Soul Surfer: A True Story of Faith, Family, and Fighting to Get Back on the Board

by Bethany Hamilton

the bad news

  “She’s lost her arm,” Mike told Noah a few minutes later. “Oh, my God,” cried Noah. “Oh, no! I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” He knew he couldn’t tell my mom, not yet. It would be too overwhelming for her to handle without being able to see me with her own two eyes. Instead, he and Sarah started calling all of our Christian friends around the islands to start a chain of prayer.

  As my mom reached the ornate fountain that marks the entryway into our Princeville community, they heard the wail of sirens approaching. By the time they got to the stop sign, the ambulance had flown by. Gunning the gas, they fell in behind us, but I had no idea. And I had forgotten my dad was already at the hospital that morning preparing for his own surgery. Knowing my parents were so close to me would have made me feel a little better.

  At the hospital, my dad was on the operating table. Rather than be put under, he had opted for an anesthetic that would only numb him from the waist down. His orthopedic surgeon, Dr. David Rovinsky, was preparing to start the operation when an emergency room nurse burst into the room. “Just a heads-up, Dr. Rovinsky,” she announced. “There’s a thirteen-year-old girl coming, a shark attack victim. We are going to need this room right away.”

  The doctor, remembering that it was Halloween, thought that the nurse was playing some morbid practical joke. But my dad heard her and knew this was no joke. He also knew in his heart that the thirteen-year-old girl had to be either me or Alana.

  “Tom, stay here,” the doctor tried to calm him. “I’ll go and try to find out what’s happening.” My poor dad lay there alone on the table, unable to move, praying, worrying, and wondering. He had no cell phone to call my mom; no way of contacting anyone. Within five minutes Dr. Rovinsky returned. His face was pale and there were tears in his eyes. “Tom, it’s Bethany,” he said softly. “She’s in stable condition. That’s all I know, I don’t have any other information. Tom, I’m going to have to roll you out. Bethany’s coming in here.”

  My dad later told me that that hour in the recovery room was torture: his mind was wild with scenarios of what might be happening to me in that operating room, the room he was supposed to be in. “I tried to will the feeling back into my legs so I could run in there and see you,” he admitted. “I had no idea how bad you were—I prayed all you needed were just a few stitches and you’d be good as new.” But like his heart had told him I was the one who had been attacked, it also told him it was much worse than a few stitches.

  Timmy got the news in first period at Kapaa High School. The cell phone in his backpack chimed. It was Mom: “Timmy, Bethany’s going to the hospital.” He actually thought Mom was talking about Dad, whom he had just dropped off twenty minutes before. “Um, okay,” he replied. He thought maybe his mom was confused and went back to reading his surfing magazine in the library.

  The next phone call was from Noah, who was brief but a lot clearer in his description of what had happened: “Timmy, Bethany’s been attacked by a shark! Get over to the hospital right now!” Timmy ran to his car while dialing friends to get them to pray for me.

  Shortly before reaching the hospital, Holt called Mom on her cell for the first time. She knew nothing except that I was hurt. Holt had to tell her the shocking news: “Cheri, she’s lost an arm.” Mom said she dropped the phone, pulled the Blue Crush over to the edge of the road, stared at her two hands on the steering wheel, and broke down weeping.

  My mom was crushed. All the work and effort we were putting into my future as a pro seemed to her at that moment to be washed away. Still, in spite of her tears and heartbreak, she had the presence of mind to turn on a worship CD and sing along with it. Through her tears and pain, she praised God and told him that in spite of everything, He was in control. I was in His hands.

  chaos and concern

  I was in surgery, so I was completely removed from the circus that was going on in the waiting room: family and friends desperately trying to figure out what condition I was in; crying, pacing, praying. I knew my mom would be grabbing any nurse or doctor she could get her hands on, begging for an update, and I knew that Noah’s stomach would be totally topsy-turvy (he later admitted that he threw up as soon as they got out of the car). Thankfully, Timmy found Dad in recovery and filled him in on the little he knew: at least he reassured him I was still alive. Eventually Dad was able to move his legs, and an attendant came in and, seeing him sitting upright in a chair, asked if he wanted to see me.

  He didn’t wait for any help: he dragged himself out of that room, looking for me.

  7

  surgery

  The medics called it a “traumatic amputation.” I was lucky, because on duty that morning at Wilcox was Dr. Ken Pierce, the same emergency room doctor who had handled the foot amputation by a tiger shark of body boarder Mike Coots a few years earlier.

  Dr. Pierce received a call by radio that there was a shark attack victim in the area of Tunnels Beach. Knowing the distance involved, he knew that he would have plenty of time to prepare. A short while later the paramedics radioed in, telling the ER the rest of the story: “It’s a thirteen-year-old female and the arm is gone . . .”

  Dr. Pierce—an avid surfer himself who knew me well through our sport and also our church—later told me he had a premonition that it was me. It made sense: there were few young girls who would be surfing Tunnels on a school day. But more than that, his gut was telling him it was me, and this would be a very tough operation personally and professionally.

  When the paramedics wheeled me into the emergency room, my dad’s doctor, Dr. Rovinsky, said I was “cool as a cucumber.” All I know is that there was an incredible relief in knowing I was in a hospital where people could help me. I had made it this far . . . I was going to survive this. I was awake but a little sleepy when I arrived. They whisked me into a room before I could see anyone.

  The other bizarre thing: I really wasn’t in pain. Dr. Pierce has this theory about that. He says that minor injuries produce pain as a warning for the body to “watch out” or nurse the injured part. But in the case of a severe injury, the body’s nerve endings virtually shut down, knowing instinctually that the body does not need to be warned of danger because danger has already arrived, and directing all the resources of the body to be focused on trying to stay alive.

  So they hooked me up to lots of machines—I’m not sure what they all were for, but I know they were giving me fluids and taking lots of X-rays and blood levels. Later I would learn that I had lost nearly half of my blood volume.

  It was Dr. Rovinsky who would be doing the first surgery (orthopedic surgeons do all the amputations at Wilcox), and he explained to both me and Mom how he would do it. “You’ve lost your arm, Bethany,” he said gently, “now the focus is on saving your life.” He stressed that he was going to try to leave me as much of my arm as possible and that I would be going to the operating room and would be knocked out for the surgery.

  According to Dr. Rovinsky, shark bites, and particularly tiger shark bites, tend to have a high risk of infection because these scavengers’ mouths are pretty filthy. So he had to thoroughly clean the wound. Then he’d find the nerves and cut them, causing them to retract and reduce the potential for the phenomenon called phantom pain—the sharp feeling of ache in a portion of a limb that no longer exists in reality but still sends signals to the brain. The wound would then be left open but packed with gauze for several days to ensure that there was no infection. Dr. Pierce would do the second surgery to close the wound, using a flap of my skin.

  the work begins

  “Do you want anything?” the nurse asked me.

  “Just to go to sleep,” I said.

  I was tired from the loss of blood. I was tired from the trauma and from being poked and prodded by doctors and medics. I remember a kind nurse saying, “Okay, Bethany. Close your eyes and sleep.” I did, and gently drifted off as if I had been in my own bed. No last prayers, not even any big worries, just peace and relief.

  I had a good
feeling about Dr. Rovinsky. When he spoke, he was both kind and confident, and he was also a surfer and a friend of my father. He said things would be okay. He assured my mom that the odds were in my favor: I was young, in great physical shape, the cut had been direct rather than a ragged tear, and my calmness had kept my heartbeat slow enough to keep the severed artery from quickly draining my blood supply. Holt’s great tourniquet and everyone’s quick reaction had also been a big plus. “Look,” he told her, “a lot of things had to have gone right for her to make it to this point. She’s got everything going for her.”

  He also was optimistic that I would be able to compensate well with one arm in the future. In fact, he figured that even the idea of a prosthetic arm might have a fifty-fifty chance of being practical. “A lot of kids get used to making do without the missing limb,” he told my mother. “And Bethany is a fighter.”

  8

  the road back

  I have a few very vivid memories of things that took place after I first arrived at the hospital and the few days I spent there recovering. For one, I was terribly thirsty. I had nothing to drink all morning and only a bowl of raisin bran for breakfast. I was real thirsty on the beach and nobody would give me any water because I was headed for the hospital. As soon as I got there, I was rushed to X-ray rooms and the whole time I was dying for a drink of water.

  When I finally saw Timmy before my surgery, I started saying over and over again, “Get me water, get me water.” I guess I must have sounded delirious, because Timmy looked at me like I was crazy. But he finally ran and got me some. I drank it down like a person who has been in the desert for days! They gave me cup after cup. But I don’t think they asked the doctor if they should.

  As soon as I came out from under the anesthesia I barfed; water and raisin bran, yuck! Then I saw my dad. I was supergroggy, but I said, “Hi, Dad, glad you’re here.” My dad says that I had an “everything is going to be okay” grin on my face, but I don’t remember that. Initially, he wondered if I should have been taken to a more advanced hospital on Oahu. But after a few days, he saw that the care at Wilcox was great and I was in good hands.

  I was wheeled to the room that would be my new home for the next six days. I was very, very tired and spent all day Friday trying to sleep. I say trying because all through the day and the night nurses kept coming in and doing things that woke me up: taking my temperature, fiddling with machines, checking my tubes and stuff. Late Friday my dad came into the room and quietly whispered that he was going home for the night and would get some clothes, take care of the dog, and be back in the morning. He tells me that he hardly slept that night, tossing and turning and running what happened over and over in his mind.

  By Saturday morning, I was exhausted. (I really don’t understand how they think you can actually rest in a hospital.) My dad showed up very early with bloodshot eyes. We were both dopey from lack of sleep, me more so because I was on some nerve pain killer medicine. My mom stayed by my side the whole time. My dad went out to deal with visitors and the ever-growing number of reporters who had heard what happened to me and were eager to break my story.

  “I want to be the best surf photographer in the world,” I told my dad. That was my way of saying, “Listen, I know my surfing days are over . . .” He just nodded, “I’m sure you will be,” and tried to smile. He knew what it meant as well.

  But by Saturday I changed my mind and started thinking about going surfing again. I was feeling better; my mind was less foggy, and there were so many people coming to see me and give me pep talks. Every time I would wake up and look around there were more balloons, more stuffed animals, and more flowers in the room. I remember it smelled great. But I also remember seeing a lot of sorrow on people’s faces as they walked through the door of my hospital room—at least for the first minute or two. They wanted to see the same Bethany they had known before—and frankly, I looked pretty changed. So I quickly set them straight: I was the same person on the inside.

  I put on a brave face for everyone, but I can’t pretend it didn’t get to me at times. I have this thought every second of my life: “Why me?” Not necessarily in a negative way—like “Why did this horrible thing have to happen to me?” But more “Why did God choose me and what does He have in mind for me?”

  If I ever do start to get blue, I have my brothers to pull me back. They were laid back as always; they never let me know their horror or see their pain or fear. Timmy was always joking and Noah was my biggest protector. They were so strong, and that helped me be strong, too. I wasn’t about to let my brothers show me up at anything!

  The manager of the Radisson Hotel near the hospital called and gave my parents a room to use, so my dad would usually stay there at night and my mom would stay with me and then go and sleep there during the day. I remember on Saturday I started to feel a little bit of what they call phantom pain and it was very freaky. I could feel my arm, the arm that wasn’t there! Your arm actually hurts, but you know there is nothing to hurt. This phantom pain still bothers me today.

  My dad stayed with me on Saturday night. He said I was crying or whimpering like I was having a nightmare or something. I don’t remember a thing.

  Sunday came. We usually go to church on Sunday, but not that day. Lots of visitors came in the afternoon, so church came to us. The whole youth group from the Kauai Christian Fellowship and the North Shore Community Church showed up, prayed with me, and sang a bunch of worship songs I knew. That was pretty cool. There were so many of them that they spilled out of the room and into the hall.

  All of this made me feel a bit more spunky—I was joking with friends, and really laughing, something I hadn’t felt much like doing for a few days. Dr. Rovinsky would check me every day, usually in the morning. He explained that on Monday I would have another surgery that would take a flap of skin from under my armpit and swing it over, grafting it across the open wound. This would give the stub of my arm natural skin that would be held with stitches. Since I was already talking about going into the water, he made it clear that I had to wait until the stitches were taken out.

  The doctor explained to us that I seemed to have a strong tolerance for pain and gave us all encouragement by saying, “The list of what Bethany will have to do differently is long; the list of what she will be unable to do is short.” The doctors decided to give me blood transfusions as well because I was not replacing my own blood as quickly as they would have liked.

  My dad, in particular, was afraid of transfusions because he had read about people getting AIDS or other diseases from tainted blood. But Dr. Rovinsky assured him that blood nowadays is screened. “If it was my daughter, I wouldn’t hesitate,” he told him. My dad knows how much the doctor loves his kids. “Okay,” he said. “If that’s how you feel, then I know it must be okay.”

  The next morning, a physical therapist came and I got out of bed and took a walk. I was really ready to do this; I was sick of lying in bed. I wish I could say I enjoyed being finally able to stretch my legs, but I had company the whole way, and I was dragging around bottles of liquid and medicine attached to a pole with wheels. It was kind of fun because I knew it was a sign of me getting better.

  I had a visit from an occupational therapist, too. She showed me how to tie shoes with one hand, put on and take off clothes, and other tips that I would need as soon as I got out of my hospital gown.

  I was getting a little mischievous by then as well. A while ago my brother had brought me a realistic-looking fake foot when he came back from a trip to Mexico. It was a cool joke, so I had him bring it to the hospital. I stuck it under the sheet and when the nurse came in, I told her that I thought there was something wrong with my foot. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” I moaned. “It doesn’t feel so good . . .” You should have seen her face when she reached over and felt that cold rubber foot. I thought she would scream. Take that! This is what you get for waking me up all night! I also figured out how to turn off or fix the machines that I was hooked to when they s
tarted to buzz. With one, I just got up and unplugged it. Finally! A little peace and quiet.

  When it came time for my surgery on Monday I was relieved. I just wanted to get things over with and get home. My family was with me as they wheeled me from my room to the hallway outside surgery. We all prayed together. I woke up back in my room with a fat bandage on my arm, still feeling groggy from the operation.

  As soon as I was alert, my mom suggested that since the room had so many flowers and plants, we make it into a Garden of Eden. We put all the small plants into the bathroom and around the toilet, and the large plants and flowers in the main room. We even had flowers in the shower. When visitors came my mom would give them the tour of Eden.

  On Tuesday I heard about a girl who was Timmy’s classmate and who was in the hospital for seizures from a brain tumor, and decided to walk over and see her. We had a great visit, laughing and making jokes about our own situations. She was a Christian as well, so we both prayed together for each other. I brought her a whole bunch of flowers and balloons because I had way more than I would ever need. (And they kept on coming, too.)

  I was getting antsy to leave—I wanted out of this twilight zone! I kept pestering my mom and dad: “When can I get outta here?” I pleaded. I was getting a little uncomfortable with all the attention, too. The hospital put security guards at my door to keep out uninvited visitors and the press.

  Sometimes I was so tired of lying in bed that I would get up, grab some balloons, and walk around, bouncing them off my head. My brother even has a video shot of me doing this.

  By Wednesday I was seriously stir-crazy. The doctor checked my wound again and said I could be released early. “Hooray!” I shouted. I felt like I was being sprung from jail! But then I was told that I could leave the hospital but I couldn’t go home: there were dozens of reporters camped out on our lawn and I wouldn’t be able to get any rest. So it was decided that we would sneak off to a friend’s home in Anahola Beach.