by Chris Norton
So many blessings in the midst of so much uncertainty only reinforced that a higher power was in control.
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Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
~Romans 5:3-5 ESV
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AFTER FIVE days in ICU, I was moved to the rehab floor of the hospital to begin the next phase of recovery. I could already activate the muscle in my left arm, bicep, and shoulder, and was eager to get started on regaining function. The two things I needed in order to improve were time and effort; I had nothing but time to focus in rehab, and I had the tenacity to work as hard as they’d allow. It felt great to have already proven the doctors wrong and beat the horrendous odds they’d presented, but I was a long way from being satisfied.
There was so much time to think, and I used that time to put my mind in the right place for recovery. The doctors said it was common to experience improvement for up to two years, but the most significant improvement would occur within the first six to nine months. Hearing that definitely gave me a sense of urgency that reinforced the need to stay focused and commit to doing whatever it took to get better. I wanted to get better, I needed to get better, and I knew I didn’t have much time. In rehab, I went to bed knowing I’d worked hard that day, so hard I couldn’t even keep my eyes open because I was so tired. With the clock ticking, it really helped knowing that I’d maxed out my day, and that allowed me to relax and have peace of mind.
I’d always been a big believer that if I put in the work, the results would follow. My whole life was a testament to that theory. I also believed that God had a plan for me, but in order for that plan to work, I had to do my part—I couldn’t just wait and let things happen on their own. I knew God would present me with opportunities, even as I lay on my back in my bed unable to move more than ninety-five percent of my body. I had to take advantage of the opportunities, however small, and be willing to do whatever I could to get better.
The prayer vigils at home and at Luther, as well as fundraising efforts, provided a great deal of comfort and encouragement. Knowing so many people were praying and willing to support my family and me reinforced the goodness in humanity during the worst tragedy of my life. I felt fortunate to be a part of the Bondurant and Luther College communities and appreciative of the many relationships I’d made. We never asked for help, but the fact that people offered and were willing to do so was very moving.
The first day in rehab, I met my main PT, Megan Gill, and together with help from my dad, I got dressed in my own clothes. It was excruciating. Lifting my head and slipping on a shirt was difficult and painful. My range of motion was limited, and my arms and shoulders were stiff. Having no control over my body made it nearly impossible to get into the correct position. It sounded so simple, but it was a tedious process getting my arms into the armholes, and extremely discouraging that I needed assistance getting dressed. It was a stark and painful reminder of the independence I’d lost.
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“Chris’s true test would not take place in the spotlight of a college stadium filled with the excitement of five thousand onlookers, but instead would play out in the therapy room day in and day out in a relentless test of devotion, with no one there to cheer him on but his family and friends.”
~ Rich Vickers, Chris’s college roommate and close friend
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In the beginning, rehab consisted of a lot of stretching and range-of-motion exercises intended to keep my muscles loose and my joints flexible so that as my strength increased, I wasn’t so stiff. For example, the nodding I did during my time in ICU strengthened my neck and increased my range of motion. OT worked with my upper body—my arms and fingers, while physical therapy concentrated more on my lower body and core strength. During recreation therapy, the RT asked me what I liked to do for fun, and then tried to adapt those activities so I could still enjoy the things I loved. We worked on random activities that made my stay in the hospital as pleasant as possible.
Every day, my family and I learned something new about my medical condition. It was like learning a whole new language, since none of us were in the medical field besides my sister Alex. They gave us a book that explained the functions of the body, talked about a spinal cord injury, and what to expect during recovery. Then they strongly suggested that we learn as much as we could before we left the hospital so we’d know what to expect.
Honestly, it was hard to read because it was impossible to accept that the topics discussed in the book applied to me. I never accepted that I was going to be in a chair for the rest of my life, and I remained convinced I’d walk out of Mayo within a few months. Although I felt pressured to read the book and be aware of the changes in my body, I felt I could gain a decent understanding just by living it and talking to and asking questions of the therapists, doctors, and nurses in charge of my care. It made more sense to ask the professionals we were working with day in and day out rather than read a book I felt didn’t apply to me anyway.
Right away in physical therapy, Megan wanted me to somehow get from the bed into a power wheelchair. Just like my time spent on the tilt table in ICU, the goal of sitting upright in the chair was to help my body better regulate my blood pressure. Her suggestion sounded crazy considering the difficulty I had just getting dressed, and I wavered between not wanting to try and wondering how the heck we were going to do it.
Megan calmly explained that they’d use a ceiling lift system and slide what looked like a big net underneath me by rolling me onto one side, and then over onto the other side. First, they had to wrap my legs with elastic bandages as tightly as possible to keep the blood from pooling in my legs, which would reduce dizziness. They’d also put on a chest binder that would squeeze my ribcage and keep my blood pressure elevated. Once the net was underneath me, they’d hook it to a lift and hoist me into the chair.
Submitting to the lift was the scariest thing I’d ever done in my life, and I was a thrill seeker who loved roller coasters. I’d never felt more vulnerable than when I lost the use of my body and had to count on others for help with everything. The pain in my neck made me hesitant to try new things, as I was paranoid about damaging my neck even further. The staff members were professionals, but my life was literally in their hands, and it didn’t sit well knowing how much power a stranger held over me. I accepted help from my family easier, but trusting people I’d just met with my safety felt beyond impossible. What if they dropped me? What if they weren’t sure what they were doing? I reminded myself that we’d all agreed Mayo was the best facility for my recovery. Then, while enduring excruciating pain in my head and neck, I swallowed my fear at having no control over my body.
A handful of strangers stood at my feet by the chair and next to and behind my head, positioning the net just right according to Megan’s direction. Because I couldn’t hold my head up, someone had to support my head so it didn’t drop, and the smallest of head movements shot a jolting pain through my body. I swallowed the ache in the back of my throat, and trusted strangers and an odd-looking lift system to move me a couple of feet to a big chair while suffering through immense pain. I was completely terrified, and my family was too, standing wide-eyed and fidgety as they watched from the periphery.
It took close to thirty minutes to get out of bed because of all the bandaging and wrapping and getting the lift system and chair into place. Once in the chair, my blood pressure bottomed out leaving me nauseated, lightheaded, and with white, spotty vision. They leaned me back as far as the chair could go to help regulate my blood pressure, but it was difficult to control. Megan wanted me to sit up a little longer if I could tolerate it, so I fought back my fear and nausea. I wanted my condition to improve, and this was an opportunity where I had to do my part. Once I felt slightly better and t
he nausea had marginally subsided, Megan used the power chair’s joystick and drove me around the hospital.
After fifteen or twenty minutes, with every drop of energy expelled, I needed to go back to my room. They had to perform the ceiling lift maneuvers again in order to get me back into bed, and it was just as terrifying the second time around. Once in bed, the therapists stretched my limbs, effectively ending my first therapy session. It was a good start, and Megan and her team felt encouraged by my progress, but I was exhausted.
I gave it my all during therapy and tried to feel happy for all of the twitches and sensations that were firing below the injury site despite the slow recovery pace. I felt a sense of relief being in rehab because I was able to work out my frustration in a way I couldn’t while in ICU. There wasn’t a whole lot of therapy I could do in ICU, and being on the rehab floor helped ease the anxiousness and restlessness that I sometimes felt.
When I heard I’d be in the hospital for four weeks, and then eight, it sounded like a long time. Who stayed in the hospital for eight weeks? While I definitely didn’t want to stay that long, I soon realized the only way to get better was through therapy. I was getting better, they had nice equipment, and I wanted as much time in therapy as possible because I was making progress. I still believed beyond a shadow of a doubt I’d walk out of the hospital at the end of rehab.
Once a week, as a requirement of the program, I had to see a psychiatrist even though I didn’t think I needed his help. When asked to rank my spirits on a scale of one to ten, with one meaning devastated and ten meaning full of hope and in great spirits, I said “ten” without hesitation. I felt good about where my recovery was going, the support I had from family and friends, and my faith was strong. Things were going as well as they could, and I knew it could have been worse. Time with the psychiatrist was beneficial—I was able to talk to him about things I was uncomfortable discussing with my family. For example, I didn’t know if I’d be able to have a family of my own, and that was a topic the psychiatrist talked about a lot because he knew that was something I’d worry about, considering my age.
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“I often joke around with Chris about how I don’t think he is human because of how positive he is all of the time. When I first met him I didn’t believe that he could be so happy and positive everyday when he was dealing with some very challenging things, but I’ve realized he is always like that.”
~ Emily Summers, Chris’s girlfriend
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Outside of therapy, I’d literally pass out from exhaustion. I could barely keep my eyes open while in bed, and I didn’t fight the urge to sleep during the day because I remembered my ICU PT, Lori, saying that rest was an important part of recovery. All day and night, the nurses came into my room every two hours to check on me, or to roll me and adjust my body because they didn’t want me to get bedsores. A good night’s sleep, or even a decent nap, became impossible because of all the poking, checks, and rolling. At first, I was really polite and didn’t like to voice what I needed.
“You don’t want to be uncomfortable,” the nurses would say. “Just be assertive about what you need.”
Their advice really helped, and hearing it made asking for help easier.
I definitely felt I was in the right place in order to maximize my recovery. I felt good about all the people I was working with, as I got great care and was happy with the staff. The doctors and nurses were all very informative, and they communicated well. Since I had no medical background, they explained the million different medical terms flying at me all the time in a way that made sense.
I enjoyed my time with the PT and OT. I was never uncomfortable around them, and I looked forward to being with them and working hard toward recovery. Megan Gill was really good at striking the right balance between being nice and focusing on the business at hand. She liked to make things fun, but she knew I wanted to work hard. We worked well together because she understood when to relax and ease the intensity, and when to really push me hard to focus. Every step forward was the result of teamwork, and if there was one thing I understood from my years of playing sports, it was the value of teammates. Through good days and bad, my therapists at Mayo had my back.
My first Saturday in rehab, while trying to adjust to sitting upright in the power chair, I watched College GameDay on ESPN and tried to keep my mind off of everything that had happened within the span of one week. My ears began to tingle when I heard the announcers discuss Eric LeGrand and give an update on his condition. I sat in my chair, trying to make sense of our twin injuries, and was caught completely off guard when I heard my name mentioned as another college athlete who was hurt on the same day and on the same play. My spirits were instantly lifted knowing the sports world not only knew about my injury, but also acknowledged it on TV. I hadn’t been forgotten after all.
Despite the accident, I never blamed football for my injury. I played the game and accepted the risks, even though I had no idea how truly devastating a football injury could be. Even after the accident, I never discouraged anyone from playing football. People who crash their bicycles or get into car accidents don’t stop riding a bike or driving. Football taught me valuable life lessons such as teamwork, hard work, leadership, and was especially effective at toughening me up both mentally and physically. I never wanted to be out in the scorching sun for two-a-days doing sprints and conditioning, but it helped me develop the grit and determination I needed to battle back from my injury. I loved the sport, and even though I could no longer play, I enjoyed watching my teams and my favorite athletes, and it helped doing something normal on the weekends.
If I’d been at school, my days would have been filled with classes, workouts, and practice in preparation for the upcoming game. The goal of each week was to win, and every day was spent training to achieve that goal. My days in rehab were similar, although my goals had changed. I wanted to walk out of the hospital. I wanted my independence back. I wanted to spend every day doing everything possible to achieve those goals. With my family by my side in one of the best rehabilitation hospitals in the country, I knew I had a fighting chance—not against an opposing team, but my very own body.
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I told him I am more proud of him now than I have ever been in his life. His attitude is good, and he is ready to stay the course.
~Terry Norton, CaringBridge, October 19, 2010
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OUR EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD son had to be dressed by somebody else. During his first therapy session, the PT dressed Chris in his own clothes. The whole experience was more emotionally painful than physically painful—for Chris and all of us watching. Chris confessed it freaked him out internally to watch the hospital staff stretch and move his legs and not feel it. As an eighteen-year-old, being dressed by someone else was another emotional slap, and it was an in-his-face reminder of how drastically his life had changed. That was how we all felt watching him struggle to get into his clothes with an uncooperative body and a very sore neck.
We were on an emotional roller coaster where something positive would happen, like moving to rehab at Mayo and feeling good about our decision, and then something negative, like watching him struggle with the most basic task. We were scared because we saw how completely vulnerable he was and how very far he had to go. For parents, the worst thing in the world is for something bad to happen to their child. If something bad had happened to me, or Deb, or one of our parents, it would have been awful, but not as devastating as it happening to a child—even a grown child. I relied almost completely on my faith during those first two weeks because my worst nightmare—other than the death of one of my kids—had come true.
Chris got down to the rehab floor, and within a few days, they told us he would most likely be there for eight weeks. While that sounded tremendously long, by that point we knew the longer he stayed, the better they thought he’d improve. The hospital staff said he was making a good recovery, and they thought he’d benefit from more intense therapy.
As an organized, list-making person, I liked to be in charge and plan things out. Not knowing an exact timeframe was really hard for me. When his stay in rehab went from four weeks to eight weeks, and later seemed open-ended, we couldn’t make plans, and I had to adjust my mindset. The goal became survival while trying to anticipate the next step in our journey.
Right away the hospital gave us a three-ring binder and some DVDs they wanted us to work through. The material was to prepare us for the changes that were going to take place in his body and what we were going to have to do differently. It was a kind of a “weekly cares and concerns” checklist to get us prepared for life going forward.
At the time, we fought the doctor about reading the binder and watching the DVDs because we refused to accept the worst. Chris was a fighter, and we were trying to stay positive. To be honest, we were in denial. I thought by reading the book and watching the DVDs, it would somehow seal his fate. I’d ask questions, and the doctors would ask if I’d read the manual or watched the DVDs, but I stubbornly refused. I got into a little bit of a tiff with a doctor who kept pressing me to review the material.
“Terry,” he said, “you need to read that stuff.”
They wanted us to start mentally preparing for what we would face once we left the hospital, but I felt they should’ve waited and let us get adjusted. But they knew what we’d go through, and there wasn’t time to wait. As a way to put an end to the badgering, I acted like I’d looked at the material, but I only gave it a cursory glance. For better or worse, we just figured things out on our own.