I had just turned eighteen when a drunk driver crossed the center line and hit my car head-on. I awoke in the hospital three days later with two broken legs and two broken arms and needless to say a lot of bruises. I was told that I was lucky to be alive as the other driver, the drunk, did not survive, as the crash was so severe.
All I knew was that I hurt a lot and I was not going to be up and around any time soon.
Of course my family had gathered, not knowing at first the extent of my injuries, and they all gave me the moral support I needed. But I did fall into a bit of depression, knowing I would be bedridden for an extended time.
After what seemed an eternity, I was released to begin my recovery at home, and the start of an unexpected turn of events.
With my parents both holding down careers, my moms sister, Beth, became my caretaker, driving over every day, to keep me company and tend my needs.
The first few days at home were pretty much a blur, with the pain medication dulling my senses. I remember, though, the horror of needing to go to the bathroom, and unable to rise from the bed. My mom and Aunt Beth, were both very understanding, and tried their best to help me. Using a bedpan in extreme pain, soon began to be the low point of my day.