One of the most significant days of my life is a day that I cannot remember.

I remember the days before and most of the days after, but not the day itself. February 11, 2008, is shrouded in mystery. I will never forget February 10, 2008 – it was a Sunday afternoon and was one of those days where the sky was too blue not to be outside, despite the chilly February weather. I was sitting in my backyard enjoying the sun when I received a phone call from my sister telling me that a friend’s sister had been killed in a car accident. At the age of 16, I didn’t seem to have the ability to fully process this information. I knew that I needed to go to her funeral visitation the following day to support my friend. 

I never made it to that service, though. On my way to the visitation, I went through an intersection that I assumed was a four-way stop and was hit on my side of the car by an SUV. My car ended up a hundred yards away from the point of impact and by the time emergency responders arrived, I was unconscious and unresponsive. They almost sent me to a nearby hospital to have me pronounced dead. Then someone decided to send me via helicopter to a trauma center in Atlanta. By the time my family arrived to the hospital, they were told I was in critical condition and may not survive the night. There was bleeding and swelling in my brain, fluid in my lungs, and my prognosis was not good.

The next few days involved lots of praying and hoping and waiting, or so I am told. I was unconscious, then placed in a medically-induced coma, then dealing with severe short-term memory loss, which prevented me from being aware of anything that was going on. I didn’t know I almost died. I didn’t know my family members more afraid than they’ve ever been. I didn’t know that people from every chapter of my life were praying for me. I didn’t know that the doctors were amazed when I moved from the ICU to an inpatient rehabilitation floor within a matter of days. I didn’t know.

The funny thing about being the center of a miracle is that you often do not realize that a miracle is taking place until well after the fact.

Everyone around me was amazed with my progress in healing, but I didn’t see it. I was just continuously frustrated with my inability to remember things and processing the fact that I had almost died on February 11, 2008. 

Because of my traumatic brain injury, I have exactly two weeks that are completely gone from my memory. I remember sitting in my backyard when my sister called me with the devastating news on February 10. The next thing I knew, it was February 24 and I was waking up in the middle of sleepwalking, brushing my teeth in a strange bathroom. What pulled me out of that dream-like state was realizing that the toothbrush I was using wasn’t my own and that the pajamas I was wearing were ones I had never worn before. That Sunday, I went through my usual day full of therapies and learned that I was just two days away from going home from the hospital. I felt like it was too soon for me to be leaving the hospital, like I needed more time to catch up to this new reality. Looking back, I know I never would have felt caught up with what had happened to me.

My miracle was moving right along, and I had to figure out some way to live my life like the miracle it was.

 

Right before the first anniversary of my car accident, I was anticipating the date and trying to think of a way to celebrate it. As a 17-year- old girl who had a new lease on life, I flippantly discussed ideas for ways to commemorate the day. As I was talking about it, my mom gently reminded me that this anniversary meant something different for my family than it did for me.

Because of the severity of my injuries, I did not remember any of that day; but my family remembers it as one of the worst days of their lives.

I had this romanticized view of a near-death experience based on books I had read and movies I had seen. My view didn’t include my parents getting that phone call that no parent ever wants to receive. It didn’t include my family watching as the helicopter took their unconscious daughter and sister away, wondering if they had just seen me alive for the last time. My view didn’t include the sleepless night spent on the floor of the ICU waiting room, having been told my condition was critical and I may not survive the night. While this day was one that I wanted to celebrate, it was a day that my family wanted to forget.

That anniversary, and every anniversary that has followed, I have celebrated with a quiet reverence for my life and appreciation for everyone who walked alongside me as I recovered. 

Every year has looked a little different and I allow myself the freedom to celebrate it based on what feels right that year. The first year, my best friend who lived in Florida surprised me with a much-needed visit. On the second anniversary, I went with some dear friends to the intersectionin Good Hope, where we sat in rocking chairs in the general store watching the intersection. One of the owners of the store made conversation with us, no doubt wondering why a high school girl and her three friends in their twenties were hanging out in their store on a Thursday night. I told him that I was in a car accident there exactly two years ago.

The sweet older man smiled and said, “I don’t suppose you remember me, do you?” It turns out, he was there that night and was one of the first people to get to reach my car after the accident. He proceeded to recount what had happened that night from his perspective and talked about how they had wondered what had happened to that young girl after the helicopter took off. I asked if I could give him a hug, which he readily accepted.

Another anniversary that stands out in my mind was one I spent at home with my family. In the days leading up to that anniversary, my dad was talking about how he remembers sitting in the ICU waiting room just wishing we were at home eating takeout and watching Reba on TV. That is exactly what we did that anniversary, spending it as an ordinary family evening at home.

Sometimes celebrating isn’t about elaborate plans and lavish parties; sometimes it’s about being with the ones you love and reflecting on what a good life you have. 

Every year, I am reminded of how grateful I am for my life and every day that I have been blessed with since February 11, 2008. It has been nine years since that day. Nine years of miracles. Nine years of heartbreak. Nine years of joy. Nine years of growth. Nine years of hope. Nine years of life. Nine years of celebration.

Callie Heintzman

I am a twenty-something who also identifies as an old lady, based on my affinity for yarn crafts and a recent hip surgery. Against all odds, I recently finished my master’s degree at the University of Georgia (where I also attended undergrad – double dawg status!). I am about to begin my career as a child life specialist in the emergency department at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. This career path is something that was inspired by my experience in the hospital following my car accident. I will always be grateful for the eternal encouragement and good hope that came from that tragic day. Visit my blog: withgoodhope.wordpress.com if you want to know more!