20th Anniversaries, Retrospectives, and Gratitude

A good friend called me today. It always is a good conversation. Effortless. Interesting. Additive. Then they slipped it in…

So what do you do for something like today? do you celebrate… What do you do?

Excuse me?

Yeah. I don’t know. Are you doing anything for today?

Thinking about the day. Thinking about the date. The date. It’s today.

Oh, today. My accident. 20 years ago today. That March 28th was a Sunday. It was in the morning. Just an hour or so after this call.

It’s always good to do a retrospective. What have I done in the last 20 years? What have I done since the helicopter carried me away into another chapter of my life?

I was 21. I’m now 41. Which brings me to another thought exercise.

I always felt like I had a competitive advantage. It gave me confidence. Even though I was written off almost everywhere I went, I’ve seen before. For over two decades.

But now, I’ve been blind, for barely two decades. And a couple hours. Sort of.

And I’m worried. I’m happy. I’m grateful.

In less than one year, I’ll have lived 21 years as a sighted person and 21 years as a blind person.

Will I still have my competitive advantage?

Having sight wasn’t my competitive advantage, although losing it did help me realize it.

I figured out how to learn, when I started listening.

I figured out how to write, without me seeing.

I ?learned how to grow, once I stopped looking.

I started healing, when I started forgiving.

I found happiness, when I started realizing.

Realizing the things holding me back had nothing to do with my blindness.

Sure, yes, and agreed. Being blind means a lot of things. But what it means to me, is I have a unique opportunity to change the lives of so many people who, like me, might need the help.

Believe me when I tell you. I am so blessed. I am so happy. These 20 years have been hard, rough, and riddled with pain and pleasure, tragedy and triumph. They have opened and closed the doors, forged and hardened a will, sculpting and maturing the man I am today.

In 20 years, I pray to experience even more significant levels of growth, abundance, happiness, and triumph! So… How does it get better than this?

In the spirit of How Does It Get Better Than This, I am digitally dusting off a chapter in my memoir that I wrote about 8 or 9 years ago.

It’s about that day. It’s about Sunday morning, March 28th, 2004. But it’s about much more than that.

Let me know your thoughts if you get through the whole thing…

With love, light, and so much fucking gratitude…

Part I

?

“There are two primary choices in life: to accept conditions as they exist or accept the responsibility for changing them.” Denis Waitley

Chapter 1:

?

Walking through automatic doors, a wall-mounted TV murmurs above my left shoulder. Cold AC runs down my legs. It’s nearly identical to every other medical facility I’ve been to. I know why there’s a TV always on, someone’s always waiting, but the AC? Heaven forbid it’s a degree above 67.

Navigating the surgical center’s lobby, there’s one of three reception desks open. Nestled between the 4-foot carpet-lined walls separating each of the three desks, a woman stares at us while she’s smacking her gum. As we walk up to her desk, Rosa gently squeezes my hand twice, and I begin,

“Hi, I’m here to check-in for surgery.”

Immediately turning to Rosa,

“Ok. Sure. What’s his name?”

Taking back ownership of the conversation,

“I’m Tanner Gers. That’s G, E, R, S.”

Equally dismissive, she counters again,

“Ok. What’s his date of birth?”

Rosa knows the routine. We’ve both been here before. Glancing back at me with a little sarcasm,

“What’s your date of birth, Tanner?”

Annoyed, “February 18, 1983,” falls from my mouth.

As her increasing gum smacking competes against fake nails clicking her keyboard,

“And his social?”

Why hasn’t she caught on yet? Rosa has yet to answer any of her questions, let alone speak a single word to her. Hesitantly, Rosa repeats the question,

“Tanner, what’s your social?”

?Thank God, I guess, for those 48” sound-proof carpet walls. Leaning in with a lowered voice,

“6 0 4.”

“And, what’s his street address?” The receptionist continues questioning Rosa.

That’s enough. It’s time to let her know. Gently grabbing Rosa’s wrist and leaning in with a widened eye, I give the receptionist a “shit is about to get real face.” The same fiery eye and hardened face I trembled beneath as a child. The look my father ripped right through me with before his hands did the same. It wasn’t the whipping I was about to receive that made me afraid. Sure, I hated being beat. But all the whippings, all the welts, all that pain paled in comparison to the fear he built in that long moment. In those few seconds of forever, my pounding heart would slam down into my stomach only to be eaten by that unknowing. The unknowing of what terror will come from his lungs, his thin lips, and his calloused hand.

I don’t mean to dump my daddy issues on this woman. I don’t intend to make her scared of me either. It’s just a move I know works. It’s a move I learned. And in this emotional and emotionally unintelligent moment, it’s the only thing I can do right now. It's interesting how time slows down, isn’t it? How a split second for some can feel like an eternity for others. Maybe it was all those looks I fielded as a child. Maybe it was the years of practice delivering the same look when I needed control. Maybe it’s just a bad habit. Either way, I’m comfortable here. I’m comfortable in the pain of silence.

Finally cracking the void, “Mam, what is it about me, Exactly, that bothers you so much?”

Stammering, stumbling, “I, uhh, I’m, uuuhh. I, I don’t know.”

Maintaining my unwavering wide-eyed piercing stare,

“No, please tell me. What is it exactly that makes you think I can’t answer simple questions about myself?”

?“Uuugghhh,” inelegantly drips from her mouth.

“Well certainly, you know we’re both standing here. You know I introduced myself and I told you why I’m here, but despite everything you DO Know, you’ve yet to speak one word to me. Do you treat everyone who comes in here like this?”

“Uhhh, no. I’m sorry. You didn’t. I didn’t. I think,”

“Here’s what I’m thinking. I wouldn’t treat you like this, so don’t treat me like that either.”

“Yes sir. I’m sorry.”

“And it would be great if, from now on, you treated everyone coming in here with that same kind of respect. Ok?”

“Ok,” she says defeated. “I will. I’m sorry.”

Switching gears to a much friendlier tone, “No problem. I appreciate it and it means a lot to me. Now, my street address is,”

Walking to the pre-op waiting room, Rosa gently squeezes my hand,

“I’m proud of you for how you handled that. Especially with everything happening today.

Calling the past 24 hours rocky would be an understatement. Since hearing the news for the first time yesterday, I’ve questioned everything about who I am, what I’m here to do, and if the person I want to be is even possible. Most of my frustration is the result of a lack of information. The omittance of crucial information that would have totally changed the arch. I wouldn’t even be here right now. I wouldn’t be forced to make this kind of decision. But here I am just 60 minutes away from the point of no return.

It’s hard to even imagine the past 11 years. All the ups, downs, and ridiculous, how the fuck did I get here downs, are so unbelievable, so impossible, you’d never believe this story unless it happened to you. But it did. It happened to me. The fact that I’m even here is a miracle I’m incredibly grateful for, but the innumerous limitations I faced along the way are unspeakable. Being surrounded by these unscalable walls every day is something I don’t wish on any person. From the social stigmas, to the antiquated beliefs, and my being ruthlessly stereotyped are all inherent struggles previously foreign to me. It’s like I woke up in a whole new world. And I did.

For the past 11 years, my life has been committed to breaking down and through each and every one of these walls. Because, I knew, they are what’s standing between me and creating a life worth living. It’s a choice really. Sometimes, I break through them. For most barriers though, I lost. There’s a few I’m still fighting. I don’t know how long and tough these battles will be in the foreseeable future, but I do know this. My choice to face them, to stand up and take action, to consistently and relentlessly battle each inescapable struggle every day is responsible for this man. This is collectively responsible for me becoming the man I am today.

But right now, sitting here in the pre-op waiting room, I’m scared. I’m uncertain. And I’m torn. Torn again. The first time I was torn open was over a decade ago.

?

That Morning

?

Tash just woke me up. She was unexpectedly called in to work. Just like that, our plans for breakfast are scratched. I admire this drive. She’s focused. There’s no qualm. She simply pivots from a social to a professional opportunity without thinking twice. Plus, she’s beautiful. Looks go a long way, I guess.

When not bouncing in a sporty pony tail, her blond hair runs just to her shoulders. There’s a pair of rich blue eyes complimenting a white smile, and her soft-spoken voice screams warmth and innocence. She’s lean, looks athletic, tans well, and she’s selfless. She always wants to help. Kissing Tash goodbye and hopping out her car, there she is. The pride of my life.

I remember the test drive. The final nudge pulling the trigger to pick up the pen and markup the dotted line. A digital heads-up display. Seeing it for the first time is beautiful. You can’t miss it and you won’t forget it.

I never saw anything like this before and I guess that’s the point. Given you’re supposed to keep your eyes on the road, the Heads Up Display technology is what enables you to actually do it. All the magic’s right there reflecting off the windshield. It also does a great job at blowing the pants off anyone sitting in the driver-side rear seat not privy to the technology.

“Whoa! Tanner, that’s so cool!”

“What?”

“Your windshield. It’s saying how fast we’re going.”

“Yeah,” I say nonchalantly. “I like it.”

“57! 64! 79!” They yell excitedly, repeating back what they’re seeing displayed in real-time on the windshield from the back seat.

My first car was a 1968 Mustang. It’s manual transmission and 289 cubic inch V8 engine easily enabled the tires to chirp shifting into 2nd. I like driving fast. And I earned the reputation for it. While my new car isn’t as muscly, it’s supercharged V6 engine definitely still comes with some gitty up. For me, I enjoy their enthusiasm almost as much as I enjoy holding the gas pedal to the floor.

For a car guy, there’s something special about freshly waxed white paint sitting on bright shining chrome wheels. It’s flat out gorgeous. Throw in the booming, windshield cracking stereo system, and the whole package is perfect. I’m numb and all crises are successfully suppressed. It’s to my satisfaction. Because it’s not good enough to just look good. I want people to hear me coming before I get there. Within a couple days, the stereo successfully knocked off the rear-view mirror. I don’t need it anyway. Why even look back? The only direction I’m going is forward and fast.

Walking up to the door from Tash’s car, I already know I’m taking a long drive down a road I love, Old Spanish Trail. I’ll eventually land at my parents’ house, 30 minutes east of Tucson, right at the edge of Saguaro National Monument. Just before I reach Colossal Cave though, I’ll pull off the main road to the left, weave through a winding neighborhood street, and reach my final destination at the end of a mile-long dirt road carved out by a tractor. It takes some getting used to and some patience getting out there, but the journey’s worth it.

Old Spanish Trail guides you up and down a series of rolling hills, twists, and turns with natural desert landscape decorating each side of the road as far as the eye can see. At daybreak, as the morning’s sunlight peaks over the Rincon’s eastward mountaintops, the saguaro, prickly pear, and cholla cacti become dressed in vibrant shades of green. Like today in late March, we are also privileged with their yellow and red flowers budding along with the symptoms of seasonal allergies. Out here, hawks circle overhead, roadrunners cross the street with lizards hanging from their mouths, and the frighteningly large jack rabbits, coyote packs, and families of javelina make appearances often enough you never forget they’re out there.

Even more mesmerizing are Southern Arizona’s sunsets. Gripping may be the description I’m looking for. Imagine, after a long hard day of hammering down upon you, the blistering sun has suddenly changed its attitude. The heat is cooling off to tolerable, and the sun’s no longer sizzling your skin to ripe reds and browns. Nearly chasing the horizon, begging for the day to be over, the sun’s stoic guard is finally coming down. And as it does, a grandiose entourage of cascading yellows and oranges shoot across the skies. It’s right here in this moment when the sunset grips you. Because if you look to the East right when it’s just about to kiss the horizon, dance on the edge of the earth, and peek back at you one last time before retiring for the evening, you’re forced to wait and witness the sun’s entire grand exit.

As the beautiful fiery streaks of yellow and orange continue cutting eastward, a myriad of decadent pinks and purples flood the sky just beyond their reach. You can’t help but let your eyes rapidly flutter from point to point overhead, from light to dark, left to right. But one thing’s for certain. You keep looking back. Looking back at the horizon, right where the sun said it’s final good bye, right where all the colors seem to be pulled. It’s like gravity, fast and slow in the same breath.

For the next several minutes, you’re stuck surveying nature’s colors drift across the endless, cloudless Southern Arizona skies. Then, the big trick happens. It always catches you off guard even though you knew it was coming. Maybe that’s why it’s magic. Because, while you’re captured in a trance of purples, pinks, blues, and yellows dancing together, night just snuck in the backdoor. You know it’s about to happen, and then it does. The radiating colors once gloriously shooting out from the horizon just moments ago have died. Any and all remaining life of the day has been quietly and expeditiously suffocated away.

As dark as this inevitability is, it’s truly amazing, isn’t it? I mean, how quickly something can change. How drastically, almost immediately, in the blink of an eye, the infinite universe is born again.

Knowing all of this is around me, I turn up the music, and press down on the gas pedal.

?

Emergency Services

?

Stepping out of the garage on her way to the garbage can, Mom sees it coming.

It was the dust cloud that first caught her attention. Then, it was the red and blue lights. Pausing for a moment, throwing the garbage in the trash can, Mom calls for Dad.

“Tray, there’s a cop car on the dirt.”

The mile-long dirt road leading up to my parents’ home is just called “the dirt.” There’s no need to say road. Once you’ve gotten here, you’re not taking a drive through the neighborhood. You’re here for a reason. You’re going somewhere. You have a destination. And at the very end of the dirt, where Mom is standing is the last destination possible.

Dad walks up next to mom. Standing together looking out from where the rock covered driveway meets the garage concrete slab, there’s just Five more homes. Five more destinations between where they’re standing and the police interceptor. With a single change of direction, the cop car sweeps around the hairpin turn and past another two houses.

It passed the Hill’s home. It passed the McDuffy’s. As the lights continue spinning and tires continue rolling, there’s no sign of slowing. They know. This is for us.

30 feet shy of the garage door, decorative rocks are crackling underneath the police interceptor’s tires. Neither Mom or Dad can see through the sunlight shimmering off the police interceptor’s windshield. As the spinning lights turn off and the door finally opens. A boot emerges to hit the ground.

Exiting the vehicle is a young man, putting a wide-brimmed hat on top his head.

?

Old Spanish Trail

?

The supercharger’s gauge is climbing steadily.

There’s not much more room to go. The pedal’s all the way down. As the speedometer’s needle passes larger numbers. I pass more and more cars. I love the speed. Maybe I just hate the brake pedal. When you think about it, the brake pedal is the fastest way to not get where I’m going. And the goal for Old Spanish Trail is going 127.

That’s always the goal on the Trail. I wouldn’t be setting such a low bar of achievement for myself, but 127 is the car’s governed maximum speed. It could easily pass this, but the computer chip prevents it from happening. And while I’m limited to 127MPH, it feels every bit of 127MPH good. 127mph of high-risk negotiations, split-second decisions, and flawless precision. Everything’s on the line. This is the road. This is my outlet. This is where I push the limit. This is where I taste it. This is how I let it all go.

Whipping in and out of traffic, Diving in and around other cars feels amazing. It’s tough to describe what a pianist feels when lighting up the hearts in the orchestra hall. It’s tough to illustrate the feeling one achieves when the underdog tells the world champion of chess, “Checkmate.” It’s impossible to capture the moment you bring your partner close, bring them to climax, and then climax repeatedly together. It’s tough to deliver this experience in words, but it feels exactly what I’m experiencing right now.

Sharp wind runs over my ears and through my hair. The stereo vibrating my seat and my body. My hands gripping the wheel and feeling the tires doing the same to the road.

In a split second, I lost focus. I made a mistake. An uncorrectable mistake. I already know I’m going too fast to pull this off. There’s no way. It’s over.

East of Houghton Road in 2004, there are no curbs on either side of Old Spanish Trail. It’s rural out here. And as I’m throwing everything into this turn about 25MPH to hot and heavy, the tires left the pavement. Drifting into the dirt, ?already pulling the steering wheel hard as I can, I hit the brakes. Time slows down to a crawl.

There’s no preparation for this moment. I don’t possess the refined, highly tuned skills to navigate this situation successfully. I only have evolutionary survival mechanisms. It’s why everything’s slowing down. It all slows down for the one chance, the one moment, the one opportunity that might present itself. For the chance to grab the only lifeline capable of saving my life. Then, it happens. Right now.

?

The Investigation

?

“Good morning,” the officer says.

“Morning,” Dad shoots back.

“Does your son drive a white Pontiac?”

“Yes, he does.”

I think I’m in the right place then. His driver’s license doesn’t have this address, but we got it from the vehicle registration. Is your son Tanner… Gers?”

“Yes, it is. What’s going on?” Dad asks in anticipation.

Unable to prevent the look of loss from smearing across his face, the officer answers, “He’s been in a bad car accident. You need to get to the hospital right away.”

Taking it all in. Reading the situation. Reading the officer’s face. But now it’s time for her to step up. Looking up into his eyes, Mom asks, “Is my son alive?”

“Mam, I don’t know.”

“Look at me. I need to know. It’s ok. Just tell me. Is he dead.”

“Mam, he’s at the hospital right now. That’s all I can say.”

They’ll never know if you tell me. Just tell me. Is my son gone??”

“I don’t know. “Gather some things. Wash up. You should get going.”

After looking down, looking at one another, Mom and Dad submissively turn and walk inside.

The tires smoothly hum along and wind whistles around the cabin. It always sounds like this when you speed down I-10 in a full-size truck. Sitting with their emotions, sitting in silence. She just can’t take it anymore. From the depths of her lungs, it explodes out. Mom screams,

“AAAAAAAhhhhHHHHHHH!!!!”

Ferociously ringing out, the wordless, blood-curdling scream violently shakes the truck’s cabin. Dad never turns his head. One hand’s holding his lit cigarette near the cracked window. The other’s holding the wheel. He shoots her a glance from the corner of his eye and keeps driving. They’re an hour away from the final destination.

?

The Edge

?

My car, my body, my life flies over the edge. I’m on my way down a 40-foot embankment.

On the way down, a large, thorny Palo Verde tree shoots through the windshield. It impales me directly in the face. Like a rag doll, my body is thrown over both sets of front and rear seats and half-way out the rear windshield.

A huge chunk of skull instantly blows away. My body slams into the roof of the car as it lands. My spinal column fractures in seven different places. 82 miles per hour. 82.

?

Debi

How is my head even attached to my body? I guess it’s good I feel nothing. Thank you, Adrenaline and growth hormone.

I don’t know how, but I’ve got to get out of here. Struggling, trying to pull myself out the rear windshield, I hear her.

?“I’m here! I’m right here!” A woman yells from atop the embankment. “I’m coming! Are you ok?”

She finds me on my back, trying to pull myself to safety,

“Oh my God,” she mutters to herself.

I can’t respond. Just gurgles of blood come from my throat. Nothing’s making sense.

“I’m here,” she said.? “I’m a retired EMT. My name is Debi. I’m going to get you out of here.”

Another man runs up behind Debi holding a fire blanket.

“What can I do?” The man asks.

“Hold him down. He keeps trying to pull the glass from his head and face. It’s all in his mouth too. While you hold him, I’ll wrap his head in the blanket.”

Emergency Decisions

When emergency services finally get there, they soil themselves.

The first one looks at me, looks at the damage, and stands a few feet away frozen. He’s staring, jaw-dropped, but unable to do anything. Then, he starts shaking uncontrollably.

The other EMT begins taking my blood pressure. Debi yells at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?! There’s nothing you can do here. We’ve got to get him to the hospital. Call Life Support right now!”

Nice. Between Mr. Shit Pants and Captain Blood Pressure, who together make up Rural EMS’s Team Clutch, don’t have a body board or a neck brace. We’ll have to go to the judges to see if there’s any points for the life-saving blood pressure cuff.

Judges say, hard no on that one.

Despite her yelling, the highly trained first responders remain unresponsive to Debi’s instructions to get the body board and neck brace from the ambulance. So, she runs up the hill to grab both. Making it back to the top of the hill with the body board and neck brace, Debi watches on in horror.

They’re already coming up the hill. In each EMT’s hands are one of my wrists and ankles. They are literally carrying me by my hands and feet up the embankment. Glass still fills my mouth. Only gurgling sounds spill from it as my head continues bobbling and shaking around. Debi drops the body board and runs toward us. She rushes around beneath each EMT and holds my head, cradling it with her hands.

What exactly justifies two trained emergency service technicians to do this? I don’t know. I can only guess it was?? that one look. The first look. The moment they saw me, the blood, the brain, and everything, they made up their minds. They decided. He’s not going to make it. Nothing we can do will save him. He’s DOA. DOA? That’s Dead On Arrival.

The call is eventually made. I’m laid down on my back on the side of the road and they fit me with a neck brace. The street is completely blocked off now. The Sheriff is re-routing traffic in the direction it came from. Debi keeps talking to me. Squeezing her finger, I want her to know I’m still here. She’s asking my name, but through the blood gurgling noises, she can only make out Tyler.

75 minutes after Debi called 911, the life support helicopter touches down.

?