks that it’s over, but I had a good life.”
Everything then when blinding white.
Then… nothing.
Much to my surprise, I woke up in an ambulance en route to the hospital. I remember sounds at first, something like a cement mixer rumbling in the distance. Soon, things began to sharpen into focus: the sound of the ambulance’s engine, the siren, the EMTs working. I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Everything felt fuzzy. I didn’t know if I was wet or dry. I could tell I was lying down, but I couldn’t tell where my back ended and the gurney began.
I tried to open my eyes. The light in the cabin hurt them, so I closed them again.
“I think he’s waking up,” one of the medics said.
“What the fuck happened?” I mumbled.
They both chuckled. “Hey, bud. So you had a bit of an accident.”
Yeah, no shit.
“Can you tell us your name?”
They went through a series of questions, assessing the extent of the head trauma and possible brain damage from the impact or lack of oxygen.
They also stapled my head closed.
Yes, “ouch” is right.
I was met at the hospital by my parents and several of the friends with whom I’d just been sharing a spa and pool.
“Hey, dude,” I remember my dad’s voice.
“Oh, hey, dad,” I said, groggy from the concussion. “Hey, I have a really important question,” I said.
“What’s that?” he asked patiently.
“Am I still wearing shorts?”
Hey, it was a valid concern. I couldn’t feel if was wearing anything or not, and, misplaced priorities notwithstanding, I was acutely aware that I was in a public space with a lot of people around.
And a busted head and broken neck are no excuse for a needless display of shrinkage—I mean, indecency. Yeah, that.
After being put in traction and spending 45 minutes in an MRI machine, the doctors informed me I had shattered my fifth cervical vertebra and that I would require two surgeries to repair it.
What they hadn’t told me — what I found out several years later — was that I was lucky to have survived. I later learned that had my neck not been so thick from months of working in the warehouse, the impact would have killed me outright.
I also learned that my friend Shawn had been the one who’d noticed me floating there lifeless, with red water surrounding me, and had been the one who’d directed traffic to get me out of the pool, to have someone call 911, and who had performed CPR on me and gotten me breathing on my own again.
If it hadn’t been for his level head and quick thinking, I wouldn’t be alive to be typing this right now.
That, and I was told that CPR only works 5%-7% of the time outside of a hospital setting. I don’t know how accurate that is; it’s just what I was told. If it’s not accurate, I hope the actual percentages are much higher for many reasons, the least of which is the narrow margin by which I survived.
So here I sit, 16 years later. And I’m happy to say that I’m genuinely doing well.
Sure, the years of physical rehab and therapy were hard as was the adjustment to my new seated life. But as horrible as that experience was, a lot of good came from it.
Due to an excellent recovery, I was able to regain enough function to care for myself and live independently.
I eventually went back to school. I earned my bachelor’s then master’s degree in English literature.
I became a teacher and a track coach.
I became a published author. I don’t just mean here on Medium. Legitimate literary journals have published my short stories.
Shawn has become my brother — the Starsky to my Hutch. Or, since we’re both massive Star Wars fans, the Han Solo to my Chewbacca might be more apt.
Sadly, Jane and I have drifted apart over the years. Not due to any animosity or anything unpleasant like that. It’s just that our lives went in different directions. I went off to do physical rehab and occupational therapy. She went away to college — which is good because she was wasting her potential working at that shithole of a pet store.
We occasionally keep in touch over social media. I believe she became a lawyer. Well done, my friend!
After the accident, a few friends expressed guilt over things that weren’t their fault. For example, Shawn didn’t know my neck had been broken, and he thought he’d caused the paralysis or made it worse by dragging me from the pool and performing CPR.
My mom, as well as several others, told him I’d be dead if it wasn’t for him. She told him she could live with me being in a wheelchair but not in a grave.
If anyone is to blame for what happened, it’s me.
Seriously, a swan dive? What the fuck was I thinking?
As for me, I have hopes and dreams for this borrowed time I’ve been given. I still want to become a published novelist. I still want to attend a Super Bowl. I still want to have a family someday.
Being alive means I can still accomplish those goals. And having those things to look forward to, as well as some of the best friends and family a guy could ask for, makes life worth living.
In the meantime, life rolls on… and so do I.
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