The Promise

by Rachelle Friedman

  CHAPTER 13

  Love and Sex

  Part of rehab was getting used to real life after the hospital. And for me, that meant sex. So one day in late July during rehab, Chris and I were given the opportunity to stay together in a room within the hospital that was set up like a small apartment. The idea was that we were on our own that night to practice what it would be like when I went home. The nurses were a phone call away, just in case. Frances had given me a lot of information on how sex was going to be following the accident, and it was helpful for me to have my expectations in order.

  We were finally alone for the first time in two months in this tiny room that looked like a nice hotel room, complete with floral comforter and small TV. I was simply happy to lie beside him, wrapped up in his arms. I can’t describe how painful it was to have to endure months without being able to lie in bed cuddling and embracing the one you love, but instead having to be in a hospital bed alone. We hadn’t been intimate in months, and we were previously an extremely sexual couple. I longed to share that with him again, but I knew it would be different. I could no longer feel below my chest, so I wasn’t sure this was even going to be enjoyable. But I quickly realized that it wasn’t about having an orgasm. It was about being with him. Before, sex was all about the final result, and now it was more intimate, more personal, passionate, and loving. This time, we didn’t totally know what we were doing. It was a lot like losing my virginity again.

  It was my first time sleeping in a real bed since the accident. I still wore a neck brace, which wasn’t very sexy, but we worked with it. I was no longer able to move all around, but I laid flat on my back and I was able to wrap my arms around him. I was told that the parts of your body that you can feel, particularly your neck, become more sensitive, and it was true. I learned where I was sensitive and where I hadn’t acknowledged being sensitive before. That night was incredibly intense, more intense than the physical sex we’d had before the accident. This time it was emotional; it was making love. It certainly wasn’t better than the physical relationship we’d shared, which I was sad to have lost, but at least I knew there was hope and that we would still be able to find a way to remain physically connected.

  Chris was my first and only. We dated for a few months, and in October 2005 I lost my virginity to him. It was an emotional experience for me, because I had waited a long time to find the right person. It was my sophomore year of college, about a week after my twentieth birthday, and it was one of those things that was perfectly set up. By now I had moved into a house with two of my friends and they weren’t going to be there; it was our only opportunity to be by ourselves, so it had to be that night. We both knew it was going to happen, so I was very nervous. I was thinking, I am not going to be a virgin anymore. How many twenty-year-olds do you know who are virgins? The poor guy had a lot of pressure on him. But I had no expectations at the time—I just wanted to be with the man I had fallen in love with.

  I felt at that moment in time that Chris really was the one. With the lights out we made love and he told me he loved me. It was beautiful. It was great, being with him and knowing he’d be the only man I’d ever sleep with. I didn’t cry, but I got misty-eyed sharing that moment with him.

  The first time Chris told me he loved me was two weeks after we’d started dating. We had made out on my grandma’s couch. He whispered something in my ear. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard correctly, that he’d said, “I love you,” so I couldn’t say it back. But then I sat up and looked at him and asked, “Did you just say ‘I love you’?” He nodded. I said, “I love you, too.”

  My mother and father weren’t strict with me at all, but there was always a mutual respect and an open line of communication. My mother always said, “Don’t have sex until you find someone who is worth it. Wait until you meet someone you care for and who cares for you.” I listened to that. I believed she was sharing the best advice with me, and I was glad I listened. I had waited until I found someone who loved me, and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

  Obviously sex had become different for me after the accident, and it was also one of the things that I had taken for granted. We were a sexual couple before the accident; we connected deeply in that sense, and to have an orgasm taken away from me was incredibly hard, but we compensated. It just wasn’t natural to not be able to do that. Honestly, I still enjoyed sex and I still got excited. Even though I couldn’t feel sex, my brain still received signals of pleasure. I got a tingling feeling all over, but it wasn’t like a peak and a finish. It was not an orgasm, followed by the type of release an able-bodied person might feel. But at times I felt my body and mind were more relaxed when we’d finished.

  Rehab at the hospital was a really important element to my recovery—sex was only one aspect of that recovery. There were so many layers to getting better. I knew I wouldn’t walk, but that’s not the only thing to recover. I didn’t want my spirit broken, too. I didn’t want to be a different person than I was before the accident. I wasn’t Superwoman, and I certainly still had my low moments, but rehab gave me some time to gradually grow more and more at peace with what I was dealing with. Also, I made a promise to myself that I was going to be fine.

  I felt obligated to make sure everyone else was okay. I could see how the injury was affecting everyone around me. I wanted to lift them up in the same way I was working to lift myself up. Like a group project, almost, that I would lead. I convinced myself that it would all be fine. In going through that process in my head, I definitely put on a happy face for everyone else, I think because I needed to sort through it all. By being happy all the time, by telling jokes and laughing with other people, it helped me convince myself. It made it okay to believe because life felt normal. I think I had more support than many people have, but I also learned I was the most important support I’d need. I needed to know I could survive. I needed to know I was strong enough to get through. I needed to figure out in my head that, yes, this would all be okay.

  In rehab Chris and I would always talk about how awesome my friends were and how lucky I was to have them in my life. We discussed how friends sometimes leave your side in these kinds of situations because they simply don’t know how to handle them, and you often find out exactly who your real friends are. This was the case for me—it became clear to me what friendship stood for and what it meant. Suddenly, I knew I had true friends. There was no doubt in my mind that they would be there for me. Without them during those long months, it would have been harder to make it through. But they wouldn’t have made it without me either; they told me that many times. We comforted each other and learned to be there for each other, and we started to really understand the impact that night had had on us as a group.

  I had to heal. That was clear. But even more, I had to step up. I had to really be there for this girl, this friend who had pushed me in a simple, playful gesture. We laughed a lot, but I could see through our laughter. She hadn’t even reached the low point of her despair during my rehab stint, though my friends and I didn’t know this at the time. It was just an unspoken promise at this point that we all protected her instinctually. We acknowledged that the accident at the pool had happened but almost pretended that the push itself hadn’t. Maybe we were in denial; maybe we weren’t ready to open that can of worms just yet. It wasn’t spoken, but it wasn’t too far out of all of our minds. We focused on the recovery for sure. As I think back, it’s almost like we refused to confront it. Whenever the thought of how I got where I was entered my mind, I’d push it out. If I didn’t think about how the accident happened, then I didn’t have to worry that our friendship would be different. But still waters run deep, and denial wasn’t enough.

  CHAPTER 14

  Getting Through

  About two months after the accident, I had my first intense conversation with that friend we were all so worried about. Everyone had been quietly thinking about her, hoping the worst had passed and she’d heale
d from what had happened. My brother had come out from Virginia Beach to stay with our family, and I learned that in the wake of the accident he had made a point to take her aside and tell her that I asked about her often and that I loved her. He wanted to make sure she was okay. We all did. I’d hoped it had been enough, laughing with her and having her see me in rehab really doing well.

  There was a little garden area at the rehab center. It was always so freezing cold inside that I’d spend as much time as I could sitting out in this garden. It was hot out, around 100 degrees. I used to make people sit out there and stay with me, even though for them, it would have been more comfortable inside. My body had lost the ability to regulate its temperature, so I always felt cold. Some days, I simply could not stand being inside.

  One afternoon, this friend was visiting. I had never brought up the incident because I didn’t want to upset her. I knew she’d come talk to me when she was ready. And that day finally came.

  Her face wasn’t so much sad as it was very serious. We had made our way to the garden and she said, “I’m really sorry this happened.” I think she just wanted to hear that I had forgiven her.

  For me, it wasn’t even about forgiveness. I’d have had to have thought that she did something really wrong to forgive her. She hadn’t. It could have happened to anyone, and I didn’t blame her.

  She said, “I feel really bad about this. I’m so sorry.”

  I said, “Don’t be and don’t feel bad. I’m okay. I’m honestly at peace with it. You should be, too.”

  I had made peace with it in a very short amount of time. During this conversation I knew she had not yet found peace in the same way I had, but I thought she would soon. I was naive as to just how much she was hurting and how bad it was at that moment. I assumed that since I was okay, she’d be okay—that she just needed to hear me say I was all right.

  She nodded. She was holding it together. “Are we okay?” she asked.

  “Of course. I love you. You’re one of my best friends. I don’t blame you for this.”

  I thought, or maybe I hoped, that that would be enough. She didn’t cry or break down, but deep down I guess she was putting on a good front. She was being strong for me, but she must have been hurting inside.

  “When you’re upset, talk to me. Call me. I will talk about this with you anytime,” I said. I told her she didn’t need to pay anyone to help her sort through her feelings, that I was there whenever she needed to speak, day or night. Maybe that was a mistake, but not really knowing how deeply affected she was, I suppose I believed she could shake it off. The problem was that we were accepting two different realities. We were both badly hurt that day, but in two completely different ways. I could work hard to make the best of my situation. She really couldn’t. There was no upside to living with that hurt. There was no finding a way to put a bad situation to good use. It was just a tragic event that could have happened to any of us that night. I’ve had my share of horseplay in the water, that’s for sure. Everyone has.

  She thanked me that day, and I thought all was sorted out and we’d both be okay, leaning on each other for strength. Sadly, the worst was yet to come for her. She’d have to face this all later when the media circus began, which none of us saw coming.

  CHAPTER 15

  My Competitive Spirit

  I was pretty active as a kid. When I was growing up, my dad never just let me win a game. He allowed me to lose, and I wanted it that way. I was really good at board games, and I could usually win, even against my dad. Once though, he beat me at Pretty, Pretty Princess and he had to wear the crown and beads.

  I loved sports and often played with my dad. He took me to basketball games as soon as I could walk. I liked to keep score, hug the mascots, and talk up the cheerleaders. We used to collect trading cards, too. Once, we were at a summer league game where prospective pros were scouted. My dad pointed out a player, Joe Smith, and told me he was going to be the number one draft pick. I was four years old at the time.

  I said, “I want his autograph.”

  Instead of going to get it for me, my dad handed me a pen and a paper and said, “Go ask.”

  Of course I got it, but I was a little bummed not to have been treated like one of the guys by this player. He called me cute.

  I think I always wanted to be one of the guys because I so loved hanging around my dad. During recess in fourth grade, I walked up to the boys and asked if I could shoot some hoops. One said, “Girls can’t play basketball.” I made them give me the ball, took one shot, and swished it. After that I was always invited to play with them.

  I worked with kids when I graduated from college, and we didn’t even keep score until they were eight years old, because we didn’t want the kids to get upset about losing. The thing is, if kids haven’t ever lost until they are eight, how are they going to handle losing later in life? They will inevitably lose something. I knew when I had won. I knew when I had earned it. And I think that just made me more competitive. Not only that, I enjoyed working toward something. I really did. I enjoyed an accomplishment, however big or small.

  Basketball was where my dad and I really bonded. On the court the winner won. He didn’t allow me to get a free shot in, nothing. He made me work for everything, and I think I drew on that for strength after my accident. That was real life. You won some, you lost some. How you handled the ups and downs revealed your true character. Even when I was really little, my dad would never throw a game. People never believe me when I tell them that.

  My dad and I would play the game Horse all the time, from when I was four until I was in high school. It was one of our things. We had a basketball hoop in the backyard and, as in everything else, he’d never let me win. He wouldn’t go all pro player on me—he wasn’t mean about it—but he played for real. I might get a few letters on him, but if I started catching up, then he’d up his effort and I’d lose. He’d just never let me win Horse. Never. Once when I was a teenager, I actually beat him at Horse—it was the one and only time. But it felt like the biggest accomplishment ever because it took me ten years to do it. The funny thing wasn’t just my reaction, but his. He didn’t like to be beaten, but he was so proud of me. He said, “You finally did it!” Of course, I couldn’t help but shove it in his face and celebrate my sweet victory by talking some smack, but boy was I proud.

  We were a sporty family, and we used to do a lot of activities together. We also played catch and football; I was kind of a tomboy when it came to that stuff. My dad worked sixty hours a week usually. But Sunday was our day. When spring hit we were outside on Sunday afternoons, playing sports.

  Right after the accident, I was fighting as hard as I had fought in sports or games. I drew on that. I didn’t want to break; I didn’t want to lose the new battle. I guess I saw it as being weak, and I didn’t like to be weak. Of course, no one would have blamed me for being crazy and breaking down and crying. But I saw it as a game I was trying to win, like I was trying to be the best at recovery. To have the best attitude.

  This injury was almost like the Horse victory that was ten years in the making. I knew there were going to be little moments where I was going to have to suck it up and fight and beat those challenges. And I was determined to win.

  Every time I lost at Horse, I didn’t feel defeated. It made me feel more determined. I understood that it would be a miracle if I ever beat my dad at a game. I never expected to beat him, to be honest, but I always tried my hardest regardless. Being competitive at sports made me competitive at life, and this injury, well, I wanted to win. As I prepared to leave rehab, I drew on that inner fight and spirit my dad had spent a lifetime instilling in me.

  Toward the end of rehab, my mom and I were in full prankster mode. I had a roommate in rehab, a lady who had worked at ECU. She had gone on a bike ride, fallen off the bike, and actually been stung by a bunch of bees. She broke her neck in the fall but ended up walking by t
he time she was out of treatment; she was an incomplete injury. It was so weird to see someone as paralyzed as I was, and then right before my eyes, see her walking. I think that happens a lot in rehab. I was definitely the most screwed-up one there at the time.

  Anyway, her husband walked into the room one day, and my mom was in bum clothes, with no bra, so when she heard him coming, she opened the closet door to hide. It was like a dorm closet, a big cubbyhole with a door, so she opened the closet door very fast and fell into the closet and was basically sitting down. We were laughing so hard over the fact that she could fit into the closet, so I said, “Mom, stay in the closet.” We called the nurse, Tammy. She came in and I said, “Tammy, I’ve got this beautiful dress, and I want to wear it out.” (I was able to go on day trips once I was cleared, and my family could transfer me into a car. So I had been out in public by this time.) I told Tammy, “Look in my closet and get the dress out.” She opened the door to find my mom just sitting there. Tammy screamed and threw a pillow at her, and we laughed hysterically.

  Since Mom could sit in the closet, I wondered if I could, too. My mother checked. It was big enough to get a chair into, just a plastic chair. So this time we got Tammy on our side to scare the doctor. Tammy happily got in on our scheme and a couple of therapists did, too. The night before our prank, I practiced how I would fit, and it totally worked. And then the next day we scared some more people. We spent the day, my last day at the rehab hospital, using this trick. I remained in the closet while Tammy or a therapist brought someone by. Tammy was so funny because she’d have to create elaborate lies to get people to open the closet. She told my caseworker I was hoarding catheters. She told the supply guy that I’d stolen a box of medical gloves. She even told the doctors I was stashing medication in that closet.