Still Lolo

by Lauren Scruggs

  Right then Dana said, “Do you just want to lie back? I’ll pray over you.”

  So I did. I lay back in the sunlight, and Dana began to pray. After that, we sat silently together for maybe half an hour.

  That time was so joyful, so peaceful. It was then I realized that I had needed to face the darkness before I could truly see the light.

  It was my turning point.

  CHAPTER 28

  Vacation in the Snow

  Lauren

  Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table one afternoon, feeling hopeful about the progress being made, yet still wrestling with feeling overwhelmed by all that was going on. Mom said, “Y’know, we all just need to get out of here for a while.”

  “I feel the exact same way,” I said.

  We talked about where we might go. Dad walked into the kitchen and mentioned that family friends, Michael and Debbie, had offered the use of their home in Colorado anytime. When we called, these friends dropped everything they were doing and changed their schedule to accommodate ours. The next weekend Michael and Debbie flew our entire family to Steamboat Springs for four days. It was the first vacation we’d taken as a family since the accident.

  Their home was beautiful—like a lodge, yet still homey and cozy. Just the sight of the front door made us begin to relax. Outside it was snowy, with the Rocky Mountains ringing the panorama, and the scent of pine trees in every breath. I felt secluded, sheltered, and at peace.

  Shaun and Brittany came, as well as James. It made sense to extend the invitation to him, too. James was a good friend, and he’d been so caring throughout the aftermath of the accident. He got along well with everybody in our family. Plus he loves the snow and the mountains, and I knew it would be fun for him to get away.

  We all pretty much took it easy. I did, anyway. The guys went snowboarding and skiing. I wanted to go along, but doctors had told me I couldn’t risk a fall. Whenever there’s been brain trauma, a person’s head is extremely vulnerable for at least a year, even after the wound has healed. So instead of snowboarding, the girls all went into town and got facials.

  Each day I felt us unwind more and more. Mornings were spent sleeping in, drinking coffee, making pancakes, eating leisurely breakfasts, and hanging out by the fireplace. Afternoons were filled with walking, drinking more coffee, and having lots of deep, contemplative conversations. We cooked dinner in the evenings and hung out together. One night I went with the guys to the mountain to watch a community celebration called the Night Extravaganza. When darkness had fallen, skiers whizzed down the mountain with torches in their hands. They twisted and turned in long, serpentine arcs, and everyone cheered as the torchlight parade went by. It felt so good to celebrate something again. For the whole weekend, we didn’t talk about the accident or rehabilitation much, which was refreshing.

  I’ve had a Twitter account ever since the social media site was invented, and toward the end of that trip I tweeted two photos, as I would have done normally while on vacation. One shot was of me and Britt mugging for the camera. We’ve got our sunglasses on, and we’re making these exaggerated hippie looks, laughing at ourselves. The other photo was of a group of us during the nighttime event in Steamboat Springs. Immediately after I tweeted them, James noticed what I’d been doing and gave a low whistle. “Lo, you can’t be serious,” he said.

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “You know those pictures are going to end up on the Today Show, don’t you?”

  “Oh, sure. That’s funny, James.”

  But as he’d predicted, the next day we got an e-mail from the Today Show. The photo of Britt and me was shown on several national media outlets; then it spread to various other media sources along with a story about how I’d taken my first vacation since the accident. I was shocked at the exposure.

  “The problem,” James said to me, “is that you’re still thinking you’re living the life you’ve always lived. But your life is not like that anymore, Lauren. You can’t just tweet a picture for fun like you used to.”

  James was right. For some time I didn’t comprehend how large the news story surrounding my accident had become. I’d always been used to going places and not worrying about who was watching. I remember how one afternoon we started getting texts from people saying a picture of me was all over the news. It seems that an unidentified photographer had snapped a photo of my dad and me arriving at Baylor’s rehab clinic. The story was all over the Internet, and the caption below the picture in most stories said that we were “all smiles.” But that was so wrong. Dad and I had been listening to a worship CD in the car. We were both crying, just trying to work through all our emotions. Normally my dad just dropped me off at rehab, but I was having a tougher day than usual, so he went in with me. In reality, far from being “all smiles,” we were both a mess in that picture.

  Another photo that made it all over the news showed me leaving Whole Foods with Sharon Kendall, who’d driven me there. Going to stores still felt new to me. Complete strangers would stop us with tears in their eyes, saying they had been praying for my family and me, which was cool. The caption stated that I was leaving a local gym, but that was incorrect.

  Another picture was snapped from the street as I came up the walkway in front of our house. I’d just returned from rehab. We never did see who took the pictures, and the photographers never talked to us, but they must have been camped out near our house, just waiting to zoom in their cameras and get a close-up shot. From then on, we were advised to take different routes from the ones we normally drove. It was eerie to think that people were hiding out, trying to take my picture.

  Dad sat me down and had a similar talk with me. I’d never actually seen the list of media sources that wanted to do interviews with us, but he showed it to me. It was crazy. All these huge names were on the list—Dr. Phil, Ellen DeGeneres, People magazine, the Associated Press, the Times in London, the Hallmark Channel, Cosmo UK, Glamour UK. The list stretched on and on. I was even asked if I’d consider being a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.

  “Remember the CaringBridge website?” Dad asked. “The one that Caroline and Sharon set up so they could communicate with our friends and with people who wanted to follow the story?”

  I’d seen it several times. Sharon had been printing out some of the comments for me that had been posted there. The messages were sweet and gracious. People wished me well and said they were praying for me. No one had said anything about how many hits it had received.

  “Look again,” Dad said.

  We logged on. The site had received more than a million and a half hits. I poured through page after page of comments—thousands of them—left by people from all over the world. Time and time again, people wrote about how my suffering had touched their hearts. They thanked God for our family and said that God was using our experiences to inspire and lift up others who need encouragement.

  “Hello, Beautiful Lauren,” read one. “I am a Catholic who has not been as in tune with my church as I should be. You and your mother’s writings have inspired me in so many ways. I know your life is different now and measured in increments of good and bad times throughout the day, but knowing that you have a strong belief in the works of the Lord is a blessing. You are strong and will get through this, but please remember that you are beautiful and always will be. Much love to you and your family in this difficult time of healing! xo, Leslie.”

  “Your strength is amazing,” read another, from a woman named Nancy.

  “I just wanted to let you know how uplifted I am by your journal,” read a comment from Mary. “I hope Lauren continues to recover, and that your family continues to live by faith. Please know that there are many, many people who have been touched by your family’s story as it unfolds, and continue to pray for you.”

  “Lauren, you have shown such grace and dignity thru it all,” read another. “Thank you for allowing us to be a part of the daily struggles and successes. Lauren, I don’t know you, but I love you dear
ly, and I know God has a beautiful plan for your life. I will continue to keep you in my prayers.”

  “Lauren,” read one from Jenny. “Saw you on the news today, and you look AMAZING!!!! I have been following your story and wanted you to know that you are such an inspiration to all! God bless you!”

  I was speechless. I hadn’t been trying to do anything extraordinary. All I’d done was try to keep moving forward—just like Casey, my friend from high school, had done. Her father had died and her brother had gotten sick, and there were huge moments of pain in her life when all she wanted to do was lie down and quit. But she didn’t crumble under the weight of all the hardship that hit her. I’d drawn strength from her example and from watching others who’d gone through adversity.

  I’d developed my definition of everyday courage—Even when life hits you hard, you keep on going—then lived by that definition.

  That’s all I’d done.

  It felt good to have James on the trip with us. He hugged me a lot, and I hugged him right back. He was so sweet, so protective. At dinner one night I was having problems cutting my chicken. He reached over and cut it up for me, without me even asking.

  On the last afternoon of the trip, James and I went snowshoeing, just the two of us. Above us, the Colorado sky was blazing and blue and cold and clear. We hiked a short way out into the woods and came to a clearing where we stopped. We weren’t too far away from the lodge, but just far enough so it felt private.

  “James?” I asked. “Um . . . are we dating again?”

  He looked far away into the mountains and thought for a moment. I wasn’t sure how he’d answer. My heart was beating fast, and it was one of those moments when, had we been dating, we would have kissed.

  “Lauren, you know I care for you a great deal,” he said. “But I don’t know if I’m that person to you. I’m here as your friend, not as your boyfriend.”

  I scuffed my snowshoe along the ground. Somewhere far away I heard a bird flutter to a tree, chirp, and then go silent. “Well,” I said, “maybe if you and I were still dating, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe it would be good. Just like before.”

  “Maybe,” he said again. “Or maybe we still need some time to sort things out.”

  I nodded. We hugged, a really long hug. He held me so warmly, and I wanted to stay that close to him for a long time.

  We both understood the seriousness of a conversation like that. We weren’t toying with the idea of dating for dating’s sake. We were sorting through an incredibly big decision—whether to reconsider the idea of spending the rest of our lives together.

  And James was right. The answer wasn’t clear, even though that moment in a snow-covered clearing was perfect. We needed to be genuine to ourselves and to what we knew to be true within the larger context of our lives. We both knew it was too soon after the accident to begin dating again. We needed to live for a while in this “new normal” and give our friendship time to adjust.

  Still, in that one moment, everything between James and me felt perfect. I wish it could have gone on forever.

  CHAPTER 29

  My New Reality

  Lauren

  Our trip to Steamboat Springs reenergized me. I was going to beat this thing, I decided. Whatever I needed to overcome, I would.

  Weeks before, I’d begun going to a prosthetics company in anticipation of eventually getting a prosthetic for my left arm. An occupational therapist there suggested that I check out a new rehabilitation and therapy program at a center called Athletes’ Performance. The center specializes in training professional athletes, some of whom have had injuries. It looked more like a gym than a hospital.

  Sheri Walters, my main physical therapist there, normally has a tightly packed schedule, but she “just happened” to have an opening when I called. Sheri is a few years older than me and absolutely amazing. We connected instantly. I was in awe of her education, skill, knowledge, and dedication. I quickly realized how much more beneficial it would be for me to do rehab with pro athletes rather than stroke patients. I knew that this was exactly the place I needed to be.

  Five days a week I met with Sheri. She started each session by working on my various scars, massaging a special cocoa butter formula into the wounds so they didn’t constrict or begin to seize up. Then we worked through various training exercises. She wanted me to do push-ups to strengthen my upper body. I lay flat on a workout table, and she held the end of my left arm for support. When I first began, I could hardly crank out one push-up.

  “Don’t worry, Lauren,” she said. “This is only the beginning.”

  We worked with weights and running, stretching and lunge work, as well as wraps and compresses to reduce swelling in my residual limb. The whole environment was different from my first rehab center. This time my fellow patients were football players with torn shoulder ligaments, soccer players with knee injuries, and baseball players with twisted back muscles. Some were athletes without any injuries at all—they were simply there to train during the off-season. Rock music boomed from overhead speakers. I gave it my all, and in a short time I could do twelve full push-ups—not from my knees, but full push-ups from my toes. I didn’t even call it physical therapy anymore. I called it “training.”

  Early on I told Sheri about how I’d learned to box before the accident, but that I’d concluded I could no longer participate in the sport. “Actually,” she said, “boxing would be helpful to your recovery. The cardio is good, but it will also teach you how to judge depth perception again by hitting a moving target. I’ll see what I can do.” She wrapped my left arm and fitted me into my pink gloves, then called in Stewart Gill, the center’s general manager. He was a huge man who’d been a US National Taekwondo team member for eleven years. Stewart had me do some warm-up drills by alternating my stance. Then we began to spar. I was pleasantly surprised, both by how well the glove held to my left arm and by the fluidity of my movements.

  “Nice job, Lauren,” Stewart said when the session was over.

  It was such a simple phrase of encouragement, but I felt empowered, like I was well on my way. Since then, I’ve continued to practice taekwondo regularly at the center. It feels so good. Before the accident, I learned how to box because I wanted a new challenge in my workouts. But since the accident, martial arts have helped me heal. It seems as if I am doing what I had been doing before, but in a new and intense way.

  About five weeks after I came home from the hospital, I met with an eye specialist, Randy Trawnik, to be fitted for a prosthetic eye. The procedure is complicated, and it sometimes takes several days to create the eye, color it, and be correctly fitted for it. But Mr. Trawnik brought me in on a Saturday to see if we could do it all in one day. He’d lost an eye himself in the military, and when he came out of the service, he retrained as an ocularist. I could tell instantly he was passionate about his work.

  We began in the early morning. Mom, Dad, and Brittany came with me. The whole process was fascinating. First Mr. Trawnik took an impression of my eye socket, which he used to mold a wax model eye. After carving and shaping the wax model, he used that to create the plastic prosthetic eye. Then he hand-painted it and added finishing touches to make sure it looked as realistic as possible. Mr. Trawnik worked in stages. He would keep us in his office for a while as he measured and inspected me, and then he would send us out for an hour or so while he worked. We’d go to Starbucks or wherever and then come back for another step in creating the eye.

  Most fascinating to me was watching him paint my eye color. He had a whole palette of colors to choose from. He’d look at my right eye intently with a magnifying glass, then paint a bit on the prosthetic eye, then look closely at me again. I asked him to describe all the colors he saw in my eye. He said my eye is a green-hazel color, mixed with a hint of yellow in the middle, and flecks of blue, gray, green, and a little bit of brown. I loved watching him paint. I’ve always been captivated by art and color
palettes. It reminded me a little of the feeling I get when I have a new set of markers to work with.

  When Mr. Trawnik finished painting the eye, he let me hold it. The prosthetic eye feels sort of like a clay bowl that hasn’t been hardened in a kiln yet. The surface is firm but pliable, too, almost with a skin feel. The eye is not completely round like a globe, either, but more oval shaped.

  To fit the eye in my socket, Mr. Trawnik put drops in the socket and then slid the piece in. At first it felt weird, tight—like something that shouldn’t be there—and it looked lower on my face than my other eye. Surgeons had told me earlier that this would happen. They’d need to go back and do another surgery to add volume to the lower part of my left eye socket in order for the prosthetic to look nearly identical to the right eye. Mr. Trawnik shaped it further so it would fit perfectly.

  At about 4:30 p.m. I left wearing my new eye. I couldn’t believe it. The prosthetic is designed to track with my other eye so they move in sync. Eventually my muscles will form to it and treat it like a regular eye. I can leave the eye in the socket indefinitely. I don’t need to take it out to sleep or shower or anything.

  My doctor suggested I wear glasses to protect my prosthetic eye, but I’m not always willing to do that. Glasses feel restrictive to me, and I don’t like the way I look in them. Besides, how can I box my heart out when I have glasses on? Sometimes, though, I just don’t want people seeing my prosthetic eye; I’d rather hide behind my aviator sunglasses.

  One reason I’m self-conscious about my prosthetic eye is that it doesn’t move as fast as my other eye. Fortunately, Mr. Trawnik referred me to some of his past clients who have learned to compensate for having an artificial eye. For instance, one TV reporter he worked with has learned how to blink naturally. When she’s on camera, every time she looks from right to left, she purposely blinks. That way people don’t notice any difference in the speed of movement between one eye and the other. I learned that getting a prosthetic involves both the process of fitting the eye and then learning how to use it. Overall, getting a prosthetic eye was a positive, encouraging experience. It left me feeling more whole again.