March, 2005

A doctor enters the cubicle. He’s a short, middle-aged Japanese man and he has a big smile on his face like we’ve just been introduced at a party.

“We’re waiting on the results from X-ray,” he says.
“What happened? Do you know?”
“Well, she was brought in by ambulance. A one car accident on Kaloko drive, it was raining, and it appears that she missed a curve.” I will discover later that I’m being fed the details of what happened tonight in bite-sized pieces. Had I discovered them all at once, I’m not sure what I would have done with the overload.

Oh Chelsea, Chelsea… The doctor leaves me with this new information and excuses himself to go check on the X-rays. I return to my bedside vigil, still not much the wiser to the nightmare my daughter has experienced tonight.

He returns and beckons me out of the cubicle and wordlessly holds up an X-ray of her back. My brain can’t compute what I’m look at. I didn’t realize Chelsea had a scoliosis, and a bad one at that. I take in the unmistakeable S-curve of her thoracic spine with a quizzical look. Then I realize the Doctor’s talking to me.

“…along with the compression fractures of T3 and 4, she has six rib fractures, a slight fracture at the base of her skull and a fracture at C6. She’s also suffered a concussion.”
“She broke her neck?” He had saved the worst for last and I zeroed in on it. I think I’m going to throw up. “Which part of the vertebrae did she fracture?” Some perverse survival mechanism kicks in for me. My profession as a massage therapist and instructor accords me enough knowledge of anatomy to make me dangerous. If I can picture exactly how her neck is broken it feels like I will have some control of this situation. I’m grasping at straws.
When the doctor looks at me quizzically, I continue impatiently, “you know, the lamina, the pedicle, which part?” Who really cares which part? I’m babbling. Oh my god, my beautiful youngest daughter – so full of life, loves to dance, ride horses, has her whole life ahead of her – has broken her neck.
“Haw, what do you do for a living? You know more than I do,” the doctor says with a little laugh. He’s trying hard to soften this devastating news. For once in my life, I can’t dredge up my sense of humor, my go-to coping mechanism.
“Massage therapist,” I say. I can’t even fake a smile. Can we get her medevaced to Oahu now please? I know there is a trauma center there, Chelsea’s injuries are way above Kona Hospital’s pay grade.

Over the next ten days I would become well acquainted with the compartmentalization of medicine. Many doctors have become an expert in one area. But ER doctors have to be knowledgeable of the whole body and their expertise is in stabilizing critical patients no matter what they present with. I wish I could have been more gracious to this kind man, doing his best to bear such heart-breaking news. As it was, I was barely keeping my head above water.

“Excuse me, but where’s the ladies room?” I ask. All of a sudden, I’m doubled over with sharp pains in my lower abdomen. I shuffle quickly along the hall, push open the door to the Ladies, and am so grateful that it’s the middle of the night and I’m alone in here. Under normal circumstances I would be thrilled to evacuate so much waste. Healthy bowels, healthy body. My brain feels sharp and lucid, focused completely on the next step. My body however is registering the trauma and is preparing for battle.

I return quickly to Chelsea’s side. I hear the doctor at the nurse’s station giving instructions to have Chelsea medevaced to Queens hospital on Oahu. The nurse comes in to tell me they will be taking her in a couple of hours, but there isn’t room in the plane for me, they will need personnel to keep her stable. Keep her stable. Those words speak volumes. This isn’t about me, it’s about Chelsea, I need to keep my shit together.

I push down the rising panic and go into organization mode. I know how to do that. “Okay, I will go and get on the first available flight to Oahu. Thank you for everything.” I try to smile but I have to abort mission as it feels like it will turn into tears, and there’s no time for that yet.