[37] (AutoBio Aug-2002) The Car Crash That Saved My Life - Part 3

This post is a continuation from Part 2 .

The next morning, I came to and realized that I was still alive. I wasn’t sure at first. It took a few minutes for the fuzz from the night before to wear off.

My hospital room became a flurry of activity. Nurses coming in and out - checking the tubes in my arm and the compression machine still pumping on my legs. Sometime around then, I noticed that I had been catheterized. Not fun.

My mom was there early, playing project manager. My brother ran off to check on my car and grab my belongings.?

Out of nowhere - or really out of the depths of my soul - I found myself repeating simple phrases silently in my mind.?

“I’m going to be OK.” “I will survive.”?

This was not a conscious act? - my human instinct was kicking into monk mode to help me slow things down. I had to quiet my mind. My body wasn’t going anywhere - for a long while.

At some point that day, my mom soberly explained that I had suffered one of the worst orthopedic injuries that a human can endure. I had a complex pelvic fracture - a complete break in my hip socket splintering up the back of my pelvis. I was lucky to have made it through the night.???

“I’m going to be OK.” “I will survive.”?

Soon, I received a visit from an orthopedic surgeon. He took a long time reviewing my X-rays and MRIs. I sensed hesitation from him when he sat down to talk with me. I started peppering him with questions: “How many times have you performed this type of surgery?” “Have you ever seen an injury like this before?” “What are my chances for recovery?” I don’t remember how he answered me, and it didn’t matter. My intuition signaled: yellow light - slow down. I asked for a second opinion.

“I’m going to be OK.” “I will survive.”??

I think a day passed before I met the second surgeon. I’ll call him Dr. Steady. Dr. Steady was a sharp quiet man, mid-50s. He was in great physical shape and had clarity in his eyes. He looked stoic while he studied my X-rays. After several minutes of silence, he said he wanted to send my X-rays to one of his former medical school professors at the University of Washington. I liked that he was being thoughtful - checking his own thinking with a trusted mentor - before agreeing to do such a complicated surgery. “Of course,” I said. “Send them to him.”

“I’m going to be OK.” “I will survive.”?

A day later, Dr. Steady came in and sat down next to me. He started by telling me I was lucky. He pulled out one of those skeleton models that doctors use to explain stuff to patients. He showed me how the top of the femur bone has a rounded sphere - the femoral head - that fits into the curve of the hip socket. During my car accident, my femoral head slammed into my hip socket, which splintered my pelvis. Usually, in cases like this, they expect to also see damage to the femoral head. When that happens, the patient almost always becomes a cripple.??

In my case, the femoral head was still pristine - my hip socket and pelvis took all the impact.?

So, Dr. Steady explained, the bad news was that my hip and pelvis needed a massive operation. It would entail the drilling-in of titanium plates and screws across my hip socket and up the back of my pelvis. The good news was if Dr. Steady performed the operation correctly, I had a coin flip’s chance at being able to walk again.?

Only days before, I had a single digit chance of living through the night. Now I’m at 50/50 on being able to walk again. I’ll take those odds.

“I’m going to be OK.” “I will survive.”?

I looked the surgeon dead in his eyes - I saw steadfastness and confidence. My intuition signaled: green light - proceed. “Let’s do it,” I said.

During this time, my internal mantra started to shift:

“I will walk again.” “I will fully recover.”

I hadn’t moved in 3 days and was extremely uncomfortable. The only place I could go for peace was deep within myself. A meditation practice, something I had never tried before, was born out of necessity. I kept repeating the mantra to myself.

“I will walk again.” “I will fully recover.”

Dr. Steady said there was a real risk that I could have lifelong implications from the surgery - including walking with a limp. I accepted this but deep down didn’t believe it. I felt a rush of deep confidence and peace that I was going to be OK and focused on the mantra:

“I will walk again.” “I will fully recover.”

He scheduled my surgery for a few days later.??

Around that time, a few college friends came to visit me. When they arrived, I could see the concern on their faces immediately.? Between the compression machine on my legs, all the tubes in my arms, and a catheter up my you-know-what, I was struggling. Just the week prior we were all having drinks - carefree, and now I’m laying in a hospital bed looking as if I’m on death’s door. What a turn of events. They sat at my bedside and made small talk. It was around 6PM.

Part of my surgery prep was to start receiving morphine. While my friends were there, the nurse came in to give me my first dose. They had given me some potent painkillers before then, but this was my first time with the heavy stuff. As soon as she injected the morphine into my IV stream, I felt my eyes roll into the back of my head. I fell backwards into a warm bath. It was blissful, then black.

I woke up around midnight. My room was empty, my friends long gone.?

I remember marveling at the power of the morphine. “Holy shit, what just happened to the last six hours?” I thought.?

That experience seared into my brain in that moment. It taught me the potency of narcotics, which has served as a life-long lesson ever since.

I closed my eyes and went back to the mantra.

“I will walk again.” “I will fully recover.”