by Chris Norton
Alex embraced the medical aspect of the situation, so she didn’t appear to be emotionally distraught, even though she was concerned and upset because she loved her brother. Her composure was a comfort to me, because if I had to explain what happened to one more person, or if I had to worry about her emotionally, I may have broken. Alex’s nurses training and demeanor allowed her to explain the circumstances to people so Deb and I didn’t have to do all the talking. Plus, I think Alex didn’t want to add to our concerns by breaking down herself.
Our oldest daughter was pretty reasonable. She was always able to look at the big picture, analyze the situation, and not get emotional. I didn’t know if she was like that because of her medical training or because her relationship with Chris as a sister was different from our relationship with him as his parents, but either way it helped a great deal.
My mom’s presence was very comforting. She could always come into any situation, blend in, and help ease the tension. That night in the waiting room, my mom encouraged Deb, the kids, and me with her words. I knew she was praying for Chris and praying over us. Her presence was a calm in the storm.
It was a blessing to have so many people around while Chris was in surgery. If it had just been our family in the waiting room, I think the gravity of his condition would have sunk in, and we would have gone to a very bad place. With all the people there, it prevented us from having private talks amongst ourselves and from becoming overwhelmed with what we faced. Even though most visitors were very close friends, we couldn’t completely let our guard down, and that kept reality at bay.
At around two in the morning, after only three hours in surgery, the doctor came out to speak to Deb and me. He said in his professional, non-emotional manner that the surgery went very well. They didn’t have to go in through the front side, and they were able to stabilize Chris’s C3 and C4 vertebrae through the back. The surgeon explained that they put a screw in on one side of Chris’s neck. On the other side, they removed a bone from his hip to support that side, so Chris also had a surgery site on his hip. Overall, the doctor felt very positive about the procedures.
The doctor mentioned numerous times that Chris being an athlete had given him an advantage because his body was in tiptop shape. Because Chris was right in the middle of football season and he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, his lung capacity and his body was physically capable of withstanding a trauma better than most, even in terms of recovery. He told us that Chris was one of the fastest cases they’d ever had from the time he was injured to being completely through with surgery.
I took everything he said as positive. I was worried about complications during such a long surgery, so I felt it was good news that it only took three hours. The difference between recovering from a three-hour surgery and recovering from a six-hour surgery, including the trauma to his body, seemed huge. I had to remind myself not to think too far ahead and to slow down and take each day, each moment, as it came. That was hard for me, especially when I was so used to looking twelve steps down the road and preparing for what came next.
Deb seemed to feel good about the news. Her shoulders settled into a more natural position after we met with the surgeon. She mentioned being relieved they didn’t have to operate from the front. We were both worried about his breathing and other complications that might arise during surgery, so hearing Chris was doing well made us both feel better.
We were in the hallway just off the waiting room, and everybody was looking at us through the glass. They waited until the surgeon left and then came out to the hallway for an update. By that time, the initial rush of people were on their way back home, and it was down to just a core group of people including Pat and Buzzy Vickers, Tina Hargis, Peter Mitchell, our family, my mom, Mike and Karen Durnin, and Bob and Kate Burrows.
After relaying what the surgeon had told us, Alex tried to reinforce the medical positives and make us feel comfortable about Chris’s status. She was upbeat after hearing what the doctor had to say. Chris had made it through surgery, his neck was aligned and fused, and his vitals were good. We heaved a collective sigh of relief while still holding our breath about how tomorrow and the days ahead would unfold.
* * *
“I remember that fall Saturday afternoon of Chris’s injury very well, but one moment that I have thought about and relived many times since is the expression on the face of Terry Norton in the ER at the hospital. As he exited the doors of the ER, I remember looking at him as he explained what was happening and thinking there is a father who is uncertain of the future, shaken by what was happening to his son, and doing all he can to keep himself composed. Little did I know that his expression that afternoon was more than uncertainty and concern for his son, but the expression of a new beginning. A journey that challenges your faith and reminds you what it really means to live in community. An even greater surprise is that Chris would be the leader, the strength, and the vision for where they were going.”
~ Brian Solberg M.A. L.A.T., Assoc. Professor of Health and Physical Education, Program Director of Athletic Training
* * *
Chris was just coming out of surgery and would be out for a while. The surgeon suggested we leave and get some rest since we weren’t going to be able to see Chris anytime soon, and he wouldn’t be awake anyway. That was the only night he stayed in the hospital alone.
Those of us left in the waiting room were emotionally and physically exhausted. The surgeon’s report ushered in a sense of relief and gave us what we needed in order to go to the hotel and get a couple hours of much-needed sleep.
The hotel we stayed at the first night was small and hot, but it was close to the hospital. My mom, Katie, Alex, Deb, and I all stayed in one room. The five of us were packed into this little hotel room that smelled of cigarettes and stale air. It was a miserable night on top of a miserable night. I dozed off for a little bit into a restless, fitful sleep that only knocked the sharpest edges off my exhaustion.
The next morning, we got up, showered, and simply prayed for the best before leaving for the hospital. The family never talked about what to expect when we arrived there or how we would get through the day or the next few weeks. Our silence boiled down to ignorance. We knew nothing about the road that lay ahead.
At the hospital, Deb and I took a deep breath, linked hands, and walked into the ICU to see our son for the first time since his surgery and to meet with the surgeon. My mouth went dry seeing Chris with the breathing tube down his throat and no less than six tubes hooked up to his body. I could tell Chris wanted the breathing tube out right away by the way he moved his tongue around his mouth.
As the surgeon told Deb and me that Chris had a good night and seemed to be recovering and breathing well, I looked at Chris. As soon as we made eye contact, he began shrugging his shoulder and winking at me because he couldn’t talk with the tube down his throat. By showing us he could move his left arm, it was as if he were saying, Dad, I can move. I beat the 3 percent odds!
I’m not usually a crier, but my emotions were so close to the surface that Deb and I both began weeping. When we’d left the hospital the night before, we had so little hope. The morning sun had done nothing to brighten our outlook. Seeing the determined look on Chris’s face and a spark of optimism in his eyes flung open a door we thought had been barred shut. The doctor still couldn’t predict the extent of Chris’s recovery, but the shoulder shrug was a positive sign.
With tears in our eyes, Deb and I went out to update the others in the waiting room. We didn’t stop to think how our appearance would seem to those waiting for word of Chris’s fate; we were just so happy to have a sliver of good news. We heard a collective intake of breath and realized my mom, Alex, and Katie assumed the worst.
But our tears came from joy at God’s blessing. It felt as if a huge cloud had broken open and allowed the sun to shine through. We had a long road ahead, but we couldn’t have cared less. Chris had shown a sign of life below the injury site, and I’d seen the
determination to fight in his eyes. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t accomplish when he set his mind to a task, and regaining as much use of his body as possible meant more to him and his family than words could express.
* * *
Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see.
~Hebrews 11:1 NLT
* * *
I COULDN’T wrap my mind around not being able to move my body at will. I was in phenomenal physical shape at the time of the injury. Because of football, I worked out four hours a day, every day. In the blink of an eye, I felt tied down to the bed, as if my body were completely wrapped and unable to move. Perhaps it would have been easier to accept if I’d slowly lost movement, one limb or inch at a time. But the abrupt manner in which I lost feeling in my body left my mind and my emotions grappling to catch up.
The doctor explained I would be in the Intensive Care Unit until I was medically stable and strong enough to be transferred to the rehabilitation floor. My stay in ICU could last anywhere from five days to five weeks, depending on how my condition improved from that point forward. I’d be looked after attentively in ICU for any serious medical issues, and my eventual transfer to the rehab floor would be a positive step and a sign of regaining health and recovery.
My family was with me constantly while I was in ICU—Grandma, my sisters, Mom, and Dad. My Luther coaches came by, along with friends, and a lot of extended family. An uncle from Missouri drove all the way up to see me just for the night and then drove back. Another uncle, an aunt, and some cousins drove from Iowa City to Omaha, then up to Rochester, and then back again. I was humbled by the amount of driving they all did just to see me for one day. I knew they wanted to lend support to my family and tell me they were praying for my recovery. It meant a lot that they all came. Alex helped Mom and Dad set up a CaringBridge site so they could keep family and friends updated on my condition. The comments and prayers started pouring in from everywhere, and hearing from so many people really helped me not feel so alone.
The Sunday immediately following the accident, while watching Sports Center on ESPN, I heard the announcers talk about head and neck injuries in football. They mentioned the Rutgers University player, Eric LeGrand, and how he broke his neck making a tackle on a kickoff return, replaying his injury over and over again. I thought it was crazy ironic how I got hurt on the same day, the same quarter, the same play, the same everything. I’d never read or heard about anything like that happening in college football, and I wanted the announcers to know Eric LeGrand wasn’t the only one who suffered a life-altering neck injury that day.
The irony continued when, during the NFL games, an unusually high number of players suffered concussions. The whole weekend there was a huge concentration of head and neck injuries, drawing a lot of attention to the risk of head injuries for football players, and the topic pretty much dominated conversation on ESPN. The concussions and spinal cord injuries that happened that weekend caused the sports world to spend the next week discussing ways to make football safer.
We watched a lot of movies and TV while I was in ICU. That first Sunday night, our whole family watched the movie Tarzan together. Films were a great escape because I could simply indulge my mind and focus on the entertainment. It felt normal, and anything normal at that point felt great. Nights were by far the most difficult hours of the day. I was fine throughout the day; I didn’t get emotional or angry when people were around. It was upsetting coming to grips with what happened and accepting what I faced ahead, but there was too much going on to feel overwhelmed during the day.
Nighttime was different. I had so much time to think and wonder and get angry. Why is this happening? I don’t want to live like this. When will this be over? When can I just be done with this and move on?
I wanted to fast-forward two years and get past the first stages of grief. I tried to bargain with God. Just let me get through the next couple of years in the next couple of days. In a couple of years I would be a lot better, but how much better, I didn’t know. I just wanted out of the helpless phase that felt like a living a nightmare. It was a nightmare.
When I was by myself and it was quiet, thoughts started running through my head like when I was a kid. I still felt strong in my faith and relied upon God to get me through. I continued to pray for something good to come out of my situation, and for God to use me as a tool.
My family would read the very moving CaringBridge responses to me when I was awake. It was difficult to comprehend the magnitude of the effect my injury was having on others while still searching for meaning and a purpose behind what had happened. My optimistic dad and I talked about the impact my injury had on so many people, not only in our small community, but also around the country. We discussed the opportunity I had to show the true nature of my character and faith through adversity.
CaringBridge allowed us to really absorb the outpouring of support from so many others. Countless people were praying for me and keeping track of my progress, so many that it became impossible to ignore the influence I could have on others. I had to stay positive, not just for my own mental health, but for those who expressed how my situation had affected their own lives. Through CaringBridge, we realized we had an opportunity to encourage, motivate, and inspire others. It was a welcome, yet compelling distraction.
Most days in ICU passed with a lot of doctors coming in and out of my room, and nurses checking on me, asking questions about how I felt, and examining me. Even in ICU, I spent thirty minutes to an hour every day with a physical therapist. The physical therapist (PT) stretched my body and talked to me, getting to know me a little better. I also saw an occupational therapist (OT) who stretched my arms and had me concentrate on trying to move different parts of my body.
* * *
“I knew the next day in ICU when the PT Lori came in and started working with Chris that he would walk one day.”
~ Connie Norton, Chris’s Grandma
* * *
One of the first things I did in PT while in the ICU was to move my head. Because of the surgery, my neck was really stiff, and moving my head was excruciatingly painful. My surgery site was super sensitive. Whenever I adjusted my head or anyone moved my limbs, a shockwave, like a thunderbolt or waves of lightning, shot down my body. What I could feel, when touched, felt like a searing rain of fire from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
Every day I worked on nodding my head yes and shaking my head no. Both the PT and the OT told me to do as much as I could. One of my PT sessions was spent transferring me to a tilt table and having me sit up because my body was having trouble regulating my blood pressure. I felt lightheaded and nauseated whenever I sat up even slightly. The PT wanted to push my blood pressure a little higher and try to get my internal controls working better, so I used the tilt table every day as often as possible.
At first, flat on my back, I couldn’t see my whole body. Even when my head was raised, most of the time, blankets covered my arms and legs.
Then, nurses came into my room in ICU to give me a sponge bath, and I got a good look at my body for the first time since the accident. It was surreal watching them move my legs around and scrub them up and down, and not be able to feel them. A tight ball of emotion lodged in my throat. I felt completely disconnected from my body.
I’d spent my whole life working hard to make the most of myself physically. Baseball, basketball, football—all the sports I loved required physical dexterity and control that came from endless hours of practice. I’d always physically pushed my body to the limit, and now I couldn’t even feel my arms and legs or make them move. It was simply too much to comprehend.
Besides having no connection with my body, I felt completely drained and exhausted, while suffering with pain from the surgery site. It was frustrating that I couldn’t adjust my arm, or fix something, or scratch an itch, or drink and eat on my own. I was eighteen years old, and I couldn’t even feed myself
.
Another troubling consequence of the accident was the effect on my voice and breathing. I couldn’t laugh. I couldn’t cough. I couldn’t take a deep breath. I had to speak one word at a time because my breathing was so shallow. It was hard to finish a sentence. Because I was so soft-spoken, people had to move really close to me in order to hear what I was saying. All I wanted was to have a normal conversation, and laugh, and cough, and not have to be so dependent on other people. I was used to doing everything on my own, and having privacy. Before I could even absorb what had happened, every shred of privacy was completely stripped away.
During my time in ICU, I met a physician named Georgia who changed the course of my recovery because of something she said to me in the middle of the night. I’d get really restless at night, wanting to do something, wanting to get better, like when I was a kid and wished I could jump out of bed and go to the gym right then.
Georgia came into my room while I was restless. She turned to me and said, “Do you know who I am?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“I’m Georgia. I’m from Wyoming. Do you know anyone from Wyoming?”
“No.” I couldn’t even guess where she was going with the conversation.
“People from Wyoming don’t tell lies.” She was so serious and intense. The way she stared at me with her eyes completely sober, it felt as if she was looking into my soul. “You’re going to beat this,” she said. “You will get through this. I have no doubt about that. You’ll do this. I believe in you.”