by Chris Norton
“Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”
I tried. “Not yet,” I said.
“I’m going to grab your hand. Let me know if you can feel it.” Kamm said.
“I don’t feel anything.”
“Okay. Can you move either of your feet?”
“No. I’m sorry.” I said. I was so embarrassed. Okay, joke’s over, I thought. It’s time for everything to start working now. The buzz of the stadium had died down. Five thousand people were suddenly eerily quiet.
Our Luther College team doctor joined Kamm next to me. She asked me more questions: “Can you move the fingers on your right hand? How about your left? Can you make a fist?” The fact that she asked me basically the same questions that Kamm had just asked made fear rise up inside me. I pushed it back as best I could, telling myself again that this was just a stinger. In a minute or two, the feeling would return, and I’d be up and off the field. Still, I had to answer the team doctor’s questions, so I told her the same thing I told Kamm, “No, I can’t feel or move anything.”
“Let’s get him rolled over,” Kamm said. “I’ve got his head. You two, take his legs. You, on his side.” I knew from Kamm’s instructions that the rest of the student athletic training staff was all around me. I also knew they must have grabbed hold of my arms, legs, and body, but I couldn’t feel it.
“On my count,” Kamm continued, “Careful. One. Two. Three. Roll.”
I found myself staring straight up at a bright, blue October sky. The student trainers crowded around me, fear on their faces. Kamm crouched down over me with his knees on either side of my helmet to keep me from moving my head. Even so, I could see a few of my teammates not far away. They were all down on one knee. That’s a bad sign. Anytime an injured player stays down on the field too long, the rest of the players go down on one knee. But not just out of respect; a lot of them start praying.
“Chris,” the team doctor said, “can you feel me touching your legs?”
I wanted to scream out, Stop asking me that! I am naturally an optimistic person. To me, the glass is always half full. That optimism was slowly being swallowed by panic. “No,” I said.
“How about now?”
“No.”
“What about now? Can you feel me touching your shoulder?”
“No. Not yet,” I said, fighting to hold myself together. I’d reached my breaking point. No matter how hard I tried to think positively, I knew I was in trouble. My mind scrambled to find some best-case scenario, but the longer I lay there with doctors and trainers reminding me that I couldn’t feel anything below my neck, the harder it was to find anything good to focus on. I did the only thing I could. Since pretty much the only things on my body that worked were my mouth and my eyes, I shut my eyes tight, and I tried to check myself out of the situation completely. I also prayed. “God, just let me walk off. This is starting to scare me. The joke’s over. I’ve had enough. Let’s move on. Please let me get up, and let’s just have this whole thing be over.” At that moment I did not want to think I’d suffered any kind of major injury. I could not let my mind go there.
“You still with us, Chris?” Kamm asked. Since my eyes were closed, I’m sure he thought I was slipping in and out of consciousness from a concussion. I didn’t think I had a concussion because my head was clear.
“Yeah,” I said without opening my eyes. I still refused to believe this was happening. In my eighteen years of life, everything had always worked out for me. I’d lived my life without any major hiccups. On top of that, I’m from a small town in Iowa. Bad things like this don’t happen to guys from small towns in Iowa or on the football field of a small college like Luther. No, these are the things you see on television to people far away. “I’m still here,” I said.
“Okay, good,” Kamm said. “We’re going to cut your face mask off so we can get your helmet off,” he added.
“Okay,” I said without opening my eyes. I didn’t see it at the time, but later I learned that the team doctor originally was going to be the one to cut off my face mask, but her hands shook so much that she couldn’t do it. Instead, she switched places with Kamm, who did the job himself. It took forever. After they cut off my face mask, they removed my helmet. They basically had to break it into pieces to get it off my head without moving my neck. Once my helmet was off, they slipped on a neck brace to stabilize my head and neck.
A new voice chimed in. “How are you feeling, Chris?” The paramedics had arrived.
“I’m good,” I said without opening my eyes.
“Good, Chris. That’s real good. Now I need you to try to do something for me,” one of the EMTs said.
“Okay,” I said.
“I want you to try making a fist.”
I knew my hand wouldn’t work, but I tried anyway. No luck.
“Okay. Can you feel me touching your leg?”
Not again, I thought. “I still can’t feel anything,” I said, annoyed, but it was hard to get the words out before I ran out of air. That’s weird, I thought to myself. I tried to take a deep breath, but I couldn’t.
“Are you breathing okay?” Kamm asked.
I took another breath that wasn’t nearly as deep as I wanted it to be. “Yeah,” I said, trying to convince myself. “I think so.”
“Hang in there, Norty,” a voice said. I opened my eyes to see our head coach, Mike Durnin, leaning into the huddle of people working on me.
“Thanks, coach,” I said.
Jeff McMartin, the head coach of Central College’s team then added, “You’ll be all right. You’re in good hands.”
I squeezed my eyes shut again and tried to believe them.
At least fifteen minutes had passed since the whistle blew, but to me every minute felt like an hour. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought the stadium had emptied out and everyone had gone home. The only sounds were the voices of the EMTs asking me more questions and the squawk of their radios. Then I heard a welcome voice.
“Chris.”
“Dad?” I wished my parents hadn’t been here to see this. I didn’t want them to get all worried for no reason.
“You’re doing good, son. Your mom and I are right here.”
“Thanks, Dad.” His voice sounded strong, but his eyes told me he was scared for me.
My father knelt down close to me and said, “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be all right.”
I wanted to say I believed him, but I didn’t say anything. “Listen, we’re going to get you on a backboard and load you into an ambulance to get you some help. Okay?” one of the EMTs said.
“Okay,” I said.
The EMTs around me worked fast. They lifted my body slightly on one side, then back on the other, to slide the backboard under me. But I had no idea they had done it. My only sensation came when they put blocks on either side of my face and strapped my head to the board. Claustrophobia came over me, like I was trapped in a very small place. And I was. I felt as if I were trapped inside someone else’s body. I saw the EMTs moving my arms and legs, but I had no sensation that these were my arms and legs. It was as if my head had been completely severed from my body.
“On my signal,” one of the EMTs said. They then lifted me up and placed me on the stretcher. I heard Velcro ripping as they strapped me to the stretcher.
“Where are my legs?” I asked.
“They’re right here, Chris,” one of the EMTs said.
“Are they pointed up? I feel like they’re in the air,” I said.
“No, they’re down,” I was told.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah,” one said.
“Chris,” my dad said.
“Dad.”
“They’re going to load you into the ambulance and take you to the hospital. Your mom and I will meet you there.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I love you, son,” my dad said.
“I love you too.”
The EMTs rolled me off the field toward the
waiting ambulance. The crowd clapped like they do every time an injured player is helped off the field. Typically, in these situations, the athlete gives the crowd a thumbs-up to let them know he’s going to be okay. I tried to force my thumb to rise, but it didn’t respond. I tried again and again and again. At that moment I wanted to give the crowd a thumbs-up more than anything in the world. I wanted to tell them, and myself, that I was going to be okay. But I couldn’t. I had been to a lot of sporting events in my life in which players went down with an injury and had to be helped off the field. I had never seen one, not a single one, fail to give a wave or a thumbs-up or some little sign to the crowd that he was going to be okay. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have given the crowd a thumbs-down. Of course, I couldn’t do that either. Oh no! Why is this happening? When will this stop?
Twenty or twenty-five minutes had gone by since I hit the ground. My “stinger” had not gone away. I had no more feeling in any part of my body below my neck than I did the moment I hit the ground. Even worse, I couldn’t get enough air. I felt as though I was breathing through a straw. Fear rose up inside me. Please, God, make this go away. Let me get up off this thing. I don’t care if I ever play football again. Just let me get up off this and walk.
The EMTs lifted me into the ambulance. As soon as they had me loaded inside, one of them said into his radio, “We need to get a chopper started.” Then turning to me, he asked, “Mayo or La Crosse?”
“What?” I asked. “Do you want to go to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester or Gundersen in La Crosse, Wisconsin?” The two were about the same distance away.
“Mayo, I guess,” I said. I didn’t know which to choose, so I went with the name I recognized.
“Okay,” the EMT said. Then into his radio, he said, “We need the chopper to transport to Mayo.”
Holy crap, this is real, I thought. I tried closing my eyes again to shut everything out, but it was too late. Panic set in. My head felt like it might explode as the ambulance sped through the streets of Decorah, siren blaring, on our way to Winneshiek Hospital. My natural optimism gave way to full-blown fear. What’s going to happen to me? I wondered. I didn’t know if I really wanted to find out.
2
A Passion to Make a Difference
EMILY
Growing up in Muscatine, Iowa, I wouldn’t say my life was perfect, but it was about as close as you can get. My two brothers, my sister, and I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood, went to church every Sunday, and had a mom and dad who showed us that living out your faith means more than just being a good person and doing the right thing. Real faith acts. I took them seriously from an early age, beginning one night when I saw a television show about international adoption that changed my life.
A lot of the details are fuzzy, but I vividly remember seeing baby after baby lined up in small cribs stacked on racks, like some sort of human warehouse. A single light bulb hung over the bare room with a dirt floor. The sight of suffering children devastated me. “Mom and Dad, we have to do something!” I cried. “We have to adopt them!”
My parents empathized with the situation of these children, but they didn’t phone an agency and try to adopt them. At the time I was far too young to understand the challenges of international adoption, but that didn’t make me stop asking my mom and dad to do something. It wasn’t only the children on television that broke my heart. I constantly watched for kids who needed to be adopted. My mom and dad patiently listened as I told them about the latest desperate child I thought we could rescue. My parents may not have adopted any of the children I told them about, but they taught me by example that following Jesus means helping others.
When I was young, I thought about kids from other countries who needed help. I didn’t realize that kids in my own country might also be living in terrible situations without families who love them—much less kids at my own school.
My sheltered worldview was blown out of the water when I signed up for a student-to-student mentoring program. Our local police department worked with the high school to match up students with elementary kids. It seemed like a natural fit for me, so I signed up during my freshman year to meet with kids at Franklin Elementary School.
One day I was on my way into the cafeteria for mentoring when a teacher stopped me. “If you don’t mind, I’d really like you to talk to that girl over there. Her name is Whittley.” I glanced over and saw a fourth-grade girl whose eyes were caked in white and blue eyeshadow. Her chin line had that distinct look of a too-dark foundation that hadn’t been blended from her face to her neck. No one told me anything about Whittley’s home environment or what could possibly make an eight-year-old think she needed to wear that much makeup. I also had no idea that two weeks earlier Whittley had tried to kill herself. I really didn’t know anything about her when I sat down in front of her and smiled. “Hi, I’m Emily! Is it okay if I sit with you?”
Whittley shrugged and looked down at the cafeteria table. “Sure, I guess.”
I wasn’t sure what I should say. Most kids her age were thrilled to hang out with high schoolers, but Whittley kept staring at the table and didn’t say a word. Normally, I might have felt uncomfortable with someone who clearly didn’t want to talk to me. Today was different. Something drew me to Whittley. Finally, I broke the silence. “Hey, do you like makeup?”
She looked up at me suspiciously. “Yeah, it’s alright.”
I dug into my backpack and pulled out a compact. “I just got some new eye shadow that’s really pretty. You want to see how I put it on?” Whittley didn’t move, so I opened the compact and took out the applicator. Then I paused. “You know, this color might look better on you. I have some makeup wipes with me. Want to take off your eyeshadow so you can try it on?” Now I had her attention. She nodded slowly, a smile starting to form.
I handed her a wipe and helped her scrub off the eye shadow and foundation. When her face was clean, I did an exaggerated double take. “Oh my gosh! Look at you! You are gorgeous! Why would you ever want to cover that up?” Whittley smiled.
“My mom always told me the trick to wearing makeup is to look like you’re not actually wearing makeup,” I said. “You just want to highlight your natural beauty. Clearly that’s not going to be a problem for you!” Whittley beamed.
We finished our makeup lesson, the program ended for the day, and I went home feeling so much joy knowing that even if I only made a small impact on Whittley that day, that one small act of kindness was worth it. Whittley and I continued meeting through the after-school mentoring program for the rest of the year. School ended, and I didn’t see Whittley through the summer. The next fall I continued with the mentoring program, but the leaders put me in a classroom with a few other kids who needed extra help. Whittley also continued in the program, but I only saw her a few times that year. From time to time, we ran into one another either in the hallway or library. After that year we lost contact with one another.
At the beginning of my junior year, I wanted to do something for middle school girls. I heard about a national program called Girl Talk, in which high schoolers serve as role models for middle schoolers and meet with them once a week after school to talk about everything from bullying and difficult home situations to boy problems and working hard at school. The principals and counselors at both the middle and high school gave me the green light, so I went to work setting everything up. The day before the program’s launch, I met with the middle school counselor to iron out the final details when she said, “There’s this girl, Whittley, who would do really well in this program. She needs it.”
“Oh my gosh,” I said. “I know Whittley.”
The little girl I remembered was now a sixth-grader. When she walked into the program, I gasped. Her head hung down, but I could see that it was shaved completely bald. The look on her face told me she didn’t choose this style. Later I learned that Whittley had a friend try to cut her hair. The friend messed up Whittley’s hair so badly that her stepdad ended up shaving it off.<
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Us reconnecting is not a coincidence, I thought. This is a divine appointment. Do not lose contact with her again! Our initial conversation that afternoon was a little awkward, but I made sure I got her phone number. Then I started giving her rides home after Girl Talk. Eventually we hung out together, sometimes at my house and other times at the trailer park where she lived.
Since I was the Girl Talk leader, I tried to get involved with other girls in the program as well. I’d strike up conversations and let Whittley talk to other high school students. Every once in a while, though, I’d look up and see Whittley glaring at me. Once, when we hadn’t talked much during a session, she climbed in my car for her ride home and let out a huge sigh. She wouldn’t even talk to me until I finally asked, “Is something bothering you?”
She whipped her head around and scowled. “I thought you were supposed to be my friend.”
“Of course I’m your friend,” I said. “Why would you say that?”
“Then why are you talking to all those other girls? Don’t you want to talk to me?” Her voice was angry, and I could tell she genuinely didn’t know the answer.
“Oh, Whittley, talking to other girls doesn’t mean I care less about you. I care more about you than you will ever know.” I patted her shoulder reassuringly. “I have to make sure other girls feel included because that’s part of Girl Talk, but that will never take away from our friendship.” In that moment I felt a love for her that I had never felt for anyone. Even so, no matter how much I reassured her, she refused to believe me. Over the next few weeks, she continued to try to push me away.
I didn’t understand why she was so jealous until one evening I knocked on her trailer door to pick her up to come to my house. I waited and waited, but no one came. I was about to head back to my car when the door creaked open. “Yeah?” a woman said, a cigarette in her hand. I assumed correctly that this was Whittley’s mom.
I tried not to breathe in the smoke as I said, “Hey, is Whittley here?”
“I don’t know where she is,” she said in a flat voice, as if she couldn’t be bothered with something so trivial as keeping up with her eleven-year-old daughter.