Captain Pike's Ship Log II

It had been a busy day. I had just finished the taxes and we had left town to meet a fellow in the city. Somehow or other, I had gotten myself an interview, or maybe audition is the right word, to read a book for an audiotape. This would mean that if I got the job, then it would be my voice that would be talking on a book on tape. We had met a friend for dinner further south and then gone to a Jungian seminar at Bowdoin College. I didn't want to spend the money to stay in a hotel even though it was getting late -- we didn't get onto I-95, to begin the long trek home, until almost midnight. It was a good thing that someone had been following us when my girlfriend tried to avoid hitting a huge skunk that had waddled out in front of us. We were both sober, weren't speeding nor searching for something on the floor of the car, we simply lost control and got into the soft shoulder, slid for a while and then tumbled, diagonally, end over end. I don't remember the skunk or the accident really, except for the very end, as the violent tumbling finally came to an end. The person that had been following us must have called 911 and I think they stopped to help. Imagine what it would be like to be trapped inside a car beside your crushed, dead boyfriend. It was the first time that I can remember actually saying the right thing at the right time. "I can't breathe. I'm all done. I love you....", I was like John Wayne. It was more of a surprise than anything else. I don't remember being scared, it was startling really to realize "oh, this is how I'm going to die". There was no negotiating it. I had used up all my air. I just couldn't breathe in. Then everything just went black. Imagine what she must've gone through.

They got my heart going again with those paddle things. They wouldn't let her near me -- that's what the EMTs do -- they separate you. She didn't know if I was alive, or dead or what. I guess when the life flight helicopter came, she must've thought at least there must be some chance. It took her almost an hour in a conventional ambulance to reach the hospital that they brought me to in 17 minutes. She was released from the emergency room after a short triage of her hand. She had gotten glass embedded in her knuckles. I can't imagine what she must have been going through. I mean, she was driving the car and, even though it wasn't her fault, there she was, wandering around the hospital emergency area, wondering just how cracked up I really was.

They let the anisthesia wear off enough so that I began to come to, at about 10 o'clock the next morning. I know this must sound crazy, but I can't really remember they're telling me that I would be paralyzed, probably for life. I guess one of the first things I asked Nikki was "when can we get out of here?" Clearly, I hadn't yet fully grasped the gravity of the situation. For one thing, I had nowhere to go -- I would no longer fit into the quaint, 150 year old house of many steps, tight corners and narrow hallways that we had lived in. Rough estimates of the minimal upgrades necessary to make our house accessible were around $50,000. The next question is: how and who would be willing to take care of me? We were at a crossroads. Had we had enough preparation in life to surmount this kind of a challenge together?

During the next few weeks, I was learning things like how to cough, how to use the weight of my head to attempt to balance while sitting up and to use the almost arthritic curled up tone of my hand to grasp an item such as a bottle of water. Nikki, during that same few weeks began the arduous task of learning what it takes to care for a C-5 quadriplegic, scouting around our town for a suitable house to buy and finding someone capable of building a ramp on moments notice should we find the funds to buy such a house, researching and selecting the right vendor to build us a vehicle I could ride in -- a way I could leave the hospital. Somehow, I imagined that this was what everybody did in our situation. As it turns out, 95% of the folks I've met with spinal cord injuries never find a home; they wear out their welcome at the hospital and then find themselves in a nursing home taking lots of depression medication.

In the last few months before we had the accident, I had been looking seriously for a cruising sailboat. This is a boat you can live on that can handle the high seas. I was reading all I could about sailing, celestial navigation, living at sea for weeks at a time and adapting to a life on the ocean. I had put a little money away and had a small source of independent income. I hadn't really told Nikki or my son of my plan, just made casual references to it while imagining how easy it would be to sell the idea of a life long vacation and a classroom as big as the world itself to the most important people in my life. Someone recently told me that on any particular day a person has roughly 30,000 things he can do. When you break your neck, then maybe you only have 20,000. The question I have to ask myself is do I want to enter the dark world of gloomy rumination over the 10,000 things I can't do, or get busy living the 20,000 things I can do, and will probably never find the time. Well, I choose life.