Help

It was a hot June evening in 1977. My parents were grilling and swimming with friends, unwinding after a busy week. I was working my waitress shift, saving money for college. My sister called me at the restaurant around 11 pm and wondered when I would be home. I thought it was odd that she called me, but then she told me my best friend, Sandy, had dropped into town to surprise me– could I come home now? I was excited when I rolled into the driveway– there were lots of cars and the party appeared to be in full swing. I couldn’t wait to see Sandy.

As soon as I stepped into the kitchen I sensed something was very wrong. I didn’t know some of the people there and I couldn’t see Sandy anywhere. My neighbor, Dr. Morriseau, came up to me and drew me into the dining room. “Your father suffered a critical injury diving into the pool. He is paralyzed from the neck down and may not survive. If he does live, he will never move again.”  I had two thoughts: first, I was grateful for his honesty, he hadn’t sugar–coated things; my second thought was: my father will never dance with me at my wedding. Then I went into shock.

The next day I found out the grisly details. My mother and 13-year-old sister had fished dad out of the pool and administered CPR. The reason they were able to help him was one of life’s great ironies: my mother had completed her CPR certification only the evening before. My father’s survival was a medical miracle. He lived for 17 years as a C–3 quadriplegic but he was never able to help himself again for the most basic of necessities. We scratched his nose, brushed his teeth, helped him cough, adjusted his blankets– a million gestures a day trying to make it right for him. I often wonder just how much we really helped.

Kim Dannies ©2008