CHAPTER 21

Laughter and Tears

Carly and Samantha were seriously funny girls. One day, about a year after the accident, they’d come with me to my rugby tournament. It was my first season of rugby, and as we went to the gym Carly was wheeling me through double open doors. As we were approaching, I said, “Hey, you see that thing in the middle where the doors close? Watch out for that.”

Carly said, “Okay.”

She must have thought my wheelchair could go over it, but my footplate was too low, and so when she went head on into it, the chair stopped but I didn’t. I fell out of the chair and flew through the air. Both girls tried to reach down and catch me by my sweatshirt, but that didn’t work; they couldn’t get a grip at all. It happened in slow motion. Well, I was lying there on the floor, not hurt, and none of us could stop laughing. That kind of situation always made me laugh. It reminded me a bit of life before the accident, because it was the kind of crazy stuff we used to laugh about back then, too. It was a cool moment because there was always stress about the accident and me being in a wheelchair, but this was just a good old-fashioned laugh, and it felt great. It wasn’t scary. People fall out of their chairs all the time.

Something else fell out another time shortly after that, but it wasn’t my entire body. It was my boob. One night, Samantha, Carly, and I went to dinner. It was the first time I’d gone out without Chris or my mother to help with the transition out of a car. We pulled up to the valet parking guy, which was our only option, and began the process of getting me out. We were laughing hysterically because it took both of them to slide me out of the car to go into the restaurant. The valet guy just stood at first, but when he saw them struggling, he tried to get in there and help. But one of my boobs had popped out of my dress, so of course we were laughing even harder at this point, and there was chaos because they were trying to get him to go away while they stuffed my boob back in the dress. They worked hard not to drop me on the ground. We caused quite a scene before they got me into my chair to go eat.

With no plans yet to set a wedding date and the media coverage continuing, there seemed to be little improvement for my one friend in getting beyond the accident. In one of our daily calls, she said, “It’s really hard to see you like this. I don’t want this to cause distance between us just because it’s hard for me. Please don’t let this happen. Call me every day.”

“I won’t let us slip,” I said. “I’m here for you.”

“I’m afraid I’ll put myself somewhere away from you,” she admitted. I knew seeing me was a constant reminder of her agony. Both of us knew we didn’t want to lose a friend. Sometimes it is human nature to run away from what scares you, to distance yourself from something that might unleash bad memories.

I think she had the urge to push herself away from me to feel better, but she was asking me to help her stay strong. In part, she felt like she didn’t deserve to be my friend anymore, but she wanted to. She wanted to heal. I know that.

I missed talking about boys and going out and life. Our conversations were always the same now, so repetitive. I wanted so badly for my words to stick.

“I don’t have any nerve pain today,” I’d tell her. Or, “I had a really good day today,” or “I got a great letter today.” I would relate anything positive that happened. You could hear her breathing change either in person or on the phone. Literally. It was that important to make her feel better.

She would get it. She would get that I was happy. She would get that I had moved on. Everyone else had. The family had. We drew on the great things that had happened. We wanted to grab her and shake her and pull her in on all of the joy we felt.

She had become severely depressed. She kept saying that if people knew it was her, they would have been calling for interviews and she wasn’t ready to talk about it. I honestly felt she would have been viciously slandered in the media, and she didn’t deserve that. People were so judgmental, as if they’d never made a mistake: never taken their eyes off the road for a split second to change the radio station, never accidentally run a red light, never been part of horseplay or fooled around. Something bad had happened as the result of an innocent gesture, and that one moment did not, and should not, define her as a person.

I knew she wanted to be reassured that I was happy and doing well. The comments people blogged and e-mailed made her feel awful, and she took them to heart. Online, I argued that the people who had negative things to say had no life. I defended her. They sat behind their computers judging others when, in reality, I didn’t think they were happy with their own lives. It was a form of bullying. People could say whatever they wanted to online without anyone knowing who they were. They could say something hurtful and mean and then go about their day. It infuriated me.

I told her that these people must have never had a true friend and that was sad. We were lucky to have each other, and I still would rather have her as my friend than the use of my legs. People writing hate weren’t worth her time or her tears; we talked a lot about that.

From our conversations it became clear she had started to believe what people were writing about her. I told her all the time that she was not stupid, evil, or reckless, as everyone implied, and that she didn’t deserve her guilt. People actually wrote that she deserved to be miserable. These were comments on blogs and following online media stories. I told her that the people judging her had most likely done something in their lives that could have caused someone injury, but they were lucky to have sidestepped that fate. People didn’t realize how easily a spinal cord injury could occur.

Helping her heal became my mission: Her happiness would be the final piece to mine. I wasn’t healed until she was.

From there it just poured out. She told me she had major anxiety attacks and that she watched that night play out in her head, frame by frame. Every single day. She told me she was worried that someday I’d hate her, but I think she knew deep down I wouldn’t. She apologized for bringing it up because I think it had actually sunk in that I wanted her to be happy. I think she knew I was okay with it all, but she felt despair inside. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe me. She did. It was like a waterfall of emotion that she’d carried inside for six months, and the word prank broke her internal dam. It just shattered her, and she was reeling.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was worried about her. I was even more worried than I had been before. I knew it was really bad, and I knew I would have to help her. The irony was that, honestly, I was happy. I was happy to be alive, grateful to be in love, and thankful that I had so many great friends and family members. Sure, I was scared, and some days rather terrified, but I was happy inside. I knew she wasn’t. I knew I had to focus on putting aside my own issues, and I decided to take on hers.

One day I said to her, “I have physical pain. You have emotional pain. But they are so different. Don’t carry this sadness forever. I don’t intend to.”

I decided during that conversation that I would be her pillar of strength forever, and I told her that. I felt like our friendship was so strong that our shared experience would get us through this together. I told her she could always talk to me. I became her spine. I channeled optimism for her. I wanted to save her. I knew I would be fine, but I didn’t know if she ever would be.