CHAPTER 13

Love and Sex

Part of rehab was getting used to real life after the hospital. And for me, that meant sex. So one day in late July during rehab, Chris and I were given the opportunity to stay together in a room within the hospital that was set up like a small apartment. The idea was that we were on our own that night to practice what it would be like when I went home. The nurses were a phone call away, just in case. Frances had given me a lot of information on how sex was going to be following the accident, and it was helpful for me to have my expectations in order.

We were finally alone for the first time in two months in this tiny room that looked like a nice hotel room, complete with floral comforter and small TV. I was simply happy to lie beside him, wrapped up in his arms. I can’t describe how painful it was to have to endure months without being able to lie in bed cuddling and embracing the one you love, but instead having to be in a hospital bed alone. We hadn’t been intimate in months, and we were previously an extremely sexual couple. I longed to share that with him again, but I knew it would be different. I could no longer feel below my chest, so I wasn’t sure this was even going to be enjoyable. But I quickly realized that it wasn’t about having an orgasm. It was about being with him. Before, sex was all about the final result, and now it was more intimate, more personal, passionate, and loving. This time, we didn’t totally know what we were doing. It was a lot like losing my virginity again.

It was my first time sleeping in a real bed since the accident. I still wore a neck brace, which wasn’t very sexy, but we worked with it. I was no longer able to move all around, but I laid flat on my back and I was able to wrap my arms around him. I was told that the parts of your body that you can feel, particularly your neck, become more sensitive, and it was true. I learned where I was sensitive and where I hadn’t acknowledged being sensitive before. That night was incredibly intense, more intense than the physical sex we’d had before the accident. This time it was emotional; it was making love. It certainly wasn’t better than the physical relationship we’d shared, which I was sad to have lost, but at least I knew there was hope and that we would still be able to find a way to remain physically connected.

Chris was my first and only. We dated for a few months, and in October 2005 I lost my virginity to him. It was an emotional experience for me, because I had waited a long time to find the right person. It was my sophomore year of college, about a week after my twentieth birthday, and it was one of those things that was perfectly set up. By now I had moved into a house with two of my friends and they weren’t going to be there; it was our only opportunity to be by ourselves, so it had to be that night. We both knew it was going to happen, so I was very nervous. I was thinking, I am not going to be a virgin anymore. How many twenty-year-olds do you know who are virgins? The poor guy had a lot of pressure on him. But I had no expectations at the time—I just wanted to be with the man I had fallen in love with.

I felt at that moment in time that Chris really was the one. With the lights out we made love and he told me he loved me. It was beautiful. It was great, being with him and knowing he’d be the only man I’d ever sleep with. I didn’t cry, but I got misty-eyed sharing that moment with him.

The first time Chris told me he loved me was two weeks after we’d started dating. We had made out on my grandma’s couch. He whispered something in my ear. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard correctly, that he’d said, “I love you,” so I couldn’t say it back. But then I sat up and looked at him and asked, “Did you just say ‘I love you’?” He nodded. I said, “I love you, too.”

My mother and father weren’t strict with me at all, but there was always a mutual respect and an open line of communication. My mother always said, “Don’t have sex until you find someone who is worth it. Wait until you meet someone you care for and who cares for you.” I listened to that. I believed she was sharing the best advice with me, and I was glad I listened. I had waited until I found someone who loved me, and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Obviously sex had become different for me after the accident, and it was also one of the things that I had taken for granted. We were a sexual couple before the accident; we connected deeply in that sense, and to have an orgasm taken away from me was incredibly hard, but we compensated. It just wasn’t natural to not be able to do that. Honestly, I still enjoyed sex and I still got excited. Even though I couldn’t feel sex, my brain still received signals of pleasure. I got a tingling feeling all over, but it wasn’t like a peak and a finish. It was not an orgasm, followed by the type of release an able-bodied person might feel. But at times I felt my body and mind were more relaxed when we’d finished.

Rehab at the hospital was a really important element to my recovery—sex was only one aspect of that recovery. There were so many layers to getting better. I knew I wouldn’t walk, but that’s not the only thing to recover. I didn’t want my spirit broken, too. I didn’t want to be a different person than I was before the accident. I wasn’t Superwoman, and I certainly still had my low moments, but rehab gave me some time to gradually grow more and more at peace with what I was dealing with. Also, I made a promise to myself that I was going to be fine.

I felt obligated to make sure everyone else was okay. I could see how the injury was affecting everyone around me. I wanted to lift them up in the same way I was working to lift myself up. Like a group project, almost, that I would lead. I convinced myself that it would all be fine. In going through that process in my head, I definitely put on a happy face for everyone else, I think because I needed to sort through it all. By being happy all the time, by telling jokes and laughing with other people, it helped me convince myself. It made it okay to believe because life felt normal. I think I had more support than many people have, but I also learned I was the most important support I’d need. I needed to know I could survive. I needed to know I was strong enough to get through. I needed to figure out in my head that, yes, this would all be okay.

In rehab Chris and I would always talk about how awesome my friends were and how lucky I was to have them in my life. We discussed how friends sometimes leave your side in these kinds of situations because they simply don’t know how to handle them, and you often find out exactly who your real friends are. This was the case for me—it became clear to me what friendship stood for and what it meant. Suddenly, I knew I had true friends. There was no doubt in my mind that they would be there for me. Without them during those long months, it would have been harder to make it through. But they wouldn’t have made it without me either; they told me that many times. We comforted each other and learned to be there for each other, and we started to really understand the impact that night had had on us as a group.

I had to heal. That was clear. But even more, I had to step up. I had to really be there for this girl, this friend who had pushed me in a simple, playful gesture. We laughed a lot, but I could see through our laughter. She hadn’t even reached the low point of her despair during my rehab stint, though my friends and I didn’t know this at the time. It was just an unspoken promise at this point that we all protected her instinctually. We acknowledged that the accident at the pool had happened but almost pretended that the push itself hadn’t. Maybe we were in denial; maybe we weren’t ready to open that can of worms just yet. It wasn’t spoken, but it wasn’t too far out of all of our minds. We focused on the recovery for sure. As I think back, it’s almost like we refused to confront it. Whenever the thought of how I got where I was entered my mind, I’d push it out. If I didn’t think about how the accident happened, then I didn’t have to worry that our friendship would be different. But still waters run deep, and denial wasn’t enough.