Pan back to 1985. It was the summer, and near the end of school. I have always hated gym. Gym and P.E. to me had been ritual periods of humiliation and defeat. I was fat, dyslexic, had poor motor control, and wasn't exactly Mr. Popular with my classmates. In sixth grade, a phys ed teach named Mrs. Flemming called me a failure in front of a class of 30 kids. Even though I can honestly say she was wrong (and I have debated finding out where she lives and telling her off), it still burns.
There were three things I dreaded in gym more than anything else. Gymnastics, wrestling, and those stupid Presidential Physical Fitness tests. I hated gymnastics so much, in fact, that one year I actually slammed my arm against the edge of a counter repeatedly in an attempt to break my own arm. Too bad my arm was tougher than my pain threshold, and you don't get out of gym just because you have a massive bruise. I hated wrestling because I was (and still am, actually) not comfortable with touching other men. I also got the shit beat out of me by jocks whose testosterone level insured their brains boiled in a bath of hormones all throughout high school. I am not proud that I was the common punching bag for many bullies, but I want to be honest, and not look like some sort of hero. And the physical fitness tests were a concrete, on-paper way to say, "Hey, here is PROOF you are a loser." All my life, I warned anyone who cared to listen that one day I was going to get seriously hurt one of these days, but beyond the occasional punch to the gut, kick to the groin, or humiliation by bullies when the gym teacher wasn't looking, I never really got that badly hurt. And actually, despite what it may sound like, MOST of my gym teachers were pretty cool. Some of them understood that not everyone is a jock, and never pointed me out, or tried to make a presentation out of my mistakes (except that one bitch).
I could barely contain my sense of relief when my sophomore year of gym was going to be my last. Ten years of humiliations were nearly at an end. Soon, I could burn my stupid gym clothes, and be rid of the badge of shame. And to make matters better, that year there was only one guy in my wrestling weight class, and this guy hated gym, too. His name was Jeff, and he was much bigger than I, but very calm and friendly. We took turns the whole time falling to the mat, rigging each game so we'd get points without actually having to do anything. Only two weeks to go until the end of humiliation, but the cruel forces in my life at the time weren't going to let me escape without a more permanent scar.
This day, there was a substitute gym coach. I don't where they got this guy, but he seemed really ill at ease with the whole concept. We had seen him before, and half the time we had him, he just said, "Doing basketball? Uh, okay, play basketball then…" This time, we were wrestling. He just decided to pair up people who looked about the same height. I was paried with a guy named Trey. Trey was a big ass jock. He wasn't really that physically large or ox-like, but he was a football player, worked out heavily, and a known cocaine user. But other than that, he wasn't one of the evil jocks, and had never been one of the voluminous bullies waiting to kick my ass after school. My plan was simple. He'd knock me to the ground, I'd fall, he'd pin me, he'd do his testosterone dance for his buddies, and then it would be done with.
Well, it should have worked. But for reasons I can only guess that he got carried away, or just to be mean to the fat weird kid, he decided to change the rules of grappling and so on right from the start. He flipped me. In an impressive display of strength, Trey grabbed both my arms like a sledgehammer, took my 250lb body, and flipped it airborne so that I landed on the mat directly on my head.
My neck went back and to the side with an audible *snap*!
It was a deafening noise in my ears, and witnesses later said it was one of those bone-jarring noises that you don't easily forget. I fell to the mat, paralyzed. I didn't know I was paralyzed at the time, and I barely recall emitting a slew of curses and screaming something about my neck. My right ear went deaf, and my head rung like a TV set hit with a wrecking ball. Ow ow ow. My arm had fallen across my face, and when little light I could see was a dark maroon swimming with stars. I had seen stars before, but these were weird, they were like electric tadpoles darting here and there in my field of vision. I am not sure how long I was on the mat, because time sort of lost definition, so I'll just explain the chain of events in the order I remember them.
The coach came up to me, tried to convince me that swearing was not appropriate, and to move off the mat so the next people could wrestle. I could barely see him because my arm was across 3/4th of my vision, but I recall telling him to fuck off, and that I was in pain, and would get up in my own sweet time. Witnesses say he shoved me a little with his foot, and kept saying "Get up… get up, son." And then he looked really confused when I said I couldn't move. His "C'mon, get up," requests got a little more worried, and finally he asked, "Get up… please?"
I am not sure how long that was, but the next thing I knew, they had the school nurse look at me. She took my arm off, and moved me (bad mistake if you think your patient has a neck or spinal injury) from my curled semi-fetal position to a straight position where my eyes rested upon a ceiling light, and she said something I have always wondered about since, "You again?" I think I may have seen the school nurse maybe 6 times in two years, and only because I had a cold or something. Well, whatever. Maybe she thought I was someone else. It would have been easy to mistake me because at this time, my neck was starting to swell and turn purple, and spreading to my cheeks and jaws. She started doing this, "You feel this? How about this hon? Feel this? Hmm… how about…THIS??" My field of vision moved, and now my head hurt because I was staring directly into the light. In a deep sense, I began to remember a near-death experience I once had years earlier. I felt at oddly at peace.
The stars began to clear, and I became more aware to the pain. It was a dull, throbbing pain that started at the right side of my head, and my hearing on that side was almost completely gone. I became more aware of my surroundings, and I heard some people, adult voices, milling about and talking like they were at a cocktail party or something. More faces swum into my field of view. At first, they made sense. The substitute coach, the nurse, the nurse's assistant, and some other coaches. Then the faces became more out of place, like my old history teacher, my algebra teacher (who was also a physical therapist, so that wasn't so unusual), and a few other teachers I never had, but I knew worked at the school. I guess they wanted to consult everyone, but I was feeling like more of a freak show, where my field of view would become obscured by a face peering down at me. "This must be how a fish in a fishbowl must feel," I thought. I was kind of grateful, however, because if someone bent down to peer at me, they blocked the harsh ceiling light. It was then I became aware that I couldn't move. Before, I just figured I didn't want to. Now I was aware I couldn't move my head. Odd as this may sound, I wasn't too bothered by this at the time. I guess I was just in shock.
Then the announcement was made. "Gregory, hon? We have called an ambulance," said the nurse.
That upset me. But not for the reasons you might think. I was very upset that my parents would become mad at me. My father hated, and I mean outright hated, the medical profession. He called all doctors quacks, and never in the time I knew him, did he go see one unless my mother forced him to, which totaled maybe two times. One for a flu-like sickness where his work sent him home (which, considering my father was some uber-tech boss who would never admit to being sick, must have been a difficult feat at best), and another time when he got a hernia. Sickness would have to actually physically disable my father before he'd succumb to medical treatment, and I think the only reason he'd agree is that he was too weak to actually enforce his denial. He often made his views vocal, even to a doctor's face, which embarrassed my mother to no end. When he needed glasses, he went and bought a pair at the drugstore because he refused to give money to an optician. When I needed glasses, she had to sneak it around my father (who I think to this day still thinks that I am faking it). So I was convinced that medical help was something my mother would have to approve, and I'd get the, "Well, you know how your father is," speech, with possible options like holding it out and dealing with it, like in the case of my seasonal allergies. But this time, I had no choice, I couldn't move.
So the ambulance came, and a group of three EMT guys started working on me. First came the "Can you feel this… and how about this…?" I could feel some of the things they did, but it felt disjointed, like it wasn't happening to my body, but another one that I heavily sympathized with (like when you see someone else get kicked in the groin, you bend over in sympathy). They asked me to wiggle things, and I was able to do that… I think. Actually, it was a lot of, "Wiggle your fingers, can you wiggle your fingers… okay, good… now how about just your thumb… okay…" so they might have been humoring me. I complained about deafness in my ear and when they moved me, I saw those weird stars again. They took down my symptoms, and then strapped me to this huge board. Then they put my neck in a brace, and I was wheeled away.
I recall going down the hall, and I could see in my peripheral view, rows of students looking at me. Some were just staring at me with blank looks, some with curiosity, some with horror. I was put in the ambulance and whisked away. In the back of the ambulance, I met an EMT who was a friendly soul, and he asked me questions about my conditions, allergies, and family. When I told him that my family would be really mad, he at first brushed it off. Then I told him about the child abuse trials the year before, and then he understood, and asked if my family had insurance. I told him I didn't know, and now that I look back on it, he probably thought I was this really poor guy with an abusive family. What was going to happen later would probably cement this idea. The EMT assured me that the hospital would do everything they could to help me, even if I couldn't pay, and not to worry about the burden on my parents. I gave him my phone number and such. Then he got quiet, and then started asking, "So… you like sports?" Ha ha. "I hate them, that's how I got into this mess in the first place." He and I started chatting, and throughout the ride, we got to know each other. I still recall his hesitation at staying an EMT, or possibly going full-time as an ER surgeon. As was often the case, adults always felt comfortable telling me their problems.
Feeling started coming back into my hands. "Hey," I said, "I can feel my hands, but they hurt… they feel like they have been asleep for a while." He said this was a good sign, and that maybe I only had a pinched nerve, since my neck was so swollen. Feeling started coming back slowly to all my limbs.
We got to the hospital, and I was wheeled into a room where I was left alone for what seemed like a long time. It must have been a real slow day, because it was very quiet. Then a nurse came by, asked my name, and took down some info. Then I was alone again. Then someone else came by, and asked some of the same questions, and then left. Then someone came by, and asked some medical questions, and I got the feeling she was asking the wrong kinds. "I hurt my neck, my leg is fine," I said. She looked at my leg and asked if someone had looked at the bleeding. "My leg is bleeding?" I asked. "How did that happen?" She then asked, "Weren't you the kid in the car accident?" No, I was the wrestling accident. "Oh, then I am in the wrong room!" This kind of thing happened more than once. Then some people came in with a portable X-ray machine. Apparently they had also been sent to the wrong room, and had been x-raying the wrong person. They took off my neck brace, and my neck flopped to one side. Much pain and swearing followed. They said they couldn't take the x-ray with the brace on, and that I should be fine. By this time, I had feeling and control of my hands and feet, so they asked me to grab the end of the sheet that was on top of me, raise my neck up, and pull hard on the sheet. This was to lower my shoulders and expose my neck to the machine. They put a lead vest on me and took a picture. Then they left. Then they came back, and said the picture didn't take. Then they took another. This pulling on the sheet hurt worse each time. Then they came back, and said that it still didn't take, which was odd, because the machine worked fine when they x-rayed the other guy. They got another machine, and took a picture. This one didn't take either, so they said they would have to wheel me to the x-ray room. So they did.
Now, the odd thing about Fairfax Hospital at the time was that a circular hallway connected all the emergency rooms. As I lay in the hallway, assuming I was in line waiting for the x-ray machine, I could hear people walking towards me, then see them, then they'd walk by, and then disappear around the bend. The only reason I mention this was an incident that will haunt me until my death. There were police officers and the like that would go back and forth once in a while, and a pair of them came around the hallway, talking. This is what I heard:
"…. and that was very strange."
"Oh, if you want to see strange and bizarre, take a look at emergency room
number six!"
"Oh?"
"Well you know those wicker rattan chairs?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, it seems that…."
And their voices faded away. To this day, I want to know what the hell kind of weird and bizarre injury happened with a wicker rattan chair that necessitated an emergency room visit. I have puzzled and puzzled for over a dozen years about this. I have discussed this with people at my panels and talks at conventions, and all we can come up with was someone very fat fell through one and got stuck. Do you know? E-mail me, please!!!
Anyway, in the gurney in front of me, there was a woman with an IV who would moan a lot. She kept asking for a doctor, and said her labor pains were getting worse, and she had been there for four hours. Then someone came by and asked if I was the kid in the car accident. "No, I am the one with the neck injury." Then the woman in front of me wanted to know where her doctor went. The nurse said she would check. As far as know, no one did. They wheeled me into the x-ray room, where a doctor who fancied himself as funny told really bad dirty jokes. His two nurses took me into the actual room, which was large, round, and coated with tiny gray tiles. They removed the straps from my head, chest, and arms, and asked me to bet on the table. I said that I could not move my legs, and they got very mad about this, and said I was too big for them to lift, could I at least use my arms? I told them I had feeling in my legs, but when I tried to move or get up, they appeared held down. When I said this, they removed the sheet covering me, and said, "Oh my God, there are straps down here, too!" So they untied me, and took more x-rays.
Then they wheeled me out of the room, did some more tests, and then there was just this long period where I sat alone in the ER room. After about an hour, someone else came in the room. It was some kid, probably around 12, who got his foot shredded with a lawn mower. Now that kid had problems. My neck was still in a brace, but I was able to catch the action in the corner of my eye. Just from morbid curiosity, I looked around the bloody area to see what it looked like, and was strangely entranced when they pulled the wrappings off, how much what was once his foot looked like shredded meat. Both his parents were there, attending to him, dealing with his pain, and listening to the emergency surgeon describe what they were able to do, and what the consequences were. Then they wheeled him out, and the sudden noise and hubbub left nothing behind but silence. I looked at the clock, and saw it was around 4pm. I had been in this whole situation for about 5 hours. Finally, a nurse came in, asked me some more questions, and then the doctor came in.
He sat down next to me, pushed at my neck some, causing great pain, and told me what had happened. I didn't break my neck, per se, but the impact had torn my mastoids and trapeziums quite a bit. The main muscle across the back of my neck has been torn laterally, which would heal on its own. Three muscles attaching my neck to my shoulders had also been torn, one laterally, and two of them just ripped in half. Now, when muscles are torn in half, the halves that are attached to the bones will whip back like windowshades. One such muscle slammed into my right ear, which is why I kept hearing a dull ringing. As far as the paralysis, he said one of the neck muscles snapped into my spine like a rubber band, which caused severe swelling, and pinched off the main nerve to the spinal column for a short while. They had given me some steroids to reduce the swelling, and some pain medicine to help with the pain. He said they could do surgery to repair the neck muscles, but he said he advised against that because often other neck muscles would take over, and he thought the surgery would be unnecessary. All he recommended was a soft neck brace (kind of like a thick foam tube that goes around your neck), for three weeks, and a series of neck exercises. Then he asked this question:
"How do your parents handle stress?"
He asked it in the manner of someone who knew the answer, but wanted a second opinion. My heart sank into my stomach. I became to be very afraid. I knew that my father would become livid over this, and I am not sure how my mother was going to take it. I had to ask myself if she was sober that day, or what she would do.
"I ask because when we called your house, your mother said thanks for the call, she would be out shopping."
My mother never could handle stress. In her defense, she probably short circuited at the news, and went straight out to get some alcohol. While that may seem cruel, you had to understand that the fact she cared about me, and I was hurt, she just couldn't deal with it. In her own way, that was telling me that she was upset about what happened to me, and I a bit relieved that she wasn't angry. I got asked the usual questions about insurance, did I have a place to stay that night, had I eaten recently, etc… and I had to explain it wasn't like the ABC made for TV movies. It wasn't like I was homeless, I was just taking care of myself most of the time.
After discussing options and trying to find me a ride home, finally the school sent a "narc" to pick me up. The school's "narcs" were not really narcotics officers as far as I know, the school called them "awareness aides." Basically, they were adults who looked like teens who went around and made sure no funny business was going on. They were like covert police. During the day, they acted as office aides, and I recall someone telling me they were part of an internship program. But they would also patrol the school grounds, making sure no one was leaving without a pass from the office. Our school policy was that no one was allowed to leave the school grounds during a school day, and would send one guy to the local McDonald's to trap kids that went there for lunch. I only had a run in with one when he thought I forged a pass that let me go home when I was sick, caught me, nay, dragged me back to the office, only to find out they were out of the official passes at the time, and yes, I was allowed to go home. At least he had the grace to apologize. And as luck would have it, this very same guy was the one who picked me up.
He was a short guy, maybe just under five feet tall, and he didn't look much like a teen, but more of a Mafioso in gym clothes. He was very nice, and explained that the school had told my doctor about the problems I was having at home, and that I would be okay at home. The drive back was interesting. My soft neck collar itched, and I was looking at a small bottle of pills that they had given me for the pain. The narc agreed with me that the substitute had made an error, and it was a shame that gym had been so bad for me. He was studying to be a gym teacher, and agreed that gym was way too punishing for most kids, and told me stories about people where he grew up that did poorly in gym, who were now very happy and successful, and not to worry.
When I got home, my mother had just gotten back from shopping. She saw me in the neck brace. And said nothing until we got in the house, and really, really looked like she didn't want to talk about it. But she did ask if I could not wear the collar around my father, "because you know how he is…" Since it was about a year after the child abuse trials, he was still pretty much leaving me alone. But the doctor said the neck collar was not to come off for two weeks, and then worn only when upright for another week unless I was doing my neck exercises. That answer really caused a frustrated look in her eye, like she was begging for the whole thing to just disappear. She did get drunk that night, and for about a week I was on my own again. I was supposed to stay in bed for a week, but I couldn't exactly call myself in sick to the school, so I went to school.
First thing I started doing was tossing away those pain pills. Yeah, my neck hurt, but after I took one of those turquoise pills, my muscles felt like greased plastic bags of Jell-O sliding around in my body, which made me sick to think about it. It also conked me out, so after two of them, I threw the rest away. The rest of the weeks went by with rarely an incident. I think all of the school heard about my injury, and when I showed up the next day in this brace, some kids thought I was faking it, so they would tap me on the shoulder to see if I would turn my head and reveal my "faked" injury. I hated to tell it to them, but even if I was faking it, the very nature of a neck brace is that it prevents your neck from moving. Oh well, they had their giggles. After two weeks, I would take it off when I showered, but it was apparent I still had some healing to do. My neck would flop down like a rag doll, and let me tell you, it's very hard to shampoo your hair with a floppy neck.
The neck brace came in handy in an odd way, one day, however. My friends Kate and Julie invited me out to see AFI's presentation of the Star Wars trilogy at the Kennedy Center. After four solid hours of the movies, because of the AFI theater seats we were in, everyone's neck muscles hurt like crazy. Mine didn't. In fact, it propped my head comfortably at the proper viewing angle, so I was the only one in that theater who didn't have to take a dozen breaks during the whole six-hour ordeal.
My friends were supportive. They said that the kid who flipped me and the coach should be sued, along with the whole school. Trey was one of our star football players, and I was told he got a talking to, but his jeers with his friends when he saw me proved to me that this was a triumph for him, jock against nerd, in some stereotypical battle he had won. My parents didn't even want to talk about the injury, let alone have to prove it existed in a court of law. So, on the last day of my neck brace, I was going to a science fiction convention. I hadn't been doing my neck exercises like I should, and when I packed into the back of Britta's car on our way to the con, I took off the brace, and was delighted I could hold my neck up, even if only for short periods. By the end of the weekend, I never wore the brace again.
Years and years later, there are still some residual effects. I don't have very good up-and-down neck control, so my days to slamming head to music is over. Also, if I stand up too long, since I kind of slouch, my neck hurts. One of the most striking, though, is when I get a back massage from someone. I have gotten used to the drill. It is most noticeable under my left shoulder blade. I will feel their hands go rub rub rub… pause… rub rub… and I know the inevitable question will occur. "Did you know you have a lump here?" That's the last part of one of the muscles that was ripped in half. The other half is above my right ear. No, it's not a tumor… and then I have to relate them this tale.