A delivery van ran a red light on Kessler Road on a Tuesday afternoon, and I woke up four days later in a hospital bed that smelled of antiseptic and other people’s flowers, with a nurse explaining very gently what the letters on my chart meant.
The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive, but that I would never walk again.
T-11 complete.
I remember the number because it was the only thing in that room that didn’t seem to be lying to me.
I was still in the hospital, trying to come to terms with my new life, when my wife, Katherine, placed Amelia into my arms, picked up her suitcase, and said:
“I didn’t sign up to be your nurse or your caregiver. I’m not throwing my life away for the THREE OF YOU. I’ll find a man who can give me the life I DESERVE.”
She said it in the doorway.
She said it with the suitcase already packed, which meant she’d packed it at home, which meant she’d decided before she drove over.
