CHAPTER 23

One Year Later

On the first anniversary of my accident, I was on the way back from an Abilities Expo in New Jersey. I had met the people at Colours Wheelchair, who had sponsored me and agreed to donate a really amazing wheelchair to me. I had attended the event to meet Rick Hayden, who ran the company and whom everyone called Big Daddy. I was going to choose the details for my chair. He was nice and hilarious and was the one who had asked me to be part of Team Colours originally, months earlier. I selected a blinged-out chair with spinners and suspension and was fitted, because anyone with an injury like mine needs a customized chair. They’re quite expensive, and I was honored to receive such a lovely gift. Also, I had hoped it would give me confidence because it was so pretty, with Aztec designs and bright blue colors, but the experience with the other girls I met on that trip tapped into some insecurities I hadn’t realized existed yet.

I was feeling a little shyer than usual meeting these beautiful Colours Girls. They were all paraplegics, and it was hard being the only quad among the little group. I remember feeling self-conscious, because I needed so much more help than all of them. I was fascinated by what they were able to do: They could easily transfer in and out of their chairs; they could lean over and just grab something off of the ground; they’d go to the bathroom together like any other group of girls. Their bodies didn’t even look paralyzed. They just looked like able-bodied people sitting down. They had no quad pooch, which I had developed; my belly protruded due to inactivity, and it made me look pregnant. And obviously their hands weren’t balled up like mine were.

What made me most self-conscious was that their hair and makeup were perfect. Mine used to always be perfect. I knew that if I could do my own hair, I could look just as nice. I knew how to do my hair better than anyone, obviously, because it was my hair. So while it was a great experience, it was also just a reminder of how disabled I really was. We all went out to dinner the last night, and I felt so not cute. My mom was there and she tried hard to help me get through it, but that night I was probably more sensitive than usual, and even though my hair did look nice, I felt insecure. These girls all looked hot. I wanted the use of my hands so I could look just as hot.

We came back from Jersey, and I was relieved that I was going to be able to see some of my friends. My mom brought back a giant cannoli from a New York–style deli, and we celebrated her birthday. Admittedly, there was a bit of sadness and negative energy in the room as we celebrated her birthday, but as I had hoped, the new chair eventually gave me a lot of confidence.

Looking back at the year that had passed, I knew a lot had changed and taken its toll on all of us, but through it all, I was certain my love for my family and friends had grown. Chris and I became more aware of what we had as well. We’d always been affectionate, but in the wake of the accident, after a year of being in it together as a team, we’d learned to be so grateful for each other and our love. After we returned home from rehab, Chris got into the habit of hugging me as soon as he walked in the door, a gesture I greatly anticipated each afternoon. We’d mindlessly done it before, but after the accident we did it with intent. At night, as we lay in bed, he would say, “I love you, sweetheart” and then I would rub his back gently until he started snoring. Each morning, he made my day by saying, “Good morning, beautiful.” We never left each other without a kiss and an “I love you” exchange. None of that routine was lip service either, and I knew in my heart it would always be our way. The year that brought us so much tragedy had also enriched our lives. We never let one day pass without our special moments. We’d become painfully aware of how quickly and drastically life could change. No one knew what the next day would bring, so neither of us wasted time not loving one another fully or taking our love for granted.

Chris and I reaffirmed our love for each other. I was amazed by how many people found this difficult to believe. It made me think that many people, those who questioned whether he would stay with me, just don’t know love. Love clearly wasn’t as common as I thought it was. It was hard for me to imagine that just because of a physical problem, a perfect relationship between two people who loved each other wouldn’t work. I only wished more people had that love for each other and could understand what we had. If you asked someone who has lost a spouse to cancer or some other terrible disease if they’d take their deceased loved one back if they were in a wheelchair, they’d say yes without question.

I never set out looking for our love to be tested, but I was glad—and not remotely surprised—that it survived. I never expected my strength in general would be tested or that I’d be forced to push the limits of that strength, but I was given no choice. I was always a careful girl, and I thought I was doing everything right. I was safe, or I tried to be. I really didn’t have to think about strength before, whether I was or I wasn’t strong. If you’d asked me as a twenty-four-year-old, “Hey, how would you manage being a quadriplegic?” I’d have said, “I wouldn’t want to know. I don’t think I’d handle it well.” You just don’t know until you need to know.