The Day I Don't Remember

There are dates and days in life we automatically remember. Birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays all come to mind when thinking about these. I remember the day of the Challenger explosion. I was in the third grade and sick that day and stayed home from school. My mom and I watched all of it happen on TV and prayed it was not real. I remember waking up the morning of September 11, 2001, and turning on CNN to see the towers being destroyed before my eyes and knew there were people in those planes and buildings dying. I remember the early morning hours of October 14, 2003, as I waited for the phone call that my first niece was born. I couldn’t have been prouder to become an aunt.

But there is one day I have in my memory that I do not remember at all. All the details I have, have been told to me. The weeks before and after are lost and were only disclosed to me like second-hand information. It was June 12, 2002. That was the day I was struck on the driver’s side of my car by a train.

I had only owned that red Mazda for three weeks. The pickup truck I drove, since the ink was still wet on my license, had just died on me two months before. My mom and dad helped me purchase it in my hometown of Lafayette while I was eight hours away in North Texas, trying to live the dream broadcast career in television news. They had met me in Shreveport, a point about halfway for both of us, so I could pick it up and drive it back to Sherman, Texas, where I had been living. I remember showing it off; I had never driven a car, and I was pretty proud to own a new ride.

Owning a new car was like a new lease on life for me. In late May, I had landed a job at a cable production company in Arlington, TX, and was moving up in the world. I was ready for a bigger city and a new start. But my fresh start would have to be delayed because that new car would stall on me in the middle of the tracks with no crossing bars and grass growing across them with a freight train coming. According to the engineer, I never saw him, and he never saw me until the metal of the front head of the train bore into the driver’s door of my car, yanking me through the seatbelt and onto the passenger’s side of the vehicle, down into the floorboards. We traveled this way for over two hundred yards before finally stopping in the middle of the tracks.

A fire and rescue squad were the first ones to get to me. One of the firefighters said I was responding to me when he talked to me. Although I was intangible, it was a sign to them; I was still alive. They rushed me to the hospital. I was in and out of consciousness. It was not until about a year later that I had flashes of memory of the ride in the ambulance or the accident itself. Those flashes were only in nightmares.

Simultaneously, three sets of people I knew were being affected by this singular event. The first was my friend, whom I was supposed to meet before the collision. I was going to help her write a letter to an old coach and wanted to make amends for her decision as a young college student. But she was running late, so I left to get lunch. She drove up on the scene as they were putting me in the ambulance. She was barely able to tell them my name before bursting into tears. As I look at the situation now, I wonder if it was part guilt or did she value our friendship. She was there for me during my hospital stay and a few months after, but soon changed her number and cut off contact with me. I made a few attempts to communicate with her and tell her I did not blame her, but all attempts failed. It took me many years to let go of hope to be friends again, but I have forgiven and moved on. I learned that in tragedy, two important things will always happen to friendships, you will grow closer or grow entirely apart. Unfortunately, the latter happened to us.

The second was my co-workers at the time. At the time of the accident, I worked the TV station KTEN in Denison, Texas. In the newsroom, we often listen to the police scanners for any clues at breaking news. When the evening anchor/producer Stacey heard a train/car wreck on the scanner, she sent a crew to cover it. Moments later, my friend had to call her to tell her I was the one hit by the train, but she didn’t believe it. She called my cell phone over and over, hoping it wasn’t true, and I would pick up. I never picked up. As the crew she sent to the scene arrived, they all broke down in tears as they recognized the car; Sometimes, you do not realize what you mean to people until a tragedy happens. Even though my co-workers were at the hospital every day, in time, we all drifted apart. Stacey and I still stay in touch now and then. She once said the hardest newscast she had to do was the one that night. I could only imagine the difficulty of reporting about someone you see day in and day out. Stacey is now an actress in Hollywood and is often cast as a news anchor or reporter. I am proud of her every television show and movie I see her act in, no matter little of a part. I never went back to work at KTEN. I wonder if anyone working now knows about the video editor who got hit by a train or if they ever wonder what happened to me. Chances are, those stories might have ended when we all left the station, one by one.

The third set of people affected were my family. My friend had a co-worker contact my father at his job to tell him I had an accident with a train. He asked if I were dead or alive, and the woman said: “I don’t know.” My father has never spoken to me about his fear that day, finding out the news. He went to the school my mother was working at and told her. Without thinking, they got in his van and started the eight-hour from Lafayette, La to Sherman, Texas, not knowing if their youngest child was dead or alive. I can only imagine the fear and thoughts going through their heads. I picture my mother being a complete basket case and my father stoic and silent. They had no answers until they drove past Shreveport, about four hours in and four hours to go. Someone from the hospital called to ask if they could remove my spleen, they still received little from that phone call, but they now knew I was still alive.

My parents arrived at the hospital after ten at night. The doctor told them if I made it through the next twenty-four hours, then chances are I would be okay, but only time would tell. I awoke from a coma seven days later. Nine broken ribs, a damaged lung, and several bruises had me in lots of pain, but the good news was I was going to live. Apparently, during the seven days of my slumber, I would respond when someone said my name or my hand was touched. Doctors saw it as a miracle, and so did my family. Once I awoke, I was determined to get better quickly and back to my life.

My sister Jennifer was in the process of moving from Virginia back to Louisiana with her then-husband. He had already left with his parents with much of their things. My mother was supposed to fly to Virginia to drive with my sister and the remaining items they needed to bring. She was to arrive on Friday; my accident was on Wednesday. That summer, I learned an enormous lesson about Jennifer. She was a stronger person than I ever gave her credit. She packed all her things by herself and drove over sixteen hours to be by my side. She also moved to Lafayette and back to retrieve clothes and toiletries for my parents. She stayed with me a few nights, so my parents could finally go home and sleep. During all of this, I never heard her complain. A month after being released from the hospital, her husband decided he did not want to be married anymore. She dealt with this in silence and did not speak about it. To me, it showed the resilience of a woman; I always thought of as a wimp.

My oldest sister, Felicia, was vacationing at the beach with her husband and left a day early upon hearing the news. She was always protective of me except when she and I were fighting. She came up the following weekend and organized a guest list of everyone who came to visit. She stayed a few days and helped Jennifer relieve my parents when they needed the break. I had never asked either of my sisters how they felt when they heard the news. But their actions showed me how much they loved me and that when I needed them, they were there.

In time, the nurses and rehab staff would have me walk each day. And each day, I would want to go further and further. After three weeks, the decision was made for me to be released into the custody of my parents. My father had a medical background, so I was cleared to go home with them. I progressed quickly through my recovery. Each day I was determined to walk farther and farther. My ribs were still painful, and my breathing still hurt a little. I just wanted my life to be normal again.

Three months after the accident, I took the job in Arlington, TX, and headed again on my own. But as much as I was glad to be back in a routine, mentally, I was losing my mind. It started with dark nightmares and progressed to insomnia. I sought professional help and was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome (PTSD.) At the time, there was not much attention given to PTSD. PTSD was described to me as similar to what soldiers suffered from coming back from war. I tried to tell a co-worker hoping for support, but he made fun of me, and that day on, I stayed quiet and didn’t tell anyone about it. I chose to suffer in silence.

As the anniversary of my accident passed, I continued to suffer in silence, fighting a battle in which no one knew. I had very few friends, and relationships were impossible. I would have many nights of either no sleep or violent dreams. I remember freezing on the side of a road near the edge of town because I did not want to cross the tracks. It terrified me to go near them. There was no one I could turn to, no one who understood. I felt alone. I was digressing, and thoughts of suicide ran through my mind now and then.

My focus and direction would change in the early morning hours of October 14, 2003. Another sleepless night, but for other reasons. A little after one o’clock in the morning, my first niece Laura was born. The birth of that baby girl changed my whole perspective. I knew I had to get better to be an awesome aunt for her and any others that would come along. She was a breath of fresh air right when I needed it. Because of that child, I knew I needed the support of my family. I decided to go home to Lafayette.

In September of 2004, I moved back home, into my parent’s house, and without a job. It didn’t take me long to find a job at a local photography studio. That studio is where I met one of the coolest, honest and drama-free people. She became one of my best friends. To this day, we are still best of friends and talk every day. I never had close friends that stayed in my life, but she did. She and her husband took me in and showed me unconditional love and friendship. Because of this friendship, I began to heal. Michelle was the first person I opened up to about my PTSD. I sought counseling and learned coping strategies. I had friends I could lean on for support. My life was growing into a more positive atmosphere than I ever could imagine.

Even though I still had ups and downs, I managed to have more of the ups. As the anniversary of my accident grew into double digits, I began to open up to more people about my PTSD; I found that people are more understanding than I give them credit. The more I opened up about it, the less I suffered from it. I was now dealing with and controlling an illness that once overtook me.

Every year on the anniversary of the accident, I celebrated being alive, mourned the loss of the old me, and reflected on what I lost and what I had gained. I still felt like there was a lesson I still needed to learn from this. It seemed, being hit by a train wasn’t so special. I thought everyone should be impressed for surviving such a horrific event. I didn’t understand why Oprah and other media didn’t want to talk to me. Why didn’t people want to celebrate my life with me? Why didn’t people expect me to speak and tell my story? June 12 became a hard date for me and one I didn’t want to remember anymore. If people did not think my account was important, then I didn’t want to tell it. But when I began to let go of this event, this date, I began to grow.

Finally, on the fourteenth anniversary of the accident, I realized this accident no longer defined me. I woke up, not even remembering the date. I didn’t know until a text from my mom, saying she loved me. And when I remembered, there was no longer sadness, mourning, or dwelling on a day, date, or event. It was something that just happened to me. It is a story to tell, a thankfulness of still being here, and an appreciation for life. Everything happens for a reason; these happenings are lessons; these lessons are just part of life, even if the happening is a day you do not remember.