A week into physical and occupational therapy, I met a girl named Star. She was 24 years old and in bad shape; the kind of patient everyone gawked at. One day on 295 in New Jersey, she fell asleep at the wheel and hit another car head on with her baby on board. Her head went through the windshield and her baby was luckily unharmed. Wearing a helmet due to brain surgery, her only way of communicating with me was through notepads. Her mouth had been wired shut due to a shattered jaw and she was in a wheelchair even bigger than mine, the kind they make stroke victims use.
During physical therapy one day, I was learning how to walk all over again. The therapist would carefully guide me step by step, how to raise each leg. Now, my parents never went to my physical therapy. They admitted to me that it was painful to watch so again, I was left alone to cheer myself on. At just the moment I'm beginning to get the right steps, two girls visiting a friend were laughing loud enough for everyone to hear and it was directed towards me. One girl would imitate the way Frankenstein would walk while patients looked away.
Star's mother raised from her seat, heading toward the two girls in such a heated manner, I couldn't believe this woman would stand up for a stranger that was kind to her daughter.
"May God punish you for this! You cowards!" she screamed.
Even though Star couldn't speak, she sneaked a smile through her metal grin. We became very close after that. I would bring her fancy pens to write with, my crossword books and any other things left over from my get well basket so we can communicate via ink and paper.
I went around in pity of myself. Crying wasn't an option at this point - I was completely hollowed inside. Until I met Star, I felt like the unfortunate one and always asked, "why me?"
I finally understood that no matter how bad off I think I am, there is always someone even worse. That mantra would stay with me to this day.
Though, things were looking positive, I still refused to see the friends left over. I was embarrassed to have them see me like this, wanting them to remember the girl before the wheelchair. A cell phone call was my limit. I had a goal to get myself back to the person I was before. To make matters worse, I was put on an IV steroid drip. Standing 5' 8", I gained 15 pounds, going from 122lbs to 137lbs.
My mother would come every other day just to bathe me and give me fresh clothes. I can't begin to tell you how embarrassing it is for someone my age to be bathed by their mother like a child. Father still stayed his distance. He thought this was his fault. The MS my cousin had was from his side and he had thought this was his doing. My father went from happy-go-lucky to despondent and extremely depressed. My health would lead to a downward spiral in his mental state.
On the other hand, I was prescribed the pain killer Percocet. Not only killing my physical pain, Percocet was killing the emotional pain too. For someone who never was into the drug scene, the effect of Percocet was dreamy (and itchy). It was an instant up, I was talkative, happy and floating above it all.
Eventually, I would learn that my body would become tolerant to Percocet, opening a gateway into the world of opiates.
