I have been toying with the idea of writing a book for a few years. A story of tragedy and triumph, then more tragedy, more triumph…get the picture? I get a few pages written, I kinda like them, then I kinda don’t. There will be a small handful of people reading this who already know who I am (big fish, small pond) but for the most part, I have lived in anonymity. This brings me back to the book thing. I keep thinking that I may have something to offer to those folks who are still ambitious enough to pick up a book. Confused? I’m not surprised, so am I. Let’s start with a story.
Once upon a time, I was a happy, healthy young girl, nine years of age, who liked to play Barbie’s, ride bikes, climb trees, watch television, play on my school playground with my friends, and go to my ballet and tap dance lessons. Then, in the wink of an eye, everything changed. I mistakenly stepped in front of a kid messing around with a gun. He fired it, not quite understanding how it worked, and I was unable to jump out of the way of a bullet speeding my way at a million miles an hour. I collapsed to the floor, paralyzed from the waist down. The bullet struck my spinal cord. I never lost consciousness. I naively told that boy to look around for the bullet, thinking that if he found it, I would be okay. I began to try to get up, but I could only drag myself along the floor. Suddenly, there were policemen and ambulance personnel, and my mom surrounding me. A warp speed ride took me to the local hospital, where I was tended to by a trauma team, and whisked into neurosurgery. Four hours later, my parents were told that I would never walk again. Tragedy. A little girl died that day, only to be replaced by a different one, with the same face, same personality, but vastly different abilities.
If you’re still hanging in there with me, congratulations, because that’s a bloody sad story. Fear not, though, boys and girls, because the stories of triumph are yet to come.
Peace on your head,