CHAPTER 37

My Mother’s Birthday

On May 23, 2013, my third quadaversary, I received an incredible gift. My friend called me.

I’d grown a little lazy about calling her. I was getting ready to take my mom out for her birthday, when my phone rang.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi, how are you?” I asked.

“I’m okay. I was thinking about you today, obviously.”

“How are you feeling today?” I asked.

“Well, I want to tell you that the last three years on this day, I would just sit and look at pictures from the past. I’d feel so sad. I used to have a really hard time with this day. All I could think about was you being in this chair.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s been rough for you. I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time.”

“Well, I wanted you to know that I can look back at that day now and think of all of the really amazing things you’ve done from your chair and how many people’s lives you’ve impacted. I just wanted you to know I’m really proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you, too,” I said.

I knew this moment didn’t mean she was all right forever or that she was over what had happened. But it was such a powerful snapshot in time for us both—a considerable step toward healing. It meant to me, at least, that sadness hadn’t consumed her, that maybe she was on the way to really feeling better. That’s all I’d ever wanted for her and for all of us. I was so happy to talk to her and hear her voice. We’d both grown and we’d both healed, and we did it together.

Everyone always used to ask me what I planned to do on the anniversary of my accident. The first anniversary was tough, there was no denying that. But I had never wanted to see the day the same way many others in my situation might have. I didn’t want it to be negative for me. It was a bad day, don’t get me wrong. But May 23 was really no different than May 24 or May 25. The days that followed the accident were just as crappy for me as the actual date, so I didn’t feel there was a difference on that day.

I think the majority of people attached their anniversary to a specific date, and I was unique in that I’d chosen not to. I decided I would acknowledge it briefly, in my head, but I wasn’t going to be sadder on that day. I didn’t dwell on that date because I live with this injury every single day.

Some people in chairs who acknowledged their anniversaries grew depressed and anxious. Other people had parties. I thought about doing something to celebrate life. People get killed in accidents every day. I survived. I could have died that day. Instead, I hit at a bad angle, and it wasn’t catastrophic. That’s a reason to celebrate, and I like celebrations.

I thought of May 22 as the day I’d had my bachelorette party. It’s funny because I remembered it as a really awesome bachelorette party, and I think that surprised some people. We had talked about having another bachelorette party before the wedding, but we just didn’t. I had had one already, and it was amazing—the best bachelorette party I could have ever asked for. It was the next day, technically, that I was pushed in the pool—May 23—and, oddly, I didn’t mix the two up in my head as one event. Maybe for self-preservation or to maintain my sanity, I kept them separate. I remembered the one event as wonderful, and all I’d hoped it would ever be, and the other as not so great, but as something I had triumphed over.

For my friend, because she struggled with pushing me, it was never going to be a day for celebration. I knew that. It had been a sad day for her. Since May 23 was actually my mom’s birthday, I wanted it to always be more about that—a special day to celebrate her. I wanted that for my mom, and I didn’t want it to be anything negative.

On my third anniversary, I made a wish for the future: I hope someday May 23 will just come and go and the accident, for both of us, will escape our radar for good. I hope, too, that something wonderful happens on this day for my friend, something that eclipses the accident for her forever.