Unlucky Number Eight
If you know me, then I’m sure you’ve heard this story before. I was telling some friends about it over the weekend, and I decided that it would be a good blog entry. I’m sorry if this is repetitious for you. I’ve actually included many details that I’ve recalled over time that I may, or may not, have already told other people.
This was the end of summer of my 15th year around the Sun. I was living with my grandparents by this time, but I was spending a weekend with my mom (who lived a short distance from my grandparents.) My older (by six months) step-sister decided to “borrow” my step-dads GMC Jimmy to go to her boyfriend’s house one night. One of my friends, my younger step-sister (who was around 10 years old), and I helped her push the car out of the driveway, and got her on her way. She wanted us to hang out and wait for her to get back, so that we could help her get back into the driveway.
We hung out down the road for about two hours talking, smoking, and cracking jokes. My older step-sister finally came back, and she was obviously not sober. I was certain that she had been drinking from the smell of her, and I’ve been around marijuana enough to have a good idea that she was stoned as well. I could have been wrong about that, but I don’t think that I was.
My older step-sister wasn’t ready to go home yet, so we all piled into the Jimmy and went cruising around. We all wanted some beer, so we hit a local convenience store that was out in the country. I knew the owners, and I used to play around the store with the owners’ nephews. There was a huge feed barn attached to the store, and I knew of a gap in the wall that I could squeeze through. I broke in, snuck around to the back door, and opened it up. I started grabbing beer, smokes, and wine coolers to hand to my friend that was waiting outside the door.
We soon had a good load of alcohol, and went cruising around town drinking and laughing it up. I would like to say that I was nervous about getting caught, or felt bad for my burglary, but I didn’t. I was young, stupid, and thought that I was invulnerable to everything in the world. I outgrew those feelings that night.
We ended up at Dennis The Menace Park, and hung out there for an hour or two while drinking. A cop cruised by on the main street that was adjacent to the park, and that spooked us all. We decided to head back into the country where we were less likely to get busted.
We drove back past my mom’s house, and ended up at a cliche pit that all of my friends and I used to hang out at on our motorcycles and four-wheelers. I’m not sure how much time we spent there, but we got good and drunk. It was getting late (or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it,) and we decided to head back home. The road from the cliche pit was a dirt road, and my step-sister (who was still driving) decided that it would be fun to swerve hard to the left and right as she barreled down the road.
I warned her not to do that since the Jimmy was top-heavy and could easily flip. She ignored my statement and continued to do it. I got tired of being thrown around, so I put my seatbelt on. This saved my life because about 20 seconds later, she lost control and ran off of the road. We ran down the bar-ditch on the side of the road, and hit the other side. We ended up being launched into the air, and we landed upside down. We rolled another 2 1/2 times, and ended up on our tires.
When I realized that we were going to crash, I relaxed. I raced motorcycles for a while, and I was taught that in a crash, you should just relax. The momentum and energy of a crash is too great for the human body to resist. If you fight it, you’ll just end up being hurt worse. This training kicked in as we wrecked, so I let my body go.
During the flipping, I felt a cold sensation rush down my arm from my upper arm to my fingertips. For a good portion of my arm, it was the last sensation that I would ever feel. I thought that the cold was from the beer that I had in my hand spilling on me. Thinking back on it, the cold sensation ran the wrong direction. Had it been a beer spilling on me, it would have been from my hand to my shoulder, not the other way around.
When we finally came to a rest, the dome light came on, and there was blood everywhere. I knew that someone was hurt, and I didn’t think that it was me since I wasn’t feeling any pain (at that moment.) I asked everyone to sound off and tell me who was hurt. Everyone told me that they were ok. I tried to motion with my arms to indicate that someone was hurt, and only my left arm would respond. That’s when I looked down at my right arm, and realized that it was my blood that I was seeing.
The Jimmy was only a 2-door vehicle, and the seats were all jacked up from the wreck. My only way out was to crawl through the window. I managed to get out of the Jimmy, and we walked back to the road. My step-sister was trying to clean up the mess to get rid of evidence. The main evidence being the keys that were jammed into the ignition. I told her to leave the keys. We were busted anyways. No way out of this one.
I decided to survey my injuries. Blood was running down my neck from dozens of lacerations behind my ear, and my ear was shredded pretty badly. I felt around my skull, but found no gaping wounds. I decided that those were minor and could wait. While looking at my arm, I saw a large triangular piece of glass sticking out of my shoulder. I pulled the glass out and threw it down. It burned as it came out, and blood started to flow right away. I continued to inspect my right arm with my left hand, and when I came to the upper half of my upper arm, my hand fell into the gaping wound that was present in my arm. I could feel bone, sliced muscle, and all sorts of other nastiness. I knew that I was going to bleed out if I didn’t tourniquet my arm right away. I took off my shirt, and used it to tie off my arm. I took the knot from the tied up shirt, and crammed it into my arm to help staunch the flow of blood. I’m very certain that my first aid training from my Boy Scout days saved my life.
After I bandaged myself as best I could with what I had, we walked down the length of the dirt road back to the main road. Someone had apparently heard the crash, and called the cops. As we got to the main road, a police officer turned the corner on to the dirt road. I’m not sure how he missed us, but we managed to hide as he passed us by. We ran across the main road, and into the cotton fields that run behind the row of houses that face the main road.
We started walking through the soft red dirt of the cotton fields to make our way home. At one point we hit a patch of thorns. My little step-sister had lost her shoes in the wreck, and asked someone to carry her. My friend declared that she wasn’t his sister, and he wasn’t going to carry her. I took her up in my one good arm, and carried her the 30-40 feet across the thorns. Once we were past this obstacle, we continued on.
We were about half way home (it was a little over three miles total) when we ran into a security fence. This fence was made of chain link, and was six feet tall. The kicker was the foot of barbed wire across the top of the fence. My friend scrambled over first. My helped my younger step-sister get halfway up the fence, and she managed the rest by herself. Finally, my older step-sister climbed over. I was the last to go. My arm was only hanging on by the bicep, so I only had my two feet and my left hand to do the climbing. I was uncomfortable, but I was also in serious physical shock. My mind was clear, and I wasn’t in any pain. I think that it was this lack of pain that allowed me to continue. I don’t remember the details of the fence, but I had made it over.
We continued our trek through the loamy dirt of the cotton fields, and finally found our way home. My friend headed to his house that was about three doors down from my mom’s house. The rest of us went inside as quietly as we could. My little step-sister went straight to the phone to call her mother that lived several hours to the north. My older step-sister went straight to bed to pretend that she had been in bed all night long. I hit the bathroom to survey my wounds to see if I could treat them myself and not have to admit that I was in the car. Sure. My blood was all over the car, but I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time.
I took my bloody shirt off of my arm, and looked at it in the mirror. I can still close my eyes and vividly see what I saw that night. I’ll spare you the gory details, but it looked like someone had taken a wedge of flesh out of the back of my right arm and thrown it away. I didn’t get light-headed, nauseous, angry, or fearful from what I saw. I knew that I was in deep trouble, and that I had to do something now. If I didn’t take action, I would bleed out and die. This knowledge drove me to action.
I immediately went out into the kitchen where the phone was at. My little step-sister was still babbling incoherently to her mother on the phone. I grabbed the phone and told a woman that I have never met that we were in a car wreck, and that no one was hurt. I knew that I was hurt, but she didn’t know me or care about me. She wouldn’t care that I was hurt, so I didn’t see that she needed to know about it. I hung up the phone, picked it back up, and immediately called 911.
The woman on the other end of the phone was perfect. She was calm, exact, encouraging, and highly professional. I wish I could remember her name. She dispatched an ambulance to come save my life, and I hung up the phone.
While I was on the phone, my little step-sister woke up my mom and step-dad. They were entering the kitchen as I hung up the phone. I was so afraid that my mom would be mad, but as soon as she saw the blood on me, she became more concerned than angry. My mother is a strong woman, and I found out that night just how strong. She looked at my wound, and told me, “There’s a chunk of your arm missing!” She wasn’t queasy, angry, or scolding. She was merely stating a fact, and I could tell that she was concerned for my life. I reassured her that I would be ok, and that an ambulance was on its way.
I decided to head back into the bathroom where I had been bleeding quite a bit. I had nothing to do while waiting for the ambulance, so I started cleaning the blood out of the bathroom. As I headed into the bathroom my little sister, Jill, came out of her bedroom. She was only 8 years old at the time, and she didn’t quite understand what was going on. She asked me if I was ok, and I told her that I was hurt, but that a doctor would fix me up as soon as we got to the hospital. I told her not to worry, and to go back to bed. She groggily turned around, and went back into her bedroom.
The ambulance finally arrived, and I went outside to meet the paramedics. We met at the door, and he asked me who was hurt. I told him that I was the only person injured in the wreck. He took one look at my arm and lost all of the color in his face. He asked me how long ago the injury had happened, and I told him that it was about 45 minutes ago. He looked at my arm, my face, my arm, and then back at my face before stuttering, “But. But, you should be dead by now!”
I calmly assured him that I wasn’t dead, but I would be soon if we didn’t get to the hospital.
He stated again that I should be dead.
I resisted the urge to punch him with my one good arm.
My step-father finally stepped in, and told the paramedic that we should be moving towards the ambulance, and getting me to the hospital. This snapped the paramedic out of his shock, and we got into the back of the vehicle. I was laid down on a gurney. A neck brace was put on me, and I was strapped down to the bed. The paramedics began searching for a vein for an IV. Because of all of the blood that I had lost, it took four tries for them to get a good stick. They finally got it into my crook of my elbow on my left arm. I still have a scar (looks like a freckle) on that spot on my arm because the IV was in for so long.
The police, who had found the wreck, the booze, and the blood were fervently searching for those involved, and when a police officer passed our house with the ambulance outside figured he had found the right place. He stopped at our house and asked what was going on. My older step-sister, who had confessed to the whole night to her father broke down and started babbling to the police officer. She told him about everything that had been done, and tried to blame the theft of the car on me. I was in no shape to defend myself, so I just let her babble. I knew that I would eventually get my chance to refute her version of events. Fortunately, my younger step-sister was an incredible honest child, and she told the police the true chain of events. The police wanted to question me, but I told them that I wouldn’t talk to them until after I had received medical treatment.
I don’t remember much of the ride to the hospital, but one thing that I will never forget is the look on my father’s face as I was wheeled into the ER. He looked older, concerned, and scared. I’ve never seen my father scared before, and this made me frightened as well. He had been imagining the worst after my mother called him and told him to meet us at the emergency room. He only lived a few blocks from the hospital, so he was already there by the time we got there. His imagination was running while during his long (maybe 10-12 minutes) wait for my arrival made the situation much worse.
I knew that if I showed my fear that it would spiral both of us into a state of hysteria. I looked at him, smiled, and told him that I would be ok. It was just a small cut that was bleeding badly, and that a few stitches would patch me up. I tried to tell him that I’d be walking out in a few hours, but I was wheeled into the trauma room, and he was prevented from coming in until the doctors had a chance to examine me.
I remember a battery a questions to judge my mental capabilities. I was asking things about the date, President, grade I was in, my age, my birthday, and some other minor things. I was sharp enough to answer them all. I was asked here I hurt, which was really nowhere. I wasn’t feeling any pain at that moment. The doctor finally told me that he needed to knock me out, so that he could clean my wounds. I remember a very cute, and almost too young, nurse looking down at me with concern on her face. She injected some medicine into my IV, and I blacked out a few moments later.
I’m not sure how long I was out, but I woke up to some very cold water washing over my arm. I was laying on my left side, and the water flowed across my chest and back. It was a shock, and I think that’s what woke me up. I turned to the doctor, and the first words that I said was, “Did you find any glass in the wound?” He looked very surprised that I was so coherent, and told me that the wound was clean, and looked in good shape, but that I would need surgery to put me back together.
I was rolled over on to my back, and I looked around. My grandparents had arrived, and they were sitting in the trauma room with me. I remember smiling at them, and my grandmother broke down and started to cry. I could tell that she didn’t want to show her fear to me, but she couldn’t help it. My grandfather walked over to me. I don’t remember what he said, but it was very reassuring. Just having him there by my side made the whole ordeal better.
About this time a police officer walked in and wanted to talk to me. My grandfather stood in his way and told him that I was in no condition to talk to anyone. Now that I think back on the whole thing, I never did talk to a police officer about what happened that night.
I was in the emergency room for quite some time, and I remember a parade of doctors coming in and out. The cute, but very young, nurse stood by my side the whole time. It seemed that the doctors were more curious about the wound in my arm rather than treating me. The nurse, and I wish I could remember her name, was my caretaker. She was my advocate. She was the one that wanted to see me get better.
I remember one surgeon walked in and talk to my grandparents. He inspected my arm, and declared that his skills were not enough to put me back together. It was at that point that I started thinking that I may lose the arm permanently. Fortunately, the doctor quickly followed up with a recommendation for another doctor. That second surgeon finally arrived. After a thorough check of my arm, he said that he could put me back together, but that I would probably not be able to use it ever again. He said that there was one more doctor that had been an orthopedic surgeon for decades that could probably do that job. The problem was that Dr. Thompson was out of town on vacation. My grandfather set about to trying to find Dr. Thompson, and convince him to cut his vacation short.
I was wheeled to a hospital room, and on the way there I ran into a girl that I went to junior high with. I don’t remember her name, but I remember that I had always thought she was cute. I was embarrassed to have her see me in my current state, but she offered me a smile. That made me feel better somehow. Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps it was truly friendly. I don’t know, but it still made me feel like I had someone my age that was on my side.
I don’t recall exactly how long I was in the hospital waiting for surgery, but I’m sure that it was several days. I think we had to wait for the Dr. Thompson to get into town or something. I don’t really know because I was on a serious case of morphine the entire time.
I would only wake up for a few minutes here and there. Sometimes the room would be empty. Sometimes there would be a dozen people in the room. When I would wake up with people there, the room would grow quiet, and they would all look at me expecting me to say something. I would always offer a smile, and say, “Hi.”
There was one time that I was woken up by the phone. The person that had laid out everything in my room had put everything on my right-hand side. The phone, TV remote, and emergency call button were all on my right side. Even in my drug addled state, I knew that it was a idiot that had setup my room. I tried reaching for the phone with my right arm, but the pain and lack of movement of my arm prevented me from doing so. I wasn’t in the clearest state of mind, and I tried to roll over to reach it with my left arm. I rolled over on my right arm, and the pain kept me from doing this. About the time I decided to give up on the phone, it stopped ringing. I was pissed that I couldn’t answer the phone, but I quickly faded off back to my drug-induced sleep.
I remember one time that I woke up my mom asked me if I needed anything. I knew that I would be laid up for ages with my injured arm, and that I would need something to read while recuperating. I had just discovered a series of books called “Thieves’ World” and I wanted to read more of them. At this time there were 8 or 9 of them in print. I told her that I already had the first book, but that I would like another 2 or 3 of them from a used book store called “Miss B’s Books” that was a few blocks from the hospital. I remember waking up a while later, and my mom had a bag of about 20 books that the ladies at Miss B’s had recommended for her. They knew me there, and knew what I liked to read. They even included a hand-written note to me to tell me to get better. I used that note as a bookmark for years.
I was finally wheeled into surgery. It was just like you see in the movies. Monitors, bright lights, sterile tools, trays of implements, and about a dozen people. I always wondered why it took so many people to do surgery, and still really don’t know why so many are needed. I remember an older woman putting a mask over my face, and telling me to count down from 10.
10
9
8
7
6
….. I wake up ….
5
4
3
….. I look up and realize that I’m in back in my room with a ton of people there looking at me. My mom stepped up and asked me what I was counting. I told her that the doctor told me to. I don’t remember any of the surgery. I don’t have any knowledge of lost time. I was out of it for five hours (three of that being surgery time,) but I don’t remember one bit of it. It’s a scary sensation to lose five hours of your life and not even be aware of it.
My arm was hurting me for the first time, and I looked down at it. It was in a cast that ran from my armpit down to my wrist. I wiggled my fingers a bit, but that tiny bit of movement sent fire up my arm. I decided that it would be best to just let it lie there.
Because of the morphine that was on, I faded in and out of consciousness the entire time I was in the hospital. I hate that feeling. I know that I want to be awake and alert, but I just can’t do it. I hope to never have to be on morphine again in my life. It’s not the pain that is bothersome, but the complete and utter lack of ability to stay coherent.
I was in the hospital for another day or two after my surgery. I remember the nurse coming into tell me in the morning that it was time to go home. I was glad to be getting out of there. She took my IV out, and I immediately perked up. It was like a switch inside me got flipped, and I was totally awake and aware of what was going on.
I was also hungry like I’ve never been hungry before in my life.
The nurse told me that she had to wait for the doctor to sign my release forms, and that she would track down some food for me while we waited. She brought me a typical hospital breakfast. I don’t remember what it was because it didn’t stay on the plate long. Within a few minutes, I was polishing off the last of the food. The nurse came back in and asked me if I was still hungry. I just smiled her her and nodded as I chewed the last of the food. She was back in a few minutes with more food that disappeared as quickly as it arrived. I thought about eating more, but decided that it was best if I stopped.
My grandmother, who was the only person there with me, was smiling the whole time. The fact that I was eating and alert seemed to relieve some of the tension and worry in her body.
I was finally wheeled out of the hospital and to the car. My grandmother asked me if I wanted to get my hair washed. It was still matted with my blood from the wreck a week before. We stopped at her hair salon where the Mexican ladies that ran the place doted over me, told me to get better, and, the best part, washed my hair. It felt so good to get that blood off of me.
The criminal investigation of that night took several weeks, and my grandfather decided to get me away from it all. He got permission from the district attorney to take me out of town, and we got on the road. We drove all over New Mexico, and into Durango, CO. We stayed several days in Durango before we headed back to Texas. We stopped off in Stinnett, TX where my Aunt Vernelle and Uncle Bub live. Vernelle was a nurse, and she took the stitches out of my hand, ear, and skull. I had almost thirty stitches in my right hand, over thirty in my right ear, and about twenty in the skin behind my ear. All but one came out cleanly, and I remember my cousin, Jeremy, screaming, “Oh my God! Look at all the blood! Holy cow! They’re going to have to amputate your ear now! Oh my God!” It wasn’t that bad. He was just trying to freak me out, but after all of the blood that I’ve seen, a little dribble out of my ear is nothing. We all got a good laugh out of it.
We finally ended up back home. By the time I got home, my mother had moved to San Antonio to get away from it all. My step-sisters were back with their mother, and my step-father was in Ohio with his family. Things were going sour at that household for a while, but the events of that night pretty much destroyed the family unit. I feel a little bad about it because I was partially responsible for that night, but it all worked out for the best in the end. My mother ended up with a better man (that she’s still with to this day,) and my step-sisters ended up back with their mother where they probably got a slightly better life. I heard later on that my older step-sister had gotten in trouble several times for drinking and driving. I learned my lesson from that night, but she did not. I just hope she doesn’t hurt anyone else with her drinking and driving.
One of the things that my step-mother gave to me when we got back home was the shirt that I was wearing during the wreck. I figured that it would be a total loss because of the blood that had soaked into it. She managed to get it clean, and I still own it. I wear it every year on the anniversary of the wreck to remind myself of mistakes, stupidity, and why to never do something like that again.
My arm was in a cast for two months following the surgery. I was forced to use my left arm for everything, and I discovered that it was quite easy to do. I had never really tried to use my left arm/hand for anything before, and I found that I could do lots of with my left hand. It brought out my latent talent for ambidexterity. Now, when I learn something new with my right hand, I do my best to learn it with my left as well.
Shortly after I got out of the cast, I was called to the juvenile correction facility. I figured that I would be spending time in jail for my actions. I was resigned to accept my punishment for what I had done. The probation officer told me that there was ample evidence to convict me for burglary, but the district attorney was willing to accept a guilty plea in exchange for six months of probation. I didn’t even have to think it over. I knew that this was a generous offer, and I took it right away. Probation was much better than jail time. I ended up with monthly meetings with my probation officer. I also offered to work for the store that I had robbed to make up for the stuff that I had taken. Johnny asked me if I had learned my lesson. I had, in more than one way, learned many lessons from that night. He said that that was good enough for him, and told me to stop by from time-to-time because he may need my help moving some things around. I helped Johnny around the store for the next few years until he sold it to a cousin, and moved away.
I found out later that my step-father wanted to prosecute me and my friend for stealing his car, but the district attorney told him that it was my step-sister that stole the car. Since we were in the car, we could be prosecuted for this crime, but it would be an all-or-nothing prosecution. It would be the four of us, nor none of us. My step-father didn’t want to send his precious daughters to jail, so he declined to press charges.
I still have lingering issues from that night. Most of the scars on my hand, ear, and skull have faded over the years. I still have some glass embedded in my skull, but it’s not going anywhere. The doctors decided that it would be best to leave it there. I agree. I don’t want anyone cutting into my skull just to remove a few pesky pieces of glass.
The main problem that I have is that I have some massive amounts of scar tissue in my right arm. That scar tissue will sometimes shift and pinch off the ulnar vein, and brachial plexus nerve bundle. This effectively kills my arm. Blood can’t flow out of the arm because of the pinched off vein which prevents fresh blood from arriving into the arm. Also, when the brachial plexus is pinched off, I lose all sensation and movement of the arm. It’s basically dead flesh. This doesn’t happen too often, it tends to only last for an hour or two. It’s horrible inconvenient when it happens, but I just wait it out. Over the years, this has happened less and less. I’m not quite sure why this is, but I’m thankful that it’s gone from a several-times-a-week occurrence, to happening maybe a few times a year.
Another problem I have is lack of sensation in my arm. I can’t feel my pinky finger at all, and most of my ring finger is numb. I also have very little sensation in the rest of my arm. I can kind of tell pressure, and, to some limited extent, heat, but that’s about it. I also have zero sensation in my upper arm beneath my scars.
Lastly are the psychological scars. I still sometimes have nightmares about the wreck. They are very vivid, intense, frightening, and all consuming. I always wake with a start from those dreams, and I never go back to sleep. There are some nightmares that I have that I can convince myself that they are just dreams and get back to sleep. That’s not the case with these. When I have these dreams, I just stay awake during the night. I can’t control them, stop them, or avoid them. They’re there, and I have to deal with them. Like the problems with my arm, the further away from the wreck that I get, the less frequently they occur.
Overall, I came out of that night in pretty good shape. I learned a hard lesson, but it’s a lesson that I learned and learned well. Drinking and driving is a killer, and it only takes a small mistake over the course of a few moments to drastically alter your life. I also learned that seat belts save lives. Had I not been wearing my seat belt, I’m pretty sure that I would have been in much worse shape (probably dead) than what I came out with.
So, you may be wondering why the title is “Unlucky Number 8″? The wreck happened on August 8th, 1988. Yep. 8-8-88. It’s a day that I’ll never forget.
