Between a Rock and a Hard Place, Indeed

Although I currently call the province of Alberta my home, I'm a Newfoundlander, born and bred - and I'll be one 'til I die. Growing up in the '90s, I was the living embodiment of a free-range child. I was adventurous, chaotic. Choosing to cannonball rather than dip my toes in to test the water. My friends and I would leave our respective homes in the morning, ready to seize the day. Our parents rarely saw us until the streetlights lit the night sky like beacons; barring the occasional bathroom breaks and scavenging for food like the feral house goblins we were. My hometown has always been a wonderful, quiet little place, where our neighbors knew everyone's business, and always kept a watchful eye. These types of small towns instill a certain level of trust. If our parents only knew half of what we were up to! We were resilient children, and were confident that nothing bad would ever happen to us - until it did.

"Anything that can go wrong will go wrong." - Murphy's Law

Being small-town girls with a severe case of wanderlust, my friends and I would find the most arbitrary ways to entertain ourselves. One of our favorite activities was bounding from rock to rock across brooks, catching minnows to keep as pets until they swam belly-up. The brook that ran past my one friend's childhood home was framed by boulders that were haphazardly stacked together, creating child-sized nooks and crannies. We would crawl through these crevices and pretend that the spaces underneath the boulders were houses. No matter how much I begged, I was never allowed to play with them in this one "house" in particular. I can't remember the reasoning behind it, but looking back- it probably had something to do with the fact that I was clearly more "husky" than my younger counterparts. I came to this realization the hard way.

I remember having plans to attend a Christmas flea market with this friend, and her dad, one brisk Sunday afternoon back in November of 1995. I showed up way before our agreed-upon meeting time, probably trying to impose myself, fishing for an invitation to join them for lunch. Given that my childhood home was a swift two-minute walk away, the logical solution would have been to return to my house and eat lunch with my family. Instead, fueled by pettiness and spite, I decided that I was going to infiltrate this forbidden space and play there all by myself.

After a brief, determined march up the road, I proceeded to crawl my way through the narrow entryway. To say that it was a tight squeeze would be a gross understatement. I wasn't able to shimmy in past my waist, no matter how hard I tried. After coming to the foolish revelation that my bulky winter jacket was the only thing holding me back, I decided to discard it. Keep in mind, this was mid-November in Western Newfoundland. I would later regret this decision immensely.

Free of my winter garb, I was still too bulky to squeeze through, though I refused to let that stop me. When I finally acquiesced, I had wedged myself in so tightly that I was unable to crawl my way back out, no matter how hard I tried. I watched a lot of "Rescue 911" back then, and knew that I would have to keep a level head. I was aware of what could happen if I panicked, especially given how cold it was. 

Comforted by the fact that my friend was expecting me, I reassured myself that I would be discovered in no time. I vaguely remember hearing the booming voice of my friend's dad calling my name, but the sounds from the babbling brook drowned out my answering cries for help. Assuming that I must have gotten tired of waiting and gone home, they hopped into their truck and left without me. I waved my arms frantically as I watched them drive by, but I simply was not visible from the road. As they disappeared into the distance, I knew that I was in trouble. That's when I started to panic.

I can't remember much of what was racing through my head at the time, as I was starting to slip into shock. Determined not to waste any of my energy, I quickly pulled myself together, after allowing myself a few minutes to cry. I sang songs to comfort myself. I gave myself a pep talk. I prayed that someone would find me before I froze to death. My parents believed that I was at the flea market. My absence would go unnoticed for hours. 

I was trapped alone, in the freezing cold, for nearly three hours before I was finally discovered. Determined not to die, I mustered up all of my strength and managed to extend my short torso further upwards by bracing myself with one arm. I started screaming at the top of my lungs, frantically waving my other arm about. At that exact moment, a local teenager by the name of Sherry-Lee decided to crack open her second-story bedroom window. She raced downstairs in a panic to tell her mom what she had discovered.

Just as I was about to give up hope, I heard the sound of salvation advancing upon me; Sherry-Lee's mother and another local woman. While one of the women ran back to her house to fetch some blankets, and notify my parents, the other stayed with me. She held my hand and did her best to provide me some comfort.

Barely taking time to hang up the phone upon receiving the frantic call, my dad made a mad dash out the door to see what the hell was going on. After he failed to return, or call home with an update, my mother decided to investigate for herself. A direct quote from the news article states that our next-door neighbor notified her that she "wasn't going to believe the spot I was in", and they were right! News travels fast in small towns.

I've recently spoken to a childhood friend about this day. This woman's memory is a steel vault. She vividly remembers exactly where she was when she heard about the incident- marching in a parade with her Army cadet corps in another town. The ambulance and firetruck participating in the parade abruptly sped off to respond to the emergency call that ultimately saved my life. It's permanently embedded in her memory because upon learning that the call originated from our hometown, she instantly imagined that someone in her family had been in a serious accident. That must've been an incredibly heavy feeling of dread for an eleven-year-old to bear.

My rescuers placed hot water bottles around me and cocooned me in a large sleeping bag and oversized sweaters. Someone shoved mittens onto my ice-cold hands. When my poor frantic mother needed to take a break from comforting me, some of the local men from our volunteer fire department took over. They kept me calm by engaging me in conversation. Mom stated in the article that she was surprised by how calm I remained through the entire ordeal, only crying occasionally to go home. It's because I had such an amazing support system. 

One of the men asked me what I wanted Santa to bring me for Christmas, which caught me off guard, because - even though I was literally freezing - I was too busy daydreaming about ice cream. Before I could process his question, the words "I really want some ice cream" came flying out of my mouth. The adults burst into laughter, and didn't hear me when I tried to tell them that what I really wanted for Christmas was a Super Nintendo. Mom later quoted this little anecdote in her interview with NTV news, which just goes to show that mothers embarrassed their children long before social media. It's alright, though. I ended up getting my Super Nintendo, and I actually still have it to this day. It even works!

Emergency responders planned to use the jaws of life to free me after their attempts to pull me out backwards failed, but quickly had to change tactics when the noise of the machine sent me into absolute hysterics. By this time, an incredibly large crowd of people had begun to gather. It was later compared to a scene from "Rescue 911".

There was a major concern that I would be crushed if they lifted the ten-tonne boulder too high, because there was a risk that it would cause the supporting rocks underneath and surrounding me to shift. In the end, they decided to use four airbags, capable of lifting thirty-two tonnes each. It was the first time that they had been used to extricate someone from a life-threatening situation. A twelve-tonne boom truck, borrowed from Simms Garage in Carbonear, was also used to assist in raising the boulder just enough for the firefighters to place cribbing and wedges to keep everything secure long enough for me to be freed. It was a dicey situation that could have gone either way.

"It was like a scene from 'Rescue 911.'"

When I stood up, I was totally stunned by the throngs of people gathered around that proceeded to take an awkward bow, as though I had just pulled off the greatest escape act ever performed, which garnered a round of applause. Adamant on climbing into the back of the ambulance myself, my rescuers had to coax me onto the stretcher. I didn't want to be any more of a burden than I already was. My mother was allowed to ride along with me. I later found out that they filled in the crevices under the boulder to prevent other children from getting themselves stuck. 

As I was rushed off to Carbonear General Hospital for observation, I was given a very special teddy bear that was donated by VOCM Cares. Their "Buddy Bear Campaign" was established to provide comfort to children who have encountered high-stress situations, and are kept aboard emergency response vehicles in the area. The campaign is still ongoing, and is a very worthy cause if you're looking for a charity to support. I still have my "Buddy", and he still provides me with comfort twenty-six years later.

At the hospital, I was swaddled in heated blankets and hooked up to monitors. They managed to raise my core temperature to a satisfactory level and discharged me later that same evening. I walked out of that entire ordeal with nothing more than a mild case of hypothermia and a bruised hip (not to mention ego), and only missed one day of school. When I returned after my day of rest, my twenty classmates presented me with an enormous handmade card filled with words of encouragement. I'm pretty sure that it's still sitting in a box somewhere at my childhood home.

This has always been a sore subject for me. I've been asked about it by several people over the years, and would typically brush them off or redirect the conversation. I used to reserve this factoid for people I really felt I could trust. Upon helping to edit this piece, my own husband notified me that I've never even told him some of these details, and we've been together since 2006. 

I vividly remember coming across a group of teenaged boys while I was searching for my friends outside after getting separated at a party. When they noticed me standing alone, they loudly began mocking me, and speculating why I was even in the rocks in the first place. One of them said something lewd that I must have blocked out. I screamed profanities at them and fled the scene with tears streaming down my face. I still can't fathom how they were able to find humor in such a traumatic incident, one that easily could have taken my fragile life. I've harbored immense feelings of shame ever since, as though being an adventurous child who literally found themselves between a rock and a hard place was something worth ostracizing me over. 

I am no longer willing to carry this weight. I am no longer ashamed. This incident impacted my life, but it does not define me. I survived.

Thank you for reading.