“The operation went very well. We’ve kept her on the respirator for now as we gave her some extra anesthesia at the end to ensure that she gets some solid rest for the remainder of the night. We don’t anticipate her waking up until morning.” I want to hug the doctor, but figure that’s probably deemed on the inappropriate side. So instead I thank him profusely.

Just then, Chelsea’s bed is wheeled into her ICU room. She has a tube in her throat and I can hear the hiss of the machine breathing for her, as they settle the bed into place.

She opens her eyes wide when she sees me, fear, questioning. It takes me a moment, then I turn to the nurse.

“Has anyone told her why she still has a breathing tube?”

“No,”

Well, that explains it. I immediately let Chelsea know what’s going on, but that doesn’t settle her – she becomes agitated. She wants to communicate. The nurse has been standing watching us.

“I’ll be right back,” she says and returns several minutes later with an electronic keyboard with big letters she can push to form words.

Even though the extra anesthesia should knock her out for the night, she fights it tooth and nail. She wants that breathing tube out. The fear is that if she falls into a deep sleep, which is what they want, the anesthesia is strong enough to shut down her automatic breathing response. For two hours I sit beside her, as she fights the urge to sleep. We have a surprisingly intimate conversation with her using the child’s toy. Her eyes flutter closed occasionally, then open with renewed vigor.

The doctor finally relents, she has proven that the anesthesia is no match for her iron will. I assure him that I will sit by her and wake her if her breathing gets shallow. This strong, stubborn streak will serve her well in the weeks to come.

After six days of 24-hour vigils, I finally agree to take an apartment offered to me by the hospital to get some sleep. I didn’t even think it was possible to go six days without sleeping. Chelsea’s friend Jonathon (he would later become her husband), who flew over on the first day of the accident, says he will sit with her.

In the quiet apartment, suffering from extreme exhaustion and with nothing else to occupy my mind, I finally meltdown. The crying is so fierce, I’m afraid I will lose my mind. I have never cried so hard in my life or felt so alone. It’s 10 pm, and I can think of no one to call at this time of night except the couple renting my ohana. I phone on the pretext of making sure everything is alright at home. Kristen quickly ascertains the real reason I called though and lets my tears be heard.

Two weeks later, after we return from Oahu, I will discover that our neighbor, five doors down, the one with a towing business, has Chelsea’s car sitting in his driveway. That’s how it is in small towns on small islands. So, against my better judgment, I go to look at it.

A brand new, six-month-old, two-door Mazda something-or-other is now unrecognizable. Chelsea to this day has no memory of sliding off the wet road as she tried to take a corner going too fast. The car rolled a couple of times, after it hit a ditch, then crashed into a tree head-on. The vehicle was accordioned in all directions. I looked at the tiny empty space that remained inside the car and sent up gratitude for Chelsea being so slim. Normally not having a seatbelt on would have spelled disaster, in her case, it saved her life. As she was thrown into the passenger seat, her left leg was pinned by the steering wheel to the driver’s seat. The roof collapsing on top of her head had sustained most of the damage to her spine.

Her friend Jonathan who, worried about her at the party after she received bad news, had been following her, called 911 then stayed with her and waited for the paramedics. She was cut out of the car with the jaws of life. Chelsea has a two-day hole in her memory of the trauma but has troubling dreams occasionally.

My daughter made a miraculous, full recovery. She spent four months in a hospital bed parked in my living room, then went about her life. She appears to suffer no long-term effects from the accident.

Thanks to ‘Mother’s Trauma’ this is the first time in 18 years I’ve been able to re-visit this episode of my life, in its entirety.

Thank you for listening.

Next week, back to my Tiny Home.