Special moments in my life have changed, and continue to change, the way I think and feel. My first special moment happened when I was just a kid, riding home from the mall with my aunt, my cousin Lisa and Mitra, a family friend.
Lisa and I had argued over who would sit by the window. I lost the battle after she pointed out, "It's my mom's truck." So I sat in the middle, squeezed between my cousin and my friend, as we ventured home down a dark, desolate road. I wouldn't see either Lisa or Mitra again for a long time.
I heard my aunt scream as she hit the brakes. The impact from the other car pitched my body forward into the dash. Everything went black. When I came to, I used my hands to slowly pull myself back up on the seat. Beside me, Mitra lay motionless and quiet, her eyes open wide, in shock. My aunt, her hand and foot broken, cried out, "Where's Lisa?"
I tried to look around, but my body wouldn't move. I saw my aunt get out of the truck hopping on one foot, looking for Lisa, who lay somewhere in the road, a deep gash in her forehead. I heard a man cry out with deep emotion, "I'll never forget." He cried and called a woman's name. I felt myself falling into a deep sleep . . . When I awoke again, paramedics were crouched over me. Through a fog I heard one say, "She's lost a lot of blood. She's bleeding internally."
My mother somehow had made it to the scene. She cried, "My baby, Pamela! Can you hear me?" I heard her. But I couldn't cry out to her. I could only in my mind thank a bystander who consoled her, because I couldn't. I began making promises to God. I begged for a chance to live. I hadn't had any experiences, and I wanted someday to have a family. I made more promises.
I spent three long weeks in the hospital. I was told that I'd never have children, a result of my fractured pelvis, and I'd probably walk with a limp. I went through surgery to repair my pelvis, and plastic surgery to reconstruct my severed right ear. Bandages covered every part of my face: Only my eyes were exposed. I looked like a mummy in a horror movie. Then I went home and spent two more grueling months in bed. I continued to talk to God, to make promises.
My legs were almost useless, yet I could still feel them. I'd get out of bed, literally pushing and sliding my way around my room. My mother noticed the room had been cleaned. I told her I had done it. The next week I was delighted to receive a pair of crutches.
* * *
More than 20 years have passed, filled with more special moments: Dances. Romance. Love. Marriage. Three miraculous births. Now I'm on a road again. I'm the one driving this time.
Sunday service at our church in Brandon has just ended. My three sons, Trenton, 4, Derrick, 14, and Eric, 18, are with me, riding home.
I'm looking them over, partly in awe, the children I wasn't supposed to be able to have. "What handsome men you've grown up to be," I tell them. I ask how things are going in their lives.
Derrick expresses enthusiasm for school and life. Eric, my eldest son, sits quietly. He finally tells me he's worried about his grades and how people are talking about him.
I glance over. "Look what God did for me," I say. "I was hurt, and the doctors told me I'd never walk without a limp or have children. Outside of clinging to God and finding strength in him, what could I have done?"
Eric replies, "Give up?"
"I could have given up," I say, "but we might not be here today."
I continue driving home. I tell each of them to stay strong and continue to pray. I don't know what the future holds for us. We hope and pray for the best. We give God the glory.
We try to keep our promises.
"Be a man of your word," I tell each of my sons. "All we have is our word."
- Pamela J. Grace is a substitute teacher and freelance writer who lives in Temple Terrace.
