My Time In Hell

Why do I write? What do I write?

I was asked these questions recently. The answers are simple.

There are times in life when the world purely sucks. We can either wallow in self-pity or do what we must to push through the bad times. The more this story is told, the better off this world will be. Don't believe me, read on.

"Nurse Tatum, I know I need to go to rehab. As soon as I get home, I will make the necessary arrangements.

She glanced at my charts, shaking her head, before handing the paperwork to the hospital therapist. "You should stay here a few weeks; we could get you on the right track. Some people don't follow through, and accidents like yours change their lives forever."

There was one final chiding stare into my stitched-up face before she spun around in perfect military fashion and exited the room.

Days before meeting horse doctors dressed up as medical professionals, I was happy. My plans were set. I had goals, and I followed my dreams to meet those goals. I had a purpose and career and was making the most money I had ever earned working with actual medical professionals.

I had personal phone numbers of Gods; well, they thought they were gods, but…they were that good. Why not allow them their delusions while they did the impossible to save lives?

My work week was always more prolonged than usual. Then, there was Houston traffic to contend with.

Never pray for patience, or God will put you in Houston. Once you drive fifteen or twenty miles in first gear, you learn patience or leave Houston.

Vacations are meant to be a safety release valve from those ninety-minute commutes to go fifteen miles.

The sky was clear and blue, with no cloud in sight.

Stuck behind a driver who constantly fluctuated between exceeding the speed limit and then crawling below it, I grew concerned about his sobriety. I decided to pass him.

We had two lanes in our direction, and dividing us from oncoming traffic was an esplanade.

Once beside the truck, I noticed the man was eating, using both hands. Turning my attention to the road ahead as I topped the hill, a black Cadillac was headed straight toward me.

Instead of being on his side of the freeway, he was on the wrong side, my side. We closed the gap at a combined speed of 110mph.

I slammed on the brakes, cursed, and all hell broke loose.

Time slowed as crystalline bits of the windows shattered around me. With the force of a shotgun blast, the bits of glass dug into my skin and even penetrated my body through my clothes.

The steering wheel hit me full force, crushing my chest my face, and shattering my nose.

When time resumed, I couldn't breathe, much less discern the status of the rest of my body.

This event, my friends, is one of those times when the world seems filled with disappointment and despair. The simple act of inhaling becomes a daunting task as anxiety seizes your entire being.

Through the broken window and steam plumes leaving my truck, I watched as they pulled the old man from his Cadillac. Beer cans scattered around his car as they placed him on a yellow board.

Two goofy volunteers approached my truck, using an elaborate can opener to peel the door back. I could scarcely breathe through the pain as they forcefully pulled me out of the wreckage of my brand-new car.

They took me to this rundown hospital that smelled musty and neglected.

The ER had brown stains on the ceiling, which showed they hadn't been keeping up with disease control.

As soon as I entered the ER, I could hear the faint sounds of doctors and Andy coming from behind the thin curtain.

Andy was the fool in the Cadillac.

The attending ER doctor was wearing a jacket emblazoned with the logo of his alma mater. The smell of beer on his breath filled the air while they cut my clothes off.

Modesty in a hospital is not a trait worth having. Since the old man was behind a curtain, I was in front of two open doors leading to a hallway. People were performing a triage visible to anyone who wandered down the hall.

The doctor's young PA made it seem like I was the star of the show. I couldn't do anything to fix the situation while struggling to breathe.

The investigating officer was a fat, good-ole-boy who knew Andy well. They went to the same place of worship. I overheard them chatting while the cop said a prayer for him. I thought he was a super Christian who would pray for me, right?

No way. He had his ticket book in hand instead of a bible.

He watched as they removed my clothes. The first responders said I didn't have my seat belt on. I voiced my opposition to their observation. I took it off, thinking it was why I couldn't breathe. Nope, it wasn't.

The cop's face went all sour when they ripped off the rest of my shirt and saw the big angry bruise stretching from my shoulder to my hip. The seat belt definitely messed up a lot of ribs.

The cop wasn't done yet. You're guilty until proven innocent... That's how it goes when the cop and the drunk are buddies. He told the doctors to test me for every drug they could think of.

The PA kept bugging me about what I took at least fifty times.

They didn't give me pain meds because they didn't know what I was taking. I told them, "I wasn't on anything," that was the truth.

The PA, who was really good-looking, wouldn't stop trying to bribe me with pain meds just to find out what drugs I was using for fun.

I couldn't help but wonder who that old person was that they were going all out to protect.

When I thought about how cute she was, I was reassured that maybe I wasn’t as bad off as I looked.

What do you think? Can you envision the excruciating pain of having multiple broken ribs, a shattered nose, teeth protruding through your face, knees in disarray, and neck and back injuries that intensify with every breath, all while enduring a novel form of torture with no relief for the agony?

If I sound bitter, it's because I totally am.

As the glass pierced my body, it tore through my clothes, leaving behind a trail of holes. I don't know who they were, but these young people in white scrubs were trying to remove the glass from my body without any pain relief.

Andy's wife showed up, standing right in front of me and giving me a stare. She gawked at my naked body and then locked eyes with me.

She didn't have to say anything. She wanted to blame me, and her body language said it all. To her, I was like bubble gum from the parking lot, stuck to her new shoes.

Strutting around in her fancy clothes and jewelry that would get her robbed in New York, it was obvious she thought she was better than me, a blood-spattered mess of a young person.

She changed her tune pretty quickly.

Sliding behind the curtain, she asked him, "What happened?"

“They said I was driving on the wrong side of the road again. I don't know why, but that place on the highway always messes with my head.”

"You're drunk!" She exclaimed.

"Na, I only had a six-pack."

“Andy, why were you driving in the first place? You said you wouldn't drink and drive if I got you another car, right?”

"It was halftime, and we had no beer left." I was just going to the store to get more."

"We didn't run out of beer." You were out. You need to see what you did to that young man.”

“I won’t do it again; I have learned my lesson.”

I heard his wife screaming loudly in the room, scolding him angrily and disappointedly for his stupid choice to drink and drive.

After a few minutes, she returned to my side of the curtain. She reached out and touched my blood-spattered forehead, stroking my curly, long hair out of my face. "I am sorry, young man. After he crashed his truck, he swore he wouldn't drink and drive. I got him that Cadillac because it's bigger, so if he gets into another wreck, he might not get hurt as bad..." she said before her voice trailed off.

She didn't seem to care about the consequences of enabling a drunk.

I stole a peek at her face as she looked over the damage to my nakedness again. It made me feel even more awkward when she watched them work on my exposed body. It felt as though invisible chains held me in place, rendering me unable to move.

The students, or whatever they were, were painstakingly extracting shards of glass. I wanted to divert her attention.

"How did he wreck his truck?" I asked as blood spurted from the holes under my lips.

She glanced at my face, her eyes darting away from my lower extremities.

"He ran into a tree in our front yard. It was raining…" She knew the rain was another excuse.

These following few sentences unfolded inexplicably, leaving me bewildered.

"How is he?" I asked.

As she peered into my eyes, I felt a sense of vulnerability. "His hip is bothering him, and he has a cut on his forehead."

"I hope his health improves quickly. I guess the larger car worked."

She clenched her jaw and nodded. Her attention shifted to the workers who were down to my midsection. She watched as they searched the blood spatter to make sure it was just spatter and not an active puncture.

We were silent as one of the women working on me glanced up to see us both watching. She pulled the wool blanket up to my waist and returned to work.

"I am not supposed to tell you this, but our insurance coverage is excellent."

I attempted to nod, but the pain in my neck sent a sharp reminder down my spine that any movement was ill-advised. At the moment, insurance was the least of my concerns.

I couldn't understand why I wasn't consumed by a raging fury; instead, a sense of tranquility washed over me.

As a painful reminder of that day, I had an ugly purple stripe etched on my skin with multiple broken ribs and a cracked sternum.

The reporter in the ER had tangible proof in the form of photographs.

Andy went home while I remained confined to the beeping machines and antiseptic smell of the ICU for a whole week. From there, I entered a nauseatingly green-plastered room that seemed straight out of the atomic age.

While I was in the ICU, I had a team of medical professionals, including dentists, a plastic surgeon, and a cardiologist, who tended to my bruised heart.

Following the re-shaping of my nose, they stuffed a bundle of cotton up my nostrils to stem the flow of blood cascading down my throat. All of this happened with no meds for pain.

I guess they sent my blood work to a lab in another state, which explains the delay in getting the results.

On my last day there, the attending doctor asked me, "Why is your sodium low?"

I glared at him. "Is that the best you got? After badgering me for days regarding what drugs I was on and not giving me anything for pain and its low sodium?" He clenched his jaw, realizing that he had put me through hell because his friend, the drunk, was looking like he was the only person at fault. He was.

"Not a doctor, but I had the flu a few weeks ago. Would that cause low sodium from dehydration?" He nodded before telling me they were releasing me.

Remember that even the guy who graduates at the bottom of his class in med school still earns the title of doctor.

A burly orderly brought a wheelchair into my room. I winced as I heard it violently collide with both doors. I believe he thought it was cute.

After suffering a head-on collision where every movement felt like daggers twisting in my chest, I suppose his humor was to make me believe the worst was over.

He handed me a local paper; I was on the front page. Not Andy, nor his beer cans. It was me being extracted from my truck.

"I thought you might want this as a souvenir," he said.

I glanced at the paper and nodded, "Thanks."

"Most people in head-on collisions like yours end up in the morgue. How is it you survived? Do you think God was at work?"

I glanced at him, seeing him wearing a silver ring with a cross on it.

"Possibly," I uttered.

***

After years of study and work, my career was on the line. Rehab was not an option; it was a necessity. Disability insurance alone cannot cover all the expenses.

Andy and I both relied on the same insurance company for coverage. Unfortunately, that little fact didn't turn out in my favor.

They fought me tooth and nail on every minute detail.

Even though my vehicle was brand new, I didn't receive complete reimbursement. They paid the medical bills but disputed the value of my personal belongings, claiming they were not new or that I couldn't provide proof of their newness. Who keeps receipts past a few weeks? They're usually crumpled up and tossed in the trash.

The months slowly passed as I went from one doctor's office to another, desperately seeking a way to regain my mobility. Even though the ribs had healed, the haunting memories remained.

There were numerous challenges, each one more complicated than the last.

Any injury comes with the genuine presence of pain. Although not immediately noticeable, scar tissue can unexpectedly cause discomfort.

It didn't take long after returning to the workforce to discover that the range of motion was only one small part of a larger scenario. The more I did during the day caused me immeasurable discomfort during the nighttime.

All the things we take for granted come into play. Sleep is one of them. After many missed days because of the pain and inability to sleep, I had to reinvent myself. All those classes and hours spent to be an engineer flitted away like the empty beer cans around that old drunk's car.

Put yourself in this situation—what would you do? I could throw my hands up in frustration and consider filing for disability. Would that amount of money be enough to cover the monthly expenses? Would I be happy?

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, it became painfully clear that my medical needs would require greater attention. One of my doctors glanced at the X-rays and said, "I would hate to be in your body."

I thought that if Stephen Hawking could do what he did, I could bloody well do more than I was.

PTSD is as crippling as the rest of the physical ailments. To this day, I resist going anywhere because, in the back of my mind, there is always the next drunk or foolish person texting and driving. PTSD can rob you of your freedom if you allow it. I face the fear and force myself to do it. The moment that image of that Cadillac comes to mind, I get my keys. You must!

More classes at night brought about a new career in IT. Before too many years passed, I managed many engineers at Fortune 500 companies.

As I fought the excruciating pain of my vertebrae fusing together, I realized the relentless passage of time and the undeniable truth.

I would need to reinvent myself once again. 

Quoting my cousin, 'Never Never Ever Give Up.' I painted a portrait of him, and started over.

My unwavering dedication to writing has been like a compass guiding me through the past few years. Writing is my north star. As an author, writer, and purveyor of wisdom, I am devoted to the craft that brings stories to life. I write because even my worst nightmares pale in comparison to this brutally accurate depiction of my day in hell.

Andy faced no legal consequences; his friends protected him at my expense.

Following losing his wife, he sought refuge in the driver's seat of an 18-wheeler.

It's true. I guess he finally found a vehicle big enough to give him a fighting chance in the next driving mishap. God helped his victim.

What do I write? The possibilities are endless for what I can do.

The pain is no match for my determination to climb the highest mountains and sail a yacht to Australia. Despite my PTSD, when I climb in behind the yoke of a fighter jet or scuba dive into a cave or the wreck of a ship, I feel a sense of liberation.

Physics doesn't hinder me as I navigate the galaxy, searching for signs of intelligent life.

In my world, I can transform into any person or creature I desire.

I can be playful and cheeky, or I can be gentle and compassionate. In short, writing allows me to break free from the constraints of societal norms, defying gravity and the laws of time and space.

Why do I write? Because I can.