Broken Bones, Scars and Ugly Blue Pintos

Monday is the anniversary of one of the absolute worst days of my life...or so it used to be categorized. Athough it took a number of years for my shallow mind to realize, June 7th marks one of many  "watershed" moments.  Thankfully, the total recollection I once feared would return, has eluded me for more than 20 years now. However, with vivid detail, I can recall and recite a conversation with my dad which concluded just moments before my body and life as I knew it, would be cast into a new and unimaginable chaos.   

Wearing one of my favorite outfits: Gloria Vanderbilt Jeans, a deep purple polo worn beneath a short-sleeve lavender oxford, and my favorite shoes at the time - Bass pennyloafers, I said goodbye to my dad.  My destination was probably the length of 2 football fields away, but the driveway was visible from mine and only one house separated us.  Beginning in 4th grade, my bus stop was that same driveway. Having made the short trek 100s if not 1000s of times before, there was no hint of concern that this short journey would be different. There was no way of predicting it would be the last time my feet would walk that path.    

Witnesses confirmed that the young teenage girl (me) was walking a few feet off the side of the road - facing oncoming traffic.  One neighbor a few houses beyond my destination was mowing his lawn.  Apparently, we exchanged a casual wave just before he realized my impending doom. Mr. Siragusa told the police and my family members that he had attempted to scream a warning, but when he opened his mouth - no sound came out.  The "unintended silence" was credited with saving my life...eventually.

Mr. Siragusa, a fulltime firefighter, husband and father had a front row, unobstructed view of my body being catapulted well over 100 ft from behind. As my body took unexpected flight, my head and right arm were ripped open on a metal road sign. As the aerial flailing continued - my body richoeted off a large, wooden, Bellsouth cable spool, bouncing then from the ground and finally coming to rest against a large tree in the front yard of my friend's grandmother's home. Being the shy quiet type, I was not into grand entrances...but, airborn, bloody and with broken parts, I made it to the intended destination, unconscious.  (Thank God!) 

Written and verbal accounts of the accident filled in the blanks, helping me to later understand some of the jagged tears in my flesh, the need for a back brace, the potential loss of an arm, and countless surgeries over my highschool career. For a girl who had never had a broken bone or even stitches, this particular summer did not start out well!  

My mangled body attracted quite a crowd.  Someone called my parents and they joined the scene...Mr. Siragusa was the perfect person to have witnessed and been the first to respond to my broken body.  An ambulance arrived after 15 minutes and volunteer firefighters were doing whatever they could to help.  My poor dad was sitting near my head, crying.  As care was issued, I temporarily regained consciousness and through painful  cries, I kept yelling "Daddy....you're standing on my arm....please get off my arm."  This too has been communicated by people/friends/family that were there.  That situation makes me sad for him...he was concerned that his oldest child was dying and she was yelling at him to get off her arm,  He wasn't even near it. 

The next thing I remember:  laying in a cold, sterile-looking ER, on a gurney.  There again, my dad.  In typical "dad" form, he was pulling the white sheet up closer to my ears. A painfully modest girl at that age, I was grateful for the extra coverage. My formerly favorite outfit, now covered in blood, had been cut off and thrown in a plastic bag. 

It's a strange thing to recall familiar faces coming to your side, and saying their "goodbyes."  No one had to tell me what was happening, instinctively I knew. But God had something else in mind -  I'm still here! 

In and out of consciousness, the next "concrete memory" is waking up in another hospital room as my mouth was being wiped with lemon swabs. I had no idea that a car had hit me - clearly, there was "stuff" wrong with me but I had no idea who/what/how/when/where and to what extent.  Aside from the 3 significant memories of that 48 hour period, all information was filled in later by family, friends, visitors, medical records and ID bracelets.

At the time, the miracles taking place were not registering.  Little by little though, I learned.  For starters, due to extensive bloodloss, shock and head injuries - my life was expected to end the night of the accident (ergo the family farewells.)  After a certain amount of time, and transfusions - there was hope: hope for a life likely confined to a bed or wheelchair, paralyzed by spinal injuries. X-rays revealed a broken back...no one mentioned that for awhile.  (But now - it's a pretty incredible concept to grasp!)

The portable xray machine scanned my body as I laid flat in the bed...still only having "lemon swabs" and ice chips on that third day.  Unbeknownst to me then, multiple x-rays pointed to a  likelihood of paralysis.  Those x-rays quickly became moot. Another miracle! New films revealed crushed vertabrae - a far better scenario than the original diagnosis.  (Happy to sit upright in the hospital bed!)  

The orthopedic surgeon who initally addressed my arm, told my parents that he needed to amputate it. Thankfully, the assigned plastic surgeon requested a second opinion from another specialist he knew.  While it was a long process, ultimately taking a few years, 15 casts, multiple settings, surgeries, titanium parts, a bone graph, traction, physical , hydro and electrical therapies, months after the accident - there was insane excitement over the newfound ability to lift my index finger "ever so slightly."  A new hope.

While there were several injuries from head to toe, and many scars remain today - the one that stands out is the shattered right humerus.  The words "compound fracture" still make me shiver. During the course of the accident, my right arm became grossly disfigured and as shared above, it looked like it wasn't salvageable. The humerus not only snapped completely in two - totally broken, the jagged pieces of bone penetrated the skin multiple times, almost ripping my arm completely off below the shoulder. It was a mess. Some shards of bone are probably still buried in the ground where I landed.

"Humerus observation"
From my first breath - I too, was a mess. Broken, born with a sinful nature - like my arm, grossly imperfect.  Without miraculous grace, unsalvageable.  Dr. Rothenberg (whom I adored), invested a lot of time, wisdom and patience in me and my broken limb...becoming another "father figure" of sorts in the process. After the bone graph, and 5 1/2  hour surgery to encapsulate the pieces of bone with steel, held in place by four screws, Dr. Rothenberg told me that it was literally IMPOSSIBLE for the right humerus to be broken again...apparently the pieces of bone would bond like permanent glue to the 4" of metal, forming a PERMANENT seal. Of course, the steel wasn't going to break either.

Another monumental event had taken place a few years earlier, also in the month of June.  I had placed my faith in Jesus.  While I had a saving faith, and a basic understanding...it took years for me to fully grasp (well, as much as my humanity will allow) - the magnitude of that day.  On June 12th 1980, another Great Physician, (and like Dr. Rothenberg - Jewish), healed me in a way that couldn't be undone. Another permanent seal, this one eternal. 

For years, I was uncomfortable allowing the scars on my right arm to be seen. Long sleeves were my friend.  For the most part now, I don't mind wearing sleeveless tops (except for that little "jiggle" where my triceps used to be - where did that come from???) People will still ask me what happened to my arm - and it doesn't bother me at all. The scars are a reminder of the greatness of God, of many miracles surrounding the accident that forever changed my body, changed my life. 

Sadly, there were times in my life when I was uncomfortable letting my faith be made visible to others.  There are no doubt people who knew me in my late teens/early 20s who would be mystified to learn that I was a Christian.  Thankfully, though - there wasn't anything I could do to reverse the healing that had taken place in my heart.  I regret the time spent living "my way".  To later realize the missed opportunities in my younger days, grieves me and I'm sure grieved God.  It makes me want to not go there again...

Like the visual reminders on my arm, I no longer try to hide who I really am. 

Scars tell stories about who we are, and what we've been through.  I have many that can easily be seen and many that no one would realize - because they exist on the inside.  The invisible scars, while resulting from horrible experiences, they have been made lovely - and those circumstances have been instrumental in making me who I am today...and admittedly, very much a work in progress! While there isn't an emblazened mark or tatto signifying the day of my salvation, my hope is that others will see through the life I live, evidence of a miraculous healing. 

June 7th is another one of those days each year that brings reflection.  Some would say to "forget" about those bad days and certainly don't "marinate" in them.  But, looking at some of lifes's experiences and remembering how bad off or wounded we once were, serves as a humbling reminder of The One who is actually orchestrating all things, The One who can bring healing, The One who is Never surprised, The One who loves us in the same way we love our children when they are off course, The One who delights in us when we "get it" and "live it", The One who is the Author and Perfector of our Faith.  Humbling and inspiring.

A few nights ago, I stumbled across a verse in Mark 5:41 - Jesus, took the hand of a young dying girl and said, "Talitha Kum!" (translated "Little girl, I say to you, get up!") I love the way we can read a passage of scripture many times, and then one day it just resonates with us. 

There have been many times, when I felt hopeless, sick, discouarged, etc. I know those same words were spoken to me...still a little girl in a 41 year old body. "Talitha Kum!"

Now you know the story behind "Blue Pinto Day"...a day of reflection, gratitude and celebration.