CHAPTER 15

My Competitive Spirit

I was pretty active as a kid. When I was growing up, my dad never just let me win a game. He allowed me to lose, and I wanted it that way. I was really good at board games, and I could usually win, even against my dad. Once though, he beat me at Pretty, Pretty Princess and he had to wear the crown and beads.

I loved sports and often played with my dad. He took me to basketball games as soon as I could walk. I liked to keep score, hug the mascots, and talk up the cheerleaders. We used to collect trading cards, too. Once, we were at a summer league game where prospective pros were scouted. My dad pointed out a player, Joe Smith, and told me he was going to be the number one draft pick. I was four years old at the time.

I said, “I want his autograph.”

Instead of going to get it for me, my dad handed me a pen and a paper and said, “Go ask.”

Of course I got it, but I was a little bummed not to have been treated like one of the guys by this player. He called me cute.

I think I always wanted to be one of the guys because I so loved hanging around my dad. During recess in fourth grade, I walked up to the boys and asked if I could shoot some hoops. One said, “Girls can’t play basketball.” I made them give me the ball, took one shot, and swished it. After that I was always invited to play with them.

I worked with kids when I graduated from college, and we didn’t even keep score until they were eight years old, because we didn’t want the kids to get upset about losing. The thing is, if kids haven’t ever lost until they are eight, how are they going to handle losing later in life? They will inevitably lose something. I knew when I had won. I knew when I had earned it. And I think that just made me more competitive. Not only that, I enjoyed working toward something. I really did. I enjoyed an accomplishment, however big or small.

Basketball was where my dad and I really bonded. On the court the winner won. He didn’t allow me to get a free shot in, nothing. He made me work for everything, and I think I drew on that for strength after my accident. That was real life. You won some, you lost some. How you handled the ups and downs revealed your true character. Even when I was really little, my dad would never throw a game. People never believe me when I tell them that.

My dad and I would play the game Horse all the time, from when I was four until I was in high school. It was one of our things. We had a basketball hoop in the backyard and, as in everything else, he’d never let me win. He wouldn’t go all pro player on me—he wasn’t mean about it—but he played for real. I might get a few letters on him, but if I started catching up, then he’d up his effort and I’d lose. He’d just never let me win Horse. Never. Once when I was a teenager, I actually beat him at Horse—it was the one and only time. But it felt like the biggest accomplishment ever because it took me ten years to do it. The funny thing wasn’t just my reaction, but his. He didn’t like to be beaten, but he was so proud of me. He said, “You finally did it!” Of course, I couldn’t help but shove it in his face and celebrate my sweet victory by talking some smack, but boy was I proud.

We were a sporty family, and we used to do a lot of activities together. We also played catch and football; I was kind of a tomboy when it came to that stuff. My dad worked sixty hours a week usually. But Sunday was our day. When spring hit we were outside on Sunday afternoons, playing sports.

Right after the accident, I was fighting as hard as I had fought in sports or games. I drew on that. I didn’t want to break; I didn’t want to lose the new battle. I guess I saw it as being weak, and I didn’t like to be weak. Of course, no one would have blamed me for being crazy and breaking down and crying. But I saw it as a game I was trying to win, like I was trying to be the best at recovery. To have the best attitude.

This injury was almost like the Horse victory that was ten years in the making. I knew there were going to be little moments where I was going to have to suck it up and fight and beat those challenges. And I was determined to win.

Every time I lost at Horse, I didn’t feel defeated. It made me feel more determined. I understood that it would be a miracle if I ever beat my dad at a game. I never expected to beat him, to be honest, but I always tried my hardest regardless. Being competitive at sports made me competitive at life, and this injury, well, I wanted to win. As I prepared to leave rehab, I drew on that inner fight and spirit my dad had spent a lifetime instilling in me.

Toward the end of rehab, my mom and I were in full prankster mode. I had a roommate in rehab, a lady who had worked at ECU. She had gone on a bike ride, fallen off the bike, and actually been stung by a bunch of bees. She broke her neck in the fall but ended up walking by the time she was out of treatment; she was an incomplete injury. It was so weird to see someone as paralyzed as I was, and then right before my eyes, see her walking. I think that happens a lot in rehab. I was definitely the most screwed-up one there at the time.

Anyway, her husband walked into the room one day, and my mom was in bum clothes, with no bra, so when she heard him coming, she opened the closet door to hide. It was like a dorm closet, a big cubbyhole with a door, so she opened the closet door very fast and fell into the closet and was basically sitting down. We were laughing so hard over the fact that she could fit into the closet, so I said, “Mom, stay in the closet.” We called the nurse, Tammy. She came in and I said, “Tammy, I’ve got this beautiful dress, and I want to wear it out.” (I was able to go on day trips once I was cleared, and my family could transfer me into a car. So I had been out in public by this time.) I told Tammy, “Look in my closet and get the dress out.” She opened the door to find my mom just sitting there. Tammy screamed and threw a pillow at her, and we laughed hysterically.

Since Mom could sit in the closet, I wondered if I could, too. My mother checked. It was big enough to get a chair into, just a plastic chair. So this time we got Tammy on our side to scare the doctor. Tammy happily got in on our scheme and a couple of therapists did, too. The night before our prank, I practiced how I would fit, and it totally worked. And then the next day we scared some more people. We spent the day, my last day at the rehab hospital, using this trick. I remained in the closet while Tammy or a therapist brought someone by. Tammy was so funny because she’d have to create elaborate lies to get people to open the closet. She told my caseworker I was hoarding catheters. She told the supply guy that I’d stolen a box of medical gloves. She even told the doctors I was stashing medication in that closet.

That was the day I left and got to go home. Everyone had made such a significant impression on me and my life during my time there. They were such wonderful people. I guess I’m glad the closet gag gave me the chance to leave an impression on them . . . and maybe let them know I’d be okay once I left their care because I had a good sense of humor and was surrounded by a lot of love.