June 7, 1968. A day just like today. It was a Friday ... I woke up, did all my primping and went to school ... I was a sophomore in HS and my world was perfect. My parents had opened our pool earlier in the week, so I had invited my best friend and our boyfriends over for a swim after school. We got home about 2:30 and headed out back - full of youthful enthusiasm. We hit the pool playfully, used the diving board and the slide ... we were having a blast. Sometime before 3:30 (the details about time are a bit fuzzy), I took my last step. I walked to the slide, climbed the ladder, put my hands over my head and gracefully slid down hands first. The minute my head hit the water I felt a "zing" and everything stopped. I just floated in the water ... it felt like I was doing the jellyfish (aka dead man's) float, but I realized I couldn't move. I knew I was in trouble, and wondered if anyone else knew it. I directed my thoughts to my boyfriend ... "Paul, help me. Please, see me. Please...". He was the only one who realized I wasn't playing. (I think I do believe in telepathy.) They pulled me up into the air, and I could breathe again. The next thing I remember is laying on the pool deck. It was hard to get a deep breath, but I was breathing on my own. People kept putting my hands across my stomach, and they would just fall off... again and again. I still don't know why they did that. Eventually a sheriff came - he wanted to do "artificial respiration", but my neighbor sternly told him not to lay a f***ing finger on me. I was shocked to hear an adult use that word ... no one I knew used it back then. Finally an ambulance came, about 45 minutes after my accident. They lifted me onto their gurney (no manual stabilization, no C-collar, no back board), slid me into the back of the ambulance and placed a sandbag on either side of my neck. We rode to the hospital with one guy kneeling over me holding the sand bags and the other blaring the siren the whole way. Gave me one hell of a headache! At the hospital they cut off my bathing suit - I was so embarrassed. I was also appalled ... it was a borrowed suit after all - I scolded them for wrecking it. My memories start to fade out at that point. I did hear the clippers as they shaved off most of my hair and the drill as they prepared to place the Crutchfield tongs in my head, but that was all.
Much later, I found out that the doctors had given me a 5% chance ... of surviving. I am 62 years old, and have forgotten so much of my life, yet these memories remain crystal clear. Time has not clouded them. You'd think by now these memories would only bring remembrance ... not regret and sorrow. Usually I celebrate each anniversary - the survival of one more year. This year, however, it's hit me hard. I am not needed as I once was. I am so lonely. Being dependent on others sucks. I want a "do over" - another chance. I don't want to be a quad any more. Thanks, O Quads, for being there to hear me.
