I write so often about the fleetingness of time, of the preciousness of every little thing. This morning I realize that so much of it was just words. You just can’t really know until death whispers at your door.
For me it wasn’t until…
They shielded my babies.
The clots filled my hands.
The blood flowed over my lap.
I couldn’t move as fast as their faces showed I should.
My friend said in a faraway place, “You are still bleeding.”
I didn’t get it until the blood wouldn’t just wash away as I expected, instead it plumed around me in the water. The color as dark as the shadow Sean cast over me as he said we had to get to the hospital.
We drove in near silence, I occasionally told him not to worry. “Are you still bleeding?” he’d ask, and I would lift myself gingerly and more blood would gush out of me. “Yes.” He’d nod almost violently and say under his breath, “Then I am still worrying.”
The girls were calm and I remember softly telling each one that I loved her, all the while thinking it was a silly and unnecessary step, but one that I took for the set of Sean’s profile.
“I saw the blood, mama,” Ave said. I was startled, “Well, what exactly did you see baby?” I asked as I remembered the bright scarlet smears along the inside of the boat and of the rivers of it that coursed passed my legs and waist and covered the seat. “Just a little bit on your finger and on Finley.”
I closed my eyes, reopened them and said, “It’s ok, look how big I am. I have a lot of blood and daddy is going to get me fixed.” She nodded, smiled and said, “I know, you’re going to the hospital and we’re going to Nana’s and you are going to be fine.” Sean’s eyes welled. The rest of the ride was quiet but for the odd chirp of “I love you, mama,” from the girls.
Nana and Jeannie were waiting outside of the ER as we pulled up. There was talk of switching cars and of getting me into the building. “If I stand I’ll lose more blood.” A wheelchair it was. Sean rolled me into the ER as my babies were driven away. It began to sink in then that I was way out of my depth, that it didn’t matter that I was strong, tolerant of pain or a good person. Life, as I knew it and as it might ever be, was, for the moment, completely out of my hands.
They moved me into triage with lightning speed. The nurses called me “Baby” and “Honey” and “Sweetheart.” They moved us past the scanner and straight into a room. I thought about my friend joking earlier as she stood on the dock about “not grooming this morning” and pointing to her bikini area. I had laughed and said that I had for once. I’d painted my toe nails too. This all washed over me as we cut away my suit and arranged my feet in stirrups. I had no idea how long they’d stay that way and how so much life would escape from a place I’d come to think of as a source of life.
There was some amount of comedy as the two things most necessary to examine my wounds were missing or taken. My doctor was pissed. I was happy. You want a pissed off and focused-on-you doctor. Maybe pissed off is too strong.
Emphatic.
Deliberate.
Clear-as-day on what he needed when, where and how to fix me.
Anything between him and those things was an unwelcome impediment.
He and Sean talked to me. I remember thinking deliriously that it always seems to be men looking between my legs (we can laugh, right? I mean, c’mon. I’m alive. And I had shaved!) They laughed, not so much at what I said, as at how not in step with the severity of my injury I seemed to be. Reality didn’t hit me again until…
I looked up at 7 faces and saw terror.
I watched Sean forget that I could see him.
I whispered, “Hey, I can see you,” and he smiled, a smile that spoke untold words.
I blinked, finally really startled as they put oxygen tubes in my nose, stuck monitors on my chest and belly, and pumped bag after bag after bag of saline into me.
I watched as they drew blood from me even as I realized the blood I thought I’d been losing could actually have been my life.
When the doctor looked at me and told me he was removing the equipment because it couldn’t reach the wounds and apply the pressure the way his own hand could I nodded. Silent. Obedient. Sobered.
“You tell me if I hurt you,” he said directly, but gently.
He told me story after story as his hand trembled from the exertion, stopping only to call out “How long before the doctor arrives?”
I listened, then listened harder as my body started to fail, limbs trembling, color draining, numbers plummeting, Sean grabbed one leg and a nurse grabbed another holding them steady while my driven doctor shouted, “I need that second OR set now!”
I began to rest, easing up on the trying to understand, trying to focus. Sean leaned his head toward me, “Manda, baby, you still with me?” I tried to keep my eyes open. “Yup, still here. Just sleepy.” I have bits and pieces of being wheeled to the OR, there might have been joking about the resident that pushed the table being my doctor’s lawnmower, but that seems wrong. I can’t be sure.
The anesthesiologist talked to me about the unfortunate reality that I had eaten (mac-n cheese at noon, chips and salsa an hour before the ER) and consumed liquids (a seltzer and 1 Coors Light-blush) and that made putting me under dodgy. They asked me what sports I did and after answering and complimenting them on the quality of the OR (ever socially gracious, don’t ya know?) I remember waking to a tray of food. Knowing enough about how and what one needs to do before being discharged, I ate that ham sandwich, Fig Newton, applesauce, warm milk and juice like it was a king’s meal. “Feel any nausea?” to which I responded, “Not a bit!” (burp)
I knew that they had saved me, now I just wanted to be home.
####
Cut to the chase, somehow after an unremarkable fall as I water skied, I incurred two lacerations to my vaginal wall measuring upwards of 2″ each. The time between the incident and arriving at the ER was approximately 45 minutes, My blood loss exceeded a liter in the operating room alone, easily a liter in the hour that preceded. My numbers dipped to places you don’t want them to go. The ER staff kept me warm and calm, the OB, nurse and anesthesiologist tended to my wounds with precision and speed. My friends and Sean deciding to take me to the ER saved my life.
Now I am at home, moving gingerly, if at all, and doing everything I can not to replay the images of a decision I never considered dangerous, of a fall that never truly hurt and of the memories of the massive amounts of blood that I nearly tried to rationalize away to the point of not mentioning.
Today I am grateful for all the minutes I have so recklessly enjoyed as being my right. Knowing the gift that they are makes me dizzy.
I love you so. Do not ever leave me, babe. We need you. XO
I was holding my breath while reading. Need I say more? So glad you are ok.
oh my goodness . . . i am so glad that you are all right. life is so precious.
I just found you through Mrs. Finger. I don’t know you, but am very glad you are okay. Your story proves just how fragile life truly is and how quickly and easily it can slip away from us.
You are a wonderful writer. I adore your blog layout, and am subscribing. Thank you for sharing your life with us. Very glad to have ‘met’ you.
Ashley (@theatomicmommy)
Much love to you, Amanda. xoxo
Oh crap Amanda. I am so glad you are ok. Accidents scare the bajesus out of me. It is the nothing-you-can-so-about-it fear that I have to move to the very back of my brain so I can continue to function as a mom.
I’m gonna hug you so hard when I see you next month.
Heal fast friend.
You were very, very brave. Still are.
Even knowing you authored that story, my breath was held throughout. What a scary thing. I’m so glad you’re ok. Recover quickly.
Even in writing about this awfulness, your words were so … pretty.
Glad you’re well, take care of you.
Yup, held my breath and wiped a tear or two as I read, even knowing that the outcome was a good one. I’m so glad you are ok and thankful that your husband and friends pushed for you to go to the hospital. Take care & rest.
crying here. Please don’t scare me like that again! Hope you heal quickly. xo
Be well, get well, rest well, my friend . . .
I love you and your words and your heart.
I am so, so relieved that you are recovering.
*tears* SO glad you are OK. OMG. {{hugs}}
We are so relieved that you were in such good hands. We are here for you and the girls. xoxo
Wow, just wow. I’m so glad you’re okay. Have been so worried, love.
Oh my God, Amanda. I have chills reading this, I’m so glad you’re ok. For you, for Sean, for your girls. For me, even though we’ve never met. :squeeze: life is so random and terrifying.
Oh, lord. I’m so glad you’re okay. How awful that was. Big hugs.
Love.
Oh my god, Amanda! I was in tears as I was reading this. I’m SO glad you are OK! I can’t even imagine how terrifying that was for you and Sean. Huge hugs from Boston!!
Oh Amanda. I’m glad you’re ok. You rest as much as you can – oh, I am so glad you’re ok.
OMG, so glad you are ok. Get well!!
Holy… I have to go back and read the rest now, because I couldn’t – had to scroll down to make sure you were okay (even though, OBVIOUSLY or this post wouldn’t be here, right?). So,so glad you’re okay. <3
oh, you. so much love and support coming your way.
Oh my gosh, Amanda. So glad you are ok and on the mend. Rest, rest, rest!
HOLY *&()*&*(#^@^*$(& woman!!!
So glad you got great care — sending my love & hugs.
XOXO
Oh Miss Amanda… Don’t you go scaring us all like that. I logged into Facebook to see one of your posts… and had to rush to catch up. Obviously you were alright while writing…. but still… so heartbreaking to even think about losing you before getting to meet you. So very very thankful for all of the support you have and that you are alright. Big hugs to you and Sean, Ave, Briar and Fin.
delicate?!?
you are steel!
you are miraculous and you are blessed with an amazing family. you husband deserves a medal.
my thoughts are with you (and your healing lady bits).
<3
How you can write so gorgeously about something so traumatic, so personal, and so recent, I cannot fathom. But I am so very very relieved that you are recovering. And I know you are hugging your girls tighter than ever tonight.
Oh, the girls had to be scared even with your reassuring smile and words. Hell, I was scared and I’m an adult and know that obviously you ARE still here. Yes, please heal gingerly, restfully and lovingly.
I just found your blog. What an amazing story. I’ll be praying for your healthy recovery.
Very glad you made it through that – where else would we go to remember to appreciate?
But – what on earth caused the wounds??
Oh My Amanda, I would absolutely die if you were to be hurt for too long. I am so glad you’re okay
i had to read this in two separate sittings as i was getting a little dizzy and nauseas imagining what you and Sean went thru – thanks for the reality check i needed it tonight to get thru this crappy bedtime – puts it all in perspective for me – very glad you are okay!
Ho.Lee.Shite. This was arresting. Be well, brave lady.
This is gorgeous and suspenseful and terrifying and heartbreaking all in one. Wow. I’m exhausted from reading it and so, so happy that you are okay. Thanks for the reminder that life is so very, very fragile and fleeting.
This feels like a dream. A word woven dream.
I’m sorry. But glad. Sorry for the pain and the blood and the terror. Glad for the words and the finding and the happy ending.
I don’t think I want to learn how to ski anymore.
Oh my god, Amanda! I was totally in tears as I was reading this. I can’t even imagine how terrifying it was for you and for Sean too. I’m so glad you are ok!!
Hugs!
I found you through the Room 704 ladies and…wow. I’m so glad that you’re ok. I can’t even imagine what you went through. This story had me holding my breath.
Also, thanks for a wake-up call of sorts. We spend a lot of time on the water and I take our safety for granted.
Hugs to you!
Holy crap. This is serious! I’m sooo relieved to hear you are home and recovering. Thank goodness for good doctors and nurses. Get well!!
That sounds absolutely brutally terrifying.
Rest and get better soon!
Oh, I’m bawling.
Like, BAWLING.
Amanda. It’s so strange, the denial that comes when things are so dire. I feel like it’s a defense mechanism. And thankfully, the ones we love are not so afflicted at the same times as we are.
xoxo
In tears at work, sending warm thoughts and prayers your way for a speedy recovery, and thinking of Sean and the girls. You are one of the special ones. <3
Oh, Honey, I hope you feel better soon. This scared me reading it even though I knew the outcome was good. You were writing, it couldn’t turn for the worse. And yet? I still held my breath and hoped everything was fine.
One thing I can say with certainty- you didn’t need to tell your girls that you loved them one last time. You are a shining example of a person who never misses a moment of giving love and thanks for your blessings. This blog proves it. Every word you write here shows how much love you have given every day. Your children know. I’m sure they appreciated hearing it, but without a doubt, they know.
I should also say, I am baffled at how water skiing can result in a vaginal wall tear. Oh, the things we never think of… I’ve always worried that water skiing would result in broken bones. Silly me.
Amanda, Oceans of Love and Light to you! I found you thru Stop Screaming I’m Driving and I am happy for that! I wish you a speedy recovery and return to great health.XOXXO
*shivers down my spine*
So glad you were well taken care of. Much love.
I figure it’s impossible to send you too many wishes for feeling like yourself again soon. I know you are being well cared for. So so scary, we are sending you lots of love from PA.
I am without words. Praying for your healing and praising God for sparing your life.
Hi Amanada,
We have only met I believe once but I am a friend of Sean’s from the youtheatre days. After noticing some posts on his facebook page I knew something troubling had happened in his life. He directed me to your blog.
All I can say is Wow! You are unbelievably strong and there is so much to be said for the love surrounding you! Sending you healing thoughts and I am so glad you are improving!
I hope our paths cross again in the near future.
All the Best to you and your family!
I’m so glad you are okay.
Hi Amanda –
This is Sean’s friend from HS, Ken Hughes. I saw some posts on FB about your situation and checked out your blog to see what was up. (well written, by the way)
I’m glad that you are on the mend and feeling better. I hate to see bad things happen to good people. You guys are in our thoughts as you return to normal.
All the best –
KH
i read each sentence with growing horror as you related what happened to you. best wishes for a full and speedy recovery.
Oh, my God. Amanda! Oh. My. God. My friend! I am so glad you are safe now. How terrifying for you, and for those you love.
Oh, my God.
Good Lord.
Oh, good lord.
So…speechless. Just glad you’re here.
I read this days ago and I still cannot comment. I feel like I might pass out from just thinking about our ordeal. But the fright certainly outweighs the mention of blood (an area I always do poorly with) and because of that I feel your message about time, it’s fleeting nature, it’s elusiveness.
So glad you are healing. So glad you are here.
I’m on the edge of my seat reading your post, holding my breath, and most of all, glad you’re okay. Must breathe now.
ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.
Amanda. May I just please tell you right here, right now, how glad and grateful I am that you are still with us? How glad?
How goddam glad?
I am so glad.
also, yes, maybe a little crying.
Sister mercy. When you mentioned in your comment on my blog that you had a water-skiing accident, I figured I’d read a light-hearted account of you tumbling into the water. Holy shiznit…what an intense story.
I’m glad you’re okay.
And I will always remember your story when someone asks me to go water-skiing.
(Because it’s a fairly overrated activity anyway.)
Amanda! I read this days ago and for some reason could not comment. But it stayed right in the front of my thoughts. I think I was holdig my breath along with your other readers. I am so glad you are on the mend. What a scary ordeal. Rest! Rest! Rest!
Wow Amanda, I am so happy that you are ok, and with your girls! what a horrific ordeal to go through, you are so brave. Oh, and yes my cheeks are tear stained now as I sit here at my desk.
I have been on the edge of my chair throughout this entire piece, which tells an incredible story, one that is gripping, harrowing, touching, frightening. I wish it was just a story you’d made up. As a fellow water-skiier I’m stunned about the start of this whole thing (!), as a reader I’m moved by your description of all that you remember. What a ride. Glad you came through, glad you are still here. Glad you lived to tell the tale, and damn well at that.
Oh Amanda….I’m so sorry! Your story give me chills. Hoping the healing, both physically & mentally, is going well.
Amanda,
Your words always put me right there with you in your stories. I held my breath the entire time ( even knowing you are alive and well now). Your words…woman, you need to write a book. No one uses their words like you. SO glad you survived this and I got the chance to meet you and know you. You made me cry when you recounted your drive with your children. We always try to stay strong for them even when we are so scared that we are numb. You are such a good mama. XOXO