1. Shay #2
The doctors said it was a miracle I hadn’t bled out on the ice. It was a miracle that the blade hadn’t cut my carotid artery. It’d missed it by two millimeters. That was the difference between life and death that day … two millimeters.
Even though the blade didn’t cut my artery, it did plenty of damage. It completely severed my brachial plexus—the network of nerves that control my arm—destroying a few muscles along the way.
The surgeons who operated on me and repaired the nerves performed miracles. My outcome would be different if it wasn’t for them. Unfortunately, even with their flawless work, my body can only recover so much.
Nerves are the slowest-healing part of the human body, and injuries as damaging as mine are even harder to repair. For the first few weeks after my surgeries, my arm stayed in a sling, and I barely moved from my bed.
Then the physical therapy started—never-ending appointments to keep my muscles from atrophying. Five months after the surgeries, I hit my first milestone—my muscles and nerves responding to mental commands.
I was in tears, bawling my eyes out with my parents when that first big twitch happened. It gave us hope again that my arm would become functional.
But the progress felt torturous, and no matter how much capability I regained, it was different …
in every way. It's as if my reactions became extremely delayed, like a weak internet connection that buffered before finally loading.
To go from having lightning reflexes to …
this … is so goddamn challenging to accept.
Near constant physical therapy, along with mental health therapy, has brought me to today, where I can use my arm, hand, and fingers.
But they’re still weak, still slow, still aggravating … still painful. The mornings and nights are the worst when it comes to the achiness and bursts of lightning in my arm.
The first thing I do after waking up and the last thing I do before going to bed is my PT exercise.
I warm my hand up, touching the pad of each finger to my thumb repeatedly.
The mornings are worse though, pins and needles slicing through my arm with every rep.
They eventually fade, but continue throughout the day, triggered randomly whether I’m using my limb or not. It’s unpredictable.
The doctors say that time may be the only cure for the pains that persist, that in injuries like mine, it’s an unexplainable side effect of repairing the severed nerves.
Taking a shaky, gradual breath, I rub my chest with my right hand, trying to calm the erratic thump of my heart, as I reach out with my left hand and grab my shampoo, getting a good grip and lifting it off the shower shelf.
My fingers close around it, and a beat of pride blooms inside me.
I nailed it. Popping the cap, I open my right palm and focus on squeezing the bottle and pouring shampoo into my right hand.
Grabbing stuff is one thing, but that squeezing motion is so much harder to do successfully.
“Gentle now,” I whisper to myself, staring intensely at the bottle. “Nice and easy.”
My shoulder twitches, and my grip loosens ever so slightly.
“No, no, no. Come on. You’ve got this,” I say, encouraging myself, securing my grip on the bottle.
I know it would be so much easier to switch hands for this task, but that wouldn’t help my left hand and arm get stronger and better.
A drop of shampoo falls onto my open palm, and a smile breaks the stern line of my lips.
“Just a little more.” I beg my nerves to cooperate. But they always have other plans.
All of a sudden, my arm spasms. I lose my grip on the bottle, and it crashes to the ground, right along with my heart and stomach. I jump back carefully so my poor toes don’t get smashed. My shoulders sag from disappointment.
It’s fine. It’s fine.
My breathing shortens, and my eyes slam shut.
Don’t cry.
With pursed lips, I force a few breaths in and out, feeling the disappointment and sadness swirl inside of me before transforming to the two feelings I’m more comfortable with—frustration and anger.
It’s my emotional safe space these days, I swear.
Opening my eyes with a sigh, I bend down and grab the bottle with my right hand, lifting my left palm to catch the shampoo that I easily squeeze out. I massage it through my hair with my right hand doing most of the work.
My shoulder twitches, and without thinking, I reach up and scratch my scar that stretches inches across my skin.
I still can’t believe this is my life now.
Therapy appointments—both for my mental health, which has been a hell of all-time lows, and my physical therapy so I can work on getting more strength in my arm and better reflex time.
That’s all my life consists of—therapy appointments and well, taking care of Kyle.
Thankfully, I’m incredibly blessed when it comes to my parents, who have provided me with financial security during this time. I insisted on finding a job, but they insisted on me dedicating all my time to healing.
When your mom is the CEO of one of the largest makeup companies in the world, it’s both hard to win an argument and to make a dent in her bank account. My dad is a proud trophy husband and was a stay-at-home dad my entire childhood.
I’d be nowhere without my parents, especially right now. I damn sure don’t take that for granted.