Paralysis of Body: Animation of Mind

You're riding your motorcycle down a familiar highway. The pavement slides beneath the wheels and you can feel every bump and rock as you speed forward at fifty miles an hour. You pass the dreaded red light that always makes you late for school. You start thinking about how dinner will taste after you get home: the creamy mashed potatoes sliding down your throat followed by perfectly sweetened tea. Classes were tough and always leave you hungry. But then after the idea of fresh biscuits makes its final lap around your brain, you suddenly feel weak. Your hands grow cold and flimsy and sweat drips from your palms. You feel like your head is an anvil and your neck cannot support it. The handlebars start to shake and your first instinct is to put your left foot down to slow the motorcycle-- but at fifty miles an hour this is a bad idea. Your foot hits the pavement and your body is thrown into the air at the wooded area beside the road. You can only feel the cement scratching the face plate of your helmet. When your body finally lies still against a tree, there is a numbness that takes over the majority of your body. Two vertebrae in your back have snapped and the bone fragments have shredded your spinal cord. It is hard to breathe-- and then you hear the police and ambulances scream towards you. This is where it all started. I was a senior at ____ High School in (home state) in 2008. I was a normal guy who played Rock Band with his friends after school. I was set to be the captain of the soccer team, even though I wasn't the best player. I had won the election for student council president that September after handing out custom-made t-shirts that said "VOTE IAN" for free and showing a Youtube video of promises to the entire school. I had been the only candidate. I was on a self-directed diet for soccer conditioning. It was my last year playing for my high school; I really wanted to make a difference. I needed to be fast. I could inspire the team by showing them that I could do it; I wanted to be inspiration for them. My daily intake of calories

dropped from probably 2,500 calories a day to 1,200 calories. I ate four times a day, three hundred calories each time. My normal breakfast was half a bagel, apple sauce, and water. For lunch I'd have ham and cheese sandwich with a pack of crackers. After school I ate a small snack that was probably the other half of the bagel with barely any cream cheese and carrots. My dinner was the smallest meal, in which I only had the entre that my parents were eating. Sometimes I even branched out and had a serving of a side dish. It was dangerous, almost stupid, for me to eat so little. But I craved the glory of reaching the State level play-offs like the year before and I planned on being the source of motivation for the rest of the team. My parents were self-employed and I earned my money by helping them out. We inspected houses for mortgage companies across three different counties. It took a lot of driving and patience, but the escalating gas prices were the most frustrating part of the job. It seemed that one month we could do one hundred inspections and pay fifty dollars for gas, but the next month we would have to pay seventy five. We thought that three dollars would be the price ceiling, but the price just kept reaching higher numbers. Most of my life revolved around how much money I would have to spend on gas: if I went to Jake's house, could I make it to school the next day? If I do twenty inspections in one county, can I make it to soccer conditioning the next morning? The pump felt more like a collar than a supplier of gasoline. As an independent teenager with a big head, I decided to take power into my own hands. I started researching different vehicles that had higher miles per gallon statistics. It looked like most cars, even the "green" ones, got around the same to have more control than that. I needed the ability to do whatever I wanted when I felt like doing it. I did not need to worry about the opportunity cost. I wanted to eliminate the problem altogether.

I was never really a "motorcycle" type of guy, so after research, I found that there was a sort of Vespa-motorcycle combination called a motor scooter. I call it a motorcycle because I had to get my learner's license in order to ride it. It also could get up to about fifty five miles an hour- and most people think of a scooter as what the twelve year-old down the street rides around the cul-de-sac. It seemed to be like the perfect combination for me. It wasn't too outrageous or dangerous (I thought), and it got around ninety nine miles per gallon. That blue Yamaha Vino 125 was the key to the chains that locked me to the gas pump. I didn't have to wait for a government to give it to me, or let the greed of the gas cartel in the Middle East diminish. All I had to do was save my money. It took about three months to save up enough money for the Vino 125, a proper jacket, and a helmet: two thousand and some loose change. I remember when the jacket and helmet arrived, one of my best friends was over that day and I was helping him with an essay for English class. He's a Mexican guy from Guadalajara, and I was doing my best to make him understand Chaucer. It was tough, but it was worth it. When we got to my house after school, the two packages were on my bed. I rushed to rip them open and check out my new toys. The helmet was black, sleek, and it was definitely what I wanted. The jacket was going to be warm enough for the winter weather of (home state) in November, but it was also thin enough to be worn in early spring. I mostly bought them because my mother insisted on it. The thought of what might have happened to me without these two things blurs my eyes with tears The what-ifs of my accident could be drawn out for years, but the love and protection of my mother covered my skin and my head, and it reminds that I have to live with what I have and who I am now. It was November of 2008 when I had all of the money and I was ready to purchase my freedom. School lasted from 8:05 AM to 3:15 PM. After class, my friends and I went to the

auditorium to practice a song we were performing that night for a talent show. We were playing "That's What You Get" by Paramore. Two of the guys that were playing with me were long time friends. We had made music together for years. Our singer was another guy from our social group and he was on the soccer team with us. He's eccentric and zany, and promptly volunteered to sing for us since the three of us could not sing to an auditorium full of people without the majority of them running towards the exit with blood dripping from their ears. We played the song in front of the other performers and everything seemed to go well. I hit all of the beats with accuracy. I didn't throw a stick and hit a spectator. I was pleased with the practice. But I had no idea that it would be the last time I played the drums or made music with my friends. I had no idea that I would never again be able to press down on the hi-hat foot pedal, or strike the bass drum to a catchy beat. After the practice, I drove home and my parents agreed to take me to get the motorcycle. My long khaki pants and my jacket were stuffy, but I didn't want to take them off. I wanted to "break them in" so when I rode to the school afterward for the talent show, they wouldn't feel awkward or stiff. I had no idea in less than half an hour they would be cut off of me in order to save my life. Even if they made me uncomfortable, I wanted to make my first ride on my motorcycle to be stress free. I wanted people to glance over as they drive past me and think, "Cool." Maybe one or two people did. But they looked nice for the amount of time I wore them, right? If I had known what was going to take place, I would've been putting metal plates in the back of the jacket. I would've prepared for war. But instead, I didn't think I'd have any problems riding. It was like giving a soldier a teddy bear as a weapon: I had wrinkle-free, fitting clothes to protect me from the impact of hitting a tree. An injured athlete would have stretched more before the game if he had known he was going to pull a muscle.

When we arrived at the motorcycle dealer, the bike I had chosen was set up perfectly for me. I got out of the car quickly and adjusted my glasses. The light shining through the leaves of the trees sprinkled onto the blue plastic. I remember it shimmering like metal as shadows hid in the background. I could see was my freedom waiting to be grabbed. I handed the envelope full of money to the owner and got on the motorcycle-- I felt like I belonged there; it made me feel stronger. Slowly, I turned the key and the motorcycle came to life. It vibrated and purred underneath my body. At that moment, I felt like I had been given my life back. I had no idea I was literally holding my life in my hands. I pulled out of the driveway. My parents were behind me, following "just in case". After riding dirt bikes all around my neighborhood as a kid, riding the Vino felt natural. The asphalt gave way to the wheels and welcomed my presence. The November air flirted with my hands and fingers with small kisses and nibbles. I came to a stop sign and smiled. It was too easy. I continued on the road and took a left after stopping at a stop sign. The road was familiar because I had to drive it whenever I wanted to buy a novel or a videogame. It connected my part of the city with the better part of the city. The perception from riding on two wheels instead of four was vastly different. It felt more like I was part of the road. The vibrations that reached the handlebars reminded me how close I was to the ground. The roaring of the wind in my ears was muffled by the helmet as I pushed my motorcycle to see how fast it could go. I remember glancing down at the speedometer a few seconds before all of what I have described seemed to turn to mush; I had just reached 55 miles per hour. I could go the speed limit on the highway. I think I needed to see that to prove to myself that what I had bought wasn't a "moped". The few seconds of enlightenment ended abruptly when I felt my body getting weak. Since I had band practice for the talent show after school, I had only eaten 600 calories that day.

The adrenaline of buying the motorcycle and riding it for the first time sustained me up until this point. My head seemed to be incredibly heavy and my hands were having trouble staying gripped on the handlebars. Just keeping my body straight was incredibly difficult. And then at the speed I had reached the front wheel of the Vino started to shake. I knew from reading that it was best just to slow down a bit and allow it to straighten out, but I didn't do that. I wasn't thinking about what I had read in a textbook or online-- I just knew I needed to slow down. I took my left foot off of the footplate and put it on the ground. This made me lose complete control over the motorcycle and it vaulted me in the air. I slid about ten feet on the concrete and ten or fifteen more feet down a bank into a collection of trees. All I can remember clearly is hearing the concrete scratch at the faceplate of my helmet. My parents told me after the accident that I was rolling and my limbs were flailing as I hit the ground, but I don't remember that. From my point of view I was just sliding. There was only one horizontal direction, instead of three dimensions. That might be for the best, because I can still look back at that moment in time and not get scared or upset. Sliding is much easier to deal with than flips and flailing. When my body finally stopped, I remember hearing my father telling me everything would be okay. My mom's voice was shaking as she tried to comfort me while my father called the police. I told her I couldn't feel my legs and she assured me it was probably just a pinched nerve. It was hard to breathe: there was tightness in my chest; it felt like a black hole was sucking all of the oxygen out of the center of my body. I tried to get up but my mom yelled at me to not move. I didn't know why I couldn't sit up so I could see what was going on. Now I know-I could have easily broken my neck instead of my back or I could have injured myself even more. I lied there and I didn't really know what was happening. Ambulances and police were making

their way towards us. Traffic was stopping to let them through traffic lights, just like I had seen so many times before, but it had never involved me or someone I knew. This time they were moving through traffic to get me. A kid was going to be late for soccer practice because of me. A birthday celebration was going to be put on hold and the manager of a store would have to wait another thirty minutes to see his kids. It was just a nuance for them, like the effects of a stubbed toe a few days after the fact. The emergency crews kept repeating to me not to move. Hands touched my body. My brand new, sleek, cool jacket was cut off me hurriedly. They were adjusting my body to get me ready for the stretcher. They pulled at my body but I didn't move like they expected so they immediately stopped. My father yelled from the side of me, pointing out that there were tree roots around my neck. A policeman cut the roots quickly and they had me in the ambulance within seconds. I hadn't lost consciousness, so the ambulance crew was doing their best to keep me awake. I remember telling jokes like "well, I hope this will help me on all of those scholarship applications!" I don't remember if they laughed or not, but the fact that I wasn't screaming or crying probably made their jobs easier. Also, I probably couldn't have screamed too loud because my broken ribs and punctured lung would've probably sent a million pain signals to my brain. Being in the ambulance is the last thing I remember. I didn't learn about the subsequent events until after I was in the hospital for a few days. When they got me inside the emergency room they had to insert a chest tube to help my collapsed lung. My father was with me still and the surgeon told him not to watch. I don't remember screaming, but my dad said he had never heard anything like it in his life. Before he was forced out of the room, I told him to give Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut back to one of my friends. Ever since he told me I said

that to him I've had a hard time believing it. I wonder why my semi-conscious mind would automatically jump to giving a loaned book back to one of my friends. Maybe I didn't think I would live past that moment and I wanted to make sure he got his book back. I don't know and I don't think I ever will. It's hard to imagine that at one point in my life the majority of the people that knew me thought I wasn't going to live to see the next day. My teachers, friends, and soccer teammates had all arrived at the hospital within a few minutes of my arrival. My mom said it looked more like a group of kids waiting to get in the gates to a popular concert rather than a hospital waiting room. It's hard to imagine people worrying about my survival... and even harder to imagine that my life could have ended so easily. When I lost consciousness I could have easily been dead. Would I have known it? Would I just not have woken up again? I wonder if black in death is the same as black in life... or would they have changed? The first time I woke up after being at the hospital was the night of the 13th. There were oxygen tubes in my nostrils that had rubbed the skin beneath them raw. There were beeps as constant as my breathing ringing in my ears as I fell in and out of sleep. My parents and my doctors explained to me what had happened in the accident. They told me that the fifth and sixth vertebrae in my back (T5/6) were crushed due to the impact of the tree. The bone fragments shredded my spinal cord. I didn't really know what that meant. Before my injury, I had barely even heard of what a spinal cord injury was. Of course, I had heard of things in the paper and on the news, but it had never affected me before so I hadn't paid too much attention. The next morning I underwent a procedure called a spinal fusion. It consists of placing titanium rods in the spine to fuse the vertebrae together. The titanium, or Harrington rods, were placed from the third vertebrae to the eighth (T3-T8). I have about a foot of titanium in my back.

This allowed for my spine to heal normally and prevented any extra damage from occurring. My surgery was at ___ Hospital in (home city)-- the same hospital in which I was born. The same place that helped bring me into the world also helped save me seventeen years later. It's poetic, even. The surgery went successfully; afterwards, I spent two days in the ICU before I was transferred to a regular room for the next three days. This is where I learned about my new body- what I could feel and what I couldn't-- what I could move and what I couldn't. I am unable to move or feel anything below my nipple line. That means I could shoot myself in my foot and I wouldn't even know it had happened. It also means that I can't control my abdominal muscles. In the hospital, when I was drugged up on morphine 24/7, I would triumphantly tell those who visited me that I could "still feel my nipples!" Most people assume I'm paralyzed from the waist down, but that's not the case. Balancing without abs is like trying to breathe while submerged in water: you remember how to do it and your brain tells your body what to do, but it just won't work. Also, if I put both of my hands straight out in front of me, I'd just fall over; I always have to have a hand on my lap or legs to hold my upper body up. It also doesn't help that all of my abdominal muscles have atrophied to near nothing. There's not even a possibility for me to get those rock-hard abs you see advertised on television. So for those reasons, I'd kill a couple of innocent kittens to have my abs back (sorry, PETA). After my stay at (hospital), I went to the (rehab center) in (city) for my rehabilitation. During the entire hour-long drive from (home city) in the ambulance I was knocked out because they had injected some really intense medicine into my IV. I woke up a few minutes before we arrived. The intense shaking and bumping in the back of the ambulance on the stretcher was horrible. When we got there, the drivers didn't know where to go. It took them about ten minutes

to figure out where to take me. Finally, after they figured it out, they got me out of the ambulance (for the last time!) and rolled me into the lobby of (rehab center). I remember the floor was tiled so that I could feel every bump as they rolled me along to the elevator. All I could see was the tan ceiling and the bright lights. It was the first part of my journey: stage one of my education on how to live another life. My room was on the second floor at the end of the hall. My first day was full of meeting people and getting accustomed to my new surroundings. I met my doctors, my physical therapists, my counselors, my occupational therapists, and my case manager all within a 30 minute time frame. It was overwhelming and exciting at the same time. These people were going to teach me. They were going to help me through any struggles I would have. And every single one of them went above and beyond to be there for me while I was there. They taught me everything anyone could ever need to know about spinal cord injuries. I was assigned physical and occupational therapists, a doctor, and a counselor. Every day at 9AM I had occupational therapy. They taught me how to dress myself again, bathe, and take care of other personal things. I'm going to be completely honest: I could not even get my own pants or socks on for the first couple of weeks, and I couldn't even get my shoes on until I was an outpatient. After OT, I had a counseling session or physical therapy. In physical therapy they taught me how to maneuver my wheelchair effectively and efficiently through many obstacles. I learned how to hop curbs, do wheelies, and transfer myself in and out of my wheelchair. I literally learned how to live again: emotionally and physically. It was a feat that took three months to complete, but I did it. I had some friends visit me once or twice while I was a patient at (rehab center). The first Saturday they came, I was unable to get out of bed. I don't remember why, but the doctors and

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nurses agreed it would be best for me to relax and rest. When they got there, I wanted to be the Luke they knew from high school. I wanted to be up out of bed, and I wanted to sit with them and joke about things you would joke about at lunch table before the bell would ring. But I wasn't able to. I was stuck in my hospital bed while they all had to cram into the tiny space inside my room. Their presence was great, but it wasn't until they left that I realized it was just a facade of normalcy the entire time they were there. I didn't really realize how internal my struggle was until the external presence of friends were gone and all I was left with was myself. The reality of what I was facing hit me. And with the television turned to a low volume and the lights switched off, I cried for the first time. I cried for my friends that felt obligated to make a drive from (home city) to (rehab center); I cried because the chairs they were sitting in ten minutes before were empty; I cried for my soccer team, who would have to play the season without me; I cried for my mom because she had to leave home and stay at the hospital with me. After about two hours of crying, I fell asleep. I'm sure my roommate was glad I had shut up. After my stay at the (rehab center) I returned home. My parents had to modify our house with a wheelchair ramp, sliding doors, and a roll-in (walk-in) shower. When I arrived home, it was the first time I realized that nothing was ever going to be the same again. I wouldn't be who I was four months prior to the moment I entered my kitchen for the first time since the accident. People would never see me the same way. I would never think the same way. Everything had changed. That moment was another one of the few times I had cried following the injury-- but at least I was home. I took a break for a month before going back to high school. If I had wanted to, my teachers would have let me do all of my schoolwork at home and just email it to them, but I didn't like the idea of hiding because of who I am. So, after spending November, December, and

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January in the hospital, I returned to school in February. It took getting used to people staring at me every time I was in the halls. One time I heard an ignorant boy say, "I bet it'd be fun being in a wheelchair... doing wheelies all the time." I could have punched the kid in the face right then and there, but then I'd just be misrepresenting. That wouldn't be cool at all. In March, the school installed an automatic door. My family and I pushed for its installation not much for my benefit, but for every other person that may need to visit or attend the school. Through my experience I learned what accessibility really means. It's not about having curb-cuts or special parking spaces, it's about providing a universal design for everyone and anyone to have access to anything and everything, be it information or a building. Through November 2008 to May 2009, I was broken and reassembled again; I struggled to find the pieces and put them in place, but I did it; I learned to live after my life had been threatened and altered. I graduated high school as only the second person using a wheelchair in the history of my school. I received two rounds of applause after I got on stage and recieved my diploma. I had never felt so connected to myself and other people before that time-- I had never smiled so wide. During the summer before my freshman year in college at (university), I took advanced physical therapy so I could learn how to get up a few flights of stairs if I had to or go down in case of an emergency. I learned how to get on and off of the floor and back into my wheelchair. I pushed up hills steeper than I could've walked up easily before my injury and did so with pace. I prepared myself for the rest of my life and I still am today. I've never been in better shape than I am now, but I know I can improve to make my life easier and more enjoyable. At (university) I lived in (dorm name) by myself. One of my main reasons for going away to college was that it forced me to be independent. I chose to go four hours away from

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home. I was lost when I first got to (university). But I needed that. I had to do things on my own. I excelled in most of my classes and was on the President's List the first semester. I loved being alone the majority of the time and still do. However, (dorm) is one of the farthest dorms from the center of campus, so I had to push about a mile or two a day depending on my schedule. I learned which routes are the easiest on my wheels and hands and which ones were impossible to travel on. Navigating on wheels is a difficult thing to accomplish, but it's like everything else that happens in life: you get used to it, just like I got used to having to go in a special door after parking in a special space to sit in my special desk in the special part of the lecture hall. When it comes to sidewalks, I figured out where the bad curb-cuts are that will break your front casters or which sidewalks have the highest slopes. I also tend to take the least crowded routes. I mean, let's face it, some people freak out when I come towards them on the way to class. You don't have to jump off the sidewalk because I am coming towards you. I do not enjoy bowling for able-bodies with my wheelchair. But after some embarrassing moments, I've realized that dealing with other people is another part of my adaptation. I try my best to be understanding of their ignorance just as they are of mine. So, now as a sophomore in college and a paraplegic, I am embracing who I have become and all that has happened to me. Theres a tendency for people to feel sorry for someone in my situation, and I understand that. When I push down the hallway at school I can see others watching me. Its a different experience to see a 19-year-old guy who looks quite healthy in a wheelchair. So they might feel sorry for me that I take a little longer to put my clothes on in the morning or a little more effort to break down my chair and put it in my car. But its not how long it takes. Its that I can do it myself. Thats whats important. I could ponder what life would

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be like if I could get up out of this chair right now and just go for a jog, but where would that get me? It is what it is, and that's the way I like to live. And I can honestly say that if I could get back on that motorcycle again and everything would work out the same way, I would strap that helmet on and slide the jacket over my shoulders in an instant. I am a better person because of the injury, and my openness towards situations and people have brought me my girlfriend of a year and a half, a rewarding year at college, and knowledge some people don't receive in a lifetime. My name is August Ian. On November (date), 2008, I left my house for an errand; I didn't return home for three months. I'm a paraplegic, and I am lucky to be who I am.

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