The Seven Longest Yards

by Chris Norton

  I stared at her. “You don’t know where she is?”

  She shrugged like it wasn’t worth the effort to keep talking. “She’s at a friend’s house somewhere. But I don’t know where she is.”

  I couldn’t even speak I was so angry. Whittley had told me enough about her home life for me to know that things were bad. But young and naive me thought she must have been exaggerating. Meeting her mom for the first time and finding her so emotionally detached from her daughter told me that Whittley was telling the truth. I wanted to yell, Hey, it’s a little weird that you don’t know where your daughter is, and you’re supposed to be her mother! But I kept my mouth shut. I knew if I made Whittley’s mom mad, she might not let me see Whittley anymore. Instead, I forced a smile. “Okay, well tell her Emily stopped by.”

  Later I learned that Whittley had opened up to a friend about the physical and sexual abuse she was suffering. The friend’s mom had called the Department of Human Services, who had removed Whittley from her mom’s house and placed her in a group home thirty minutes away. I tried to go see her, but because I wasn’t family, I was not allowed. However, I heard that her mother needed a ride to visit the group home, so I volunteered.

  The drive over was miserable. Through the entire drive, Whittley’s mom complained about her life and how Whittley was to blame. I tried to tune her out by thinking of song lyrics, homework, and anything else to drown out the negative stream of words spoken against my dear friend, but nothing worked. The more Whittley’s mom complained about her daughter, the angrier I became. I’d never hated anyone in my life, but I was starting to during that car ride.

  The visit with Whittley did not improve my view of her mom. During the visit I had a nice talk with Whittley. In a common area where visitors could hang out with the girls, the two of us played a board game and discussed how she was doing. Her mom didn’t join in the game, nor did she say much of anything the entire time we were there. When we stood up to leave, Whittley sobbed. “Please don’t leave,” she begged her mom. “I love you. I love you so much. Please take me home with you.”

  I started crying too, but then I realized that Whittley’s mom seemed unmoved. Her child was standing right in front of her, crying that she loved her, and she couldn’t bring herself to say it back.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. After Whittley was taken back to the group home, I turned and looked her mom right in the eye. “Doesn’t it make you sad that you’re leaving your daughter here?”

  She stared at me, completely emotionless. “I’ve dealt with this with my other daughter. I’m used to it.”

  By the time we got home from the visit, I was so emotionally exhausted that I had to take a nap. I didn’t know how to process the fact that a girl I loved was so seemingly unloved by her own mother. All I knew was that I had to do whatever I could for Whittley. I called her as much as I could, and on her twelfth birthday, I took a cake and some scented lotions and body splash to her at the group home. Besides candy from her sister, mine were the only presents she received.

  A week before Christmas, I was talking to Whittley on the phone when I asked her if she was excited to spend the holiday with her older sister. She sighed. “I don’t get to go. Something happened and—I don’t know. I just don’t get to go.”

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “Are you going to your mom’s instead?”

  “No,” she said quietly. “I’m staying here.”

  “What? No!” I was furious. “There is no way you are staying at a group home by yourself on Christmas. You’re coming to my house.”

  “Emily, they’re never gonna let you do that.”

  Whittley didn’t yet know that when I see something that has to be done, I will not take no for an answer. The next morning I called her caseworker. “I can’t let this girl spend Christmas by herself. I need her to come to my house and spend Christmas with my family,” I insisted.

  “Emily, it’s not that simple,” the caseworker explained. “She can’t just stay anywhere. You’d all need background checks. We’d have to do a home visit. Christmas is next week and . . .”

  “We’ll do whatever it takes. Come to my house. We’ll do background checks and whatever else we have to do.” I didn’t hear her say no, so I kept going. “Please. It’s Christmas.”

  A few days later, Whittley came to our house for Christmas. I can’t even begin to explain the joy I felt on our way back home after I picked up Whittley from the group home. Knowing I was a part of helping her spend Christmas with a family was the best Christmas present I could’ve ever received. I couldn’t wait to see her relax with my brothers and sister and open the presents my parents had bought for her. She had been around my family a few times, but I could see she was more nervous than usual. My family did everything they could to make her feel welcome. We made Christmas cookies and treats, watched movies, and played the game Apples to Apples, which had us all cracking up. She was starting to feel comfortable. But the best part came later.

  The two of us were alone in my room when I handed her a box. “Go ahead, open it!” I said, not trying to hide my excitement.

  Whittley pulled off the lid to reveal a scrapbook. She looked up at me, confused, then silently flipped through the brightly decorated pages. For weeks I’d taken the book to every counselor, friend, and group home staff member, asking them to write Whittley a Christmas message. Her sisters and my family all wrote notes telling her how special she is. I’d pasted various pictures of us under inspirational quotes.

  She kept turning the pages without saying a word. For a moment I was worried that she didn’t like it or that I’d offended her somehow. Then she looked up, and I saw the tears streaming down her face. “My heart,” she said, her voice breaking, “my heart has never felt like this.” We both bawled as I held her in my arms. I couldn’t believe that a twelve-year-old had never felt the kind of love that a scrapbook made her feel.

  The more time I spent with Whittley, the more I believed that God put me on this earth to help kids like her. Everywhere I went, I saw kids cutting themselves, kids being bullied, kids being abused. I saw kids who had nothing, while I had everything I ever wanted and the most loving family any girl could ever have. Sometimes I felt angry at God for letting these children suffer. Why should I have all these incredible privileges when other kids my age were struggling? I felt I had to do something to help others and made it my goal to do everything I possibly could to make an impact.

  Sometimes making an impact meant being kind to kids at school who seemed sad or who were ignored by my classmates. I wanted them to feel included and to show them God’s love. Over and over again, that kindness led to kids opening up to me about the most unbelievable, horrific trauma they’d lived through. Each time, I listened and helped steer them to the right person who could help. At home I wrote in my prayer journal and asked God to help them.

  I took on other kids’ problems without thinking about the burden I was inadvertently carrying. When I confided in my mom, she sighed. “I worry about you, Emily,” she’d say. “These are some heavy issues for a girl your age to deal with. You have to take care of yourself first.”

  I was confused and I brushed her off. “I’m fine, Mom. These kids need me. I have to do everything I can to help them. I can handle it. Don’t worry about me.” I thought, Why would I need to take care of myself when I have never gone through anything difficult? It took me some time to realize it, but I wish I’d listened to her.

  3

  Three Percent Chance

  CHRIS

  I stared up at the ambulance’s metal roof as it raced through the streets of my college campus, siren blaring. Try as I might, I couldn’t force any part of my body below my neck to move. I tried to look down at my hand to see if anything had changed, but the neck brace made it difficult. “Don’t move your head,” an EMT warned.

  “Okay,” I said and tried to relax. Lights flashed bright through the windows, and the distinct smell of hospital disinfectant
filled my nostrils. I still held out hope that the feeling in my body would come back. I waited for a tingle, a pain, anything, but nothing happened. All my life I’d been a strong, active athlete. Not even being able to wiggle my toes made me feel trapped. The looks on the faces of the two EMTs on either side of me told me I was in serious trouble. Oh, God, help me, I prayed.

  The ambulance slowed to a stop. The EMTs jumped to their feet. “Time to go,” one said. I closed my eyes as they wheeled me into Winneshiek Hospital.

  I burst through the doors, still strapped to the gurney. All at once I found myself in the middle of what felt like a scene from a movie. Doctors and nurses surrounded me, shouting to one another and pelting me with questions. Someone cut off my blue, number 16 Luther College jersey while someone else sawed off my shoulder pads. They even ripped off the wristband I wore to remember my friend who was killed in a car accident that summer. I wanted to yell, Hey!, but before I could say anything, they barraged me with the same questions I was asked on the field:

  “Can you make a fist?”

  “Can you wiggle your toes?”

  “Can you feel this?”

  “Which foot am I touching?”

  I was so sick of the questions that all had one of two answers—no or I don’t know. I closed my eyes again. Please, God, let me wake up from this nightmare. This can’t really be happening to me.

  The sound of my mom’s voice interrupted my prayers. “Chris! We’re right here, baby. Everything’s going to be okay. The doctors are going to take good care of you.” I opened my eyes to see her standing next to me along with my dad, my sister Alex, and my grandma. I’d almost forgotten my grandmother had come out for the game. More than anything I wished she didn’t have to see this. Luckily, my younger sister Katie had gone to a sleepover instead of my game. Seeing me in the hospital would have crushed her.

  Once again I shut my eyes to try to close out the world, only to be interrupted by my mom’s panicked voice shouting, “Stay with us, Chris!” She must have assumed I had a head injury and was fading in and out of consciousness.

  “I’m awake, Mom,” I reassured her. “I just can’t watch all this. If I close my eyes, I can pretend none of this is happening.”

  My grandmother silently stroked my hand and arm, as though if she tried long enough, all the feeling would come back. “Can you feel that, Chris?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, Grandma. I’m sorry.”

  Mom and Dad moved out of earshot to ask the doctors questions, their brows furrowed with worry. I’d spent my whole life with a ball in my hand, and every game, they were in the stands cheering me on. When I got knocked down in basketball or took a hard tackle playing football, they always gave me space. Never once did they play the part of the overly worried parents. Even when I knew they had to be dying inside, they stayed strong for me. They tried to do that now, but the look on my mom’s face gave her away.

  “I’m going to be okay, Mom.” I tried to reassure her, but my voice didn’t quite work right, like someone had turned the volume down.

  The doctor examining my head immediately stopped what he was doing. “It sounds like your voice is getting pretty soft,” he said. “Are you having trouble breathing? Do you need some assistance?”

  “No. I’m okay,” I whispered. All my life, I’m okay had been my default answer to anyone asking me if I needed help. I hated when people made a fuss over me. Being surrounded by all these doctors and nurses was almost more than I could take.

  “Well, let us know right away if you don’t feel like you’re getting enough air,” the doctor said. “We can insert a tube down your throat to help you breathe. We’d like to keep that as a last resort, though. We don’t know the extent of your injury yet, and if we insert a breathing tube, there’s a chance it could do further damage.”

  “No, I’m good.” I’d already lost all the feeling in most of my body. I didn’t want to find out how much worse it could get.

  After an X-ray confirmed my spinal injury, they whisked me to the top floor to wait for the helicopter that would fly me to the Mayo Clinic. As I tried to process what was happening, I looked for something, anything, to pull me back to reality. I remembered that the University of Iowa played Michigan in football that day. Like my dad, I grew up an avid Hawkeyes fan. “Does anyone know the score of the Iowa game?” I asked.

  Someone told me Iowa had won. Okay. That’s a good sign, I thought. Then I heard the helicopter coming in for a landing. The blades were still loud when the EMTs started pushing me toward it. Here we go. Another flurry of activity erupted around me as the EMTs loaded me into the helicopter and strapped my gurney to the floor.

  “Now remember, if you can’t breathe, let us know and we’ll intubate you,” one of the EMTs said.

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  With that last comforting tidbit, the helicopter took off. I’d been in a helicopter only once before. My dad and I had ridden in a helicopter around the island of Aruba for my thirteenth birthday during spring break. On that ride the crew gave my dad and me headsets with microphones to talk to one another over the roar of the rotors. My dad and I laughed and smiled and had a great time.

  This experience was totally different.

  I couldn’t look around the cabin, much less out the window. Instead, I lay there, staring straight up, thinking this wasn’t how my life was supposed to turn out. My mind jumped from one worst-case scenario to another. Will I ever play football again? Will I even walk again? What kind of life am I going to have? Will I be alone for the rest of my life? What kind of woman would ever want to be with a guy who can’t move?

  Suddenly, I couldn’t get enough air. I tried to take a deep breath, but no air came. Trying not to panic, I then took a couple of short, rapid breaths. That didn’t help. I was suffocating. For the first time since my accident, I believed I was about to die.

  “Help,” I wheezed, but I didn’t know if I had made any noise. The roar of the helicopter drowned out every sound. If I couldn’t hear myself, how could the EMTs hear me? The answer was: they couldn’t. “I can’t breathe!” I said, but no one moved. “Help,” I called again, but neither EMT turned toward me. My only hope was to make eye contact with one of them or for one of them to see me mouthing “help.” Both were looking the other way. I wanted to wave my hands to get their attention, but clearly that wasn’t an option. Surely the heart monitor will alert them that I’m struggling, I hoped, but still no one noticed. I was on my own.

  Desperate to breathe, I went into full-on panic mode. This is it. I’m going to die in a helicopter on my way to a hospital with two EMTs right beside me because no one noticed I needed help. I started to give up and let the inevitable happen, but I could not bring myself to do that. No, I thought, I am not going down without a fight.

  I closed my eyes and went back to the ritual I used before every game to help me get in the right frame of mind. Before I took the football field, I visualized exactly where I would run, where the ball would be, where the other players might go.

  That’s what I did in the helicopter. I visualized myself breathing. I imagined my lungs filling with air and expelling it out. Then I counted. One breath. Two. Three. I focused on the air I was getting instead of the air I wasn’t. With every positive thought, each breath got a little easier. I’m going to make it, I told myself. I’m going to be fine.

  From the moment my body hit the ground after the tackle that put me in this mess, I had focused completely on what I could not do. I could not move; I could not feel; I could not breathe. The obstacles kept getting bigger and bigger until they completely overwhelmed me. Everything changed when I switched my focus to what I could do. For the first time, I realized that my attitude had the power to change my reality. I have never forgotten that lesson even though it was about to be tested more times than I could count. The first test was about to begin.

  Before I knew it, we were on the ground, and I was wheeled into another sterile room full of masked doctors a
nd nurses. They didn’t waste any time cutting off my pants and socks and setting up an IV. Someone walked away with vials of my blood, but I never felt anyone drawing it. It was the most bizarre thing to be poked and prodded and feel absolutely nothing.

  Then came more of the same questions. This time doctors poked different parts of my body as they asked if I could feel what they were doing. The answer was always the same until one of them asked, “Can you squeeze your butt?” Well that’s a new one, I thought. I was about to say no when I felt a sharp jab in my butt.

  “Hey! I felt that!” I’d never been so happy to be poked in the butt in my life. I expected the doctors and nurses to share my excitement, but no one said anything. To me, though, the fact that I felt something below my neck was encouraging.

  After another round of X-rays, a doctor told me I needed surgery to repair a grade IV spinal dislocation. Before they could operate, the doctor wanted an MRI. But they couldn’t simply slide me into the MRI tube in my present condition. First they needed to realign my neck using traction. I didn’t know what that meant until I saw someone carrying a round contraption with screws on both sides. It looked like some kind of medieval torture device. My heart pounded as they placed it on my head.

  I got two numbing shots in my head before the doctor said, “This is probably going to hurt.” The next thing I knew, I heard a spinning sound, and a stabbing pain shot through my brain. Great, the one part of my body I can feel is the one they have to put this torture device on, I thought. “Uh, did you numb my head?” I asked. “It feels like someone is driving two nails into my skull.” The doctor gave me more numbing medication, but the pain didn’t let up. I felt something warm dripping down by my ear and to the back of my head. I didn’t have to see it to know it was my blood.

  But the medical staff was just getting started.