The Promise: A Tragic Accident, a Paralyzed Bride, and the Power of Love, Loyalty, and Friendship (10 page)

“What do these people really want from me?” my friend asked about the media outlets that seemed to sensationalize the accident in their reports.

“Ignore them. We are. We’re never letting them in,” I tried to assure her.

She said, “I hope you know, I’m happy for all the good that is coming of this and all the great things you’re doing as a result.”

“Thank you. I know you are,” I said. “There’s a lot of cool stuff going on, and I’m psyched.”

Then we got back to the undercurrent of it all. “Why are they coming after me? Do you think they’ll figure it out?”

“We won’t let them, I promise.”

“I’m afraid of what people will do and say if they find out it was me,” she said.

By the end of it that day, as with most days we spoke, she seemed fine. She seemed upbeat, and she could see I was invigorated by the positive elements of my story being told and all the nice letters and words I was receiving from people. She left that night, and I thought she was going to be okay. But then the next day, and then many of the following days and weeks, we’d talk and it was strained. There was a lot of “How are you?” but not much else. It felt as if our friendship was a shadow of what it used to be like. We wanted to talk more, I knew that much. We wanted to be genuine, but we were trying to avoid getting into the discussion of my injury. So it was always weird, and while generally it ended with her feeling better, the next day the negative feelings crept back in.

I never told her, but as she bottomed out right after that first
Today
interview, I became really concerned. The shift in her stress was visible. I was worried that if her name was revealed, she might do something bad to herself, like commit suicide. It just felt like it was that overwhelming to her, and she was that worried about it all. The requests for interviews and evil comments with her name in them would have been too much. She was good at putting on a smile, but I could see through her. She didn’t want me to hear her cry, but the spunk was out of her voice. It was timid. She was not at all her usual strong-willed, vibrant self. That’s why I continued and will always continue to protect her. I knew the stakes were high.

CHAPTER 20

Turning Down Oprah

Obviously, the accident had been difficult for my friend
to
deal with. It was tough for all of us. The other girls were always reminded and their lives changed, too. Mine had radically changed, but so much good was coming from it all that I was getting carried along by the momentum. I thought, eventually, she would simply figure it all out in her head and find peace. But with so many people trying to interject and get her story, and all the horrible comments that she couldn’t help but read, it just became unbearable for her. She was terrified of the online bullying that would likely occur if they found her out. It had been bad enough without her name out there.

I remember sitting at home one afternoon in January and receiving an e-mail from a producer for Oprah Winfrey. I was so excited. I was a little mystified, too. Oprah Winfrey? I mean, I knew my story was interesting to people, but I was surprised it was
that
interesting. I’d watched Oprah almost every day. She was my idol. I knew this was something I needed to share with my friend, so I gave her a call. I thought that good news for me would make her feel good, too, that she’d see these really cool things happening for me and be relieved in a way. But I also knew the attention on my story made her nervous.

“Oprah wants to talk to me!” I said.

“That’s cool,” she said. I could tell she was a little anxious. “Are they going to want to talk about me?” she asked sheepishly.

“Of course not. Oprah would never ask that.” I thought Oprah wanted to hear about my love story and have Chris and me appear on the show together. “Don’t even give it a thought. I can’t imagine that’s what they want, but it doesn’t matter because even if they do, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. So don’t worry about it.”

I finally did speak to a producer and my heart just sank. A few people had wanted the story, but I had been clear that I wasn’t going to say anything about my friend.
Oprah
was really the last outlet I thought would ask because that information had been more of a quest of the tabloids and gossip magazines up to this point.

“We’re doing a show on forgiveness. . . . ” That was all I needed to hear. I explained to her that I don’t look at it like something I need to forgive. If someone had hurt me intentionally, then forgiveness would be in order. But there was no ill intent. I would have had to have been angry in order to forgive, and I wasn’t. There was no blame, so nothing to forgive. I didn’t even consider asking my friend to participate. The thought never even occurred to me.

I said, “I can’t do that to her. She can’t talk about it. She doesn’t talk to anyone about what happened. It hurts too much.”

It turned out the producer wanted us both to come on the show. She told me it would happen only if I brought my friend along. I think she was stunned we’d turn down Oprah—that anyone would turn down Oprah. She called back twice, asking me to appear with my friend, trying to convince me, pressing harder each time. Twice more I said no. I offered to come alone, but they weren’t interested. I explained that my friend was having serious anxiety attacks and that it would be too much for me even to ask her.

A lot of people have asked me and the other girls there that night why we were so protective. Seriously? Releasing her identity would have been equivalent to releasing the hounds, so to speak. We would have been an accessory to her pain. What human being would do that to another person? I know her better than anyone, I think. I know it would break her if I didn’t continue to protect her and hide her identity. If people hadn’t been so evil and mean with comments and seeking out her name, we might never have needed to work so hard to shield her. We might have been able to go on
Oprah
and discuss our friendship. It was unfortunately made apparent early on that we had to step in and form our protective pact; people were suggesting online some seriously inhumane things. We couldn’t stand for that.

The
Oprah
folks acted like an appearance on the show would help her heal, but I felt they didn’t have our best interests at heart. It would have ruined all of us, and we all knew that. What if her name was out there and people could message her directly, before she’d had a chance to heal? We knew the risk was too great. That’s what bothered me the most about Oprah’s people. How could someone who had no idea who I was or who she was try to convince me this was good for us? Believe me, it was Oprah, and I was starry-eyed. But not stupid. I was offended that they tried to coax me like I was an idiot. I felt disillusioned. I idolized Oprah. I grew up watching her. I thought Oprah would do the same thing for her friend, too. I thought Oprah would have been proud of how I was taking a stand for a friend’s life and well-being. I think had she actually known that, she herself would have understood. She is famous for being a tremendous friend. I was being a pillar of strength at my weakest moment to help someone in a worse predicament. I knew Oprah would have appreciated that act. At least, I hope.

I wound up having the same conversation over and over with my friend with great frequency after that. It appeared to hit her hardest right then. I remember my words, on the phone or if she’d come to visit. It was always the same.

“You don’t deserve to feel anything from this,” I’d explain.

I’d say, “I’ve pushed you in the pool so many times; you’ve pushed me in. It’s just this one time I got hurt. It doesn’t make me better, and it doesn’t make you a bad person that this happened this time. We’ve messed around near the water before.”

She would call when she was anxious, but the calls started to dwindle a bit. She would feel better when we hung up, that I could tell, but it seemed it would all creep back in overnight and she’d wake up the next day stressed again. She never told me she was going to kill herself, but it became a growing fear of mine as the media barrage escalated and the risk of her name getting out grew. I felt like it would be a very long road to her finding happiness, if that even happened. I felt like I’d lose my control of the situation if her name got out there. I don’t think I would have been able to pull her back from the damage that would have done.

I knew she was trying to stay busy with her work. She had a great job, and all of us were there for her. I comforted her the most, I thought, because when she could see I was okay, then she felt okay. “I’m at peace. You should be, too.” I told her again and again, “Don’t waste your money paying to talk to someone you don’t know.” It seemed like it was the right thing. A therapist would cost so much money, and even though she had insurance and had toyed with the idea, I thought I could help her more, that I’d get the words right, that I’d comfort her because it had happened to us, not a stranger. I worried that once-a-week sessions wouldn’t be enough, and that she’d maybe shift away from talking to me. I didn’t want to manage the situation in a control-freak kind of way, but I wanted to offer some sort of control for her. I knew it would take her so long to develop trust with a stranger but that we already had deep trust between us. Even as I told her I could be her support again and again, maybe at that point she should have spoken to someone. Maybe it was too much for her and I wasn’t equipped. She fell into such a blue place. Maybe a therapist could have helped her. That was one regret I did have as months went by and she didn’t appear to feel better.

CHAPTER 21

Laughter and Tears

Carly and Samantha were seriously funny girls. One day,
about a year after the accident, they’d come with me to my rugby tournament. It was my first season of rugby, and as we went to the gym Carly was wheeling me through double open doors. As we were approaching, I said, “Hey, you see that thing in the middle where the doors close? Watch out for that.”

Carly said, “Okay.”

She must have thought my wheelchair could go over it, but my footplate was too low, and so when she went head on into it, the chair stopped but I didn’t. I fell out of the chair and flew through the air. Both girls tried to reach down and catch me by my sweatshirt, but that didn’t work; they couldn’t get a grip at all. It happened in slow motion. Well, I was lying there on the floor, not hurt, and none of us could stop laughing. That kind of situation always made me laugh. It reminded me a bit of life before the accident, because it was the kind of crazy stuff we used to laugh about back then, too. It was a cool moment because there was always stress about the accident and me being in a wheelchair, but this was just a good old-fashioned laugh, and it felt great. It wasn’t scary. People fall out of their chairs all the time.

Something else fell out another time shortly after that, but it wasn’t my entire body. It was my boob. One night, Samantha, Carly, and I went to dinner. It was the first time I’d gone out without Chris or my mother to help with the transition out of a car. We pulled up to the valet parking guy, which was our only option, and began the process of getting me out. We were laughing hysterically because it took both of them to slide me out of the car to go into the restaurant. The valet guy just stood at first, but when he saw them struggling, he tried to get in there and help. But one of my boobs had popped out of my dress, so of course we were laughing even harder at this point, and there was chaos because they were trying to get him to go away while they stuffed my boob back in the dress. They worked hard not to drop me on the ground. We caused quite a scene before they got me into my chair to go eat.

With no plans yet to set a wedding date and the media coverage continuing, there seemed to be little improvement for my one friend in getting beyond the accident. In one of our daily calls, she said, “It’s really hard to see you like this. I don’t want this to cause distance between us just because it’s hard for me. Please don’t let this happen. Call me every day.”

“I won’t let us slip,” I said. “I’m here for you.”

“I’m afraid I’ll put myself somewhere away from you,” she admitted. I knew seeing me was a constant reminder of her agony. Both of us knew we didn’t want to lose a friend. Sometimes it is human nature to run away from what scares you, to distance yourself from something that might unleash bad memories.

I think she had the urge to push herself away from me to feel better, but she was asking me to help her stay strong. In part, she felt like she didn’t deserve to be my friend anymore, but she wanted to. She wanted to heal. I know that.

I missed talking about boys and going out and life. Our conversations were always the same now, so repetitive. I wanted so badly for my words to stick.

“I don’t have any nerve pain today,” I’d tell her. Or, “I had a really good day today,” or “I got a great letter today.” I would relate anything positive that happened. You could hear her breathing change either in person or on the phone. Literally. It was that important to make her feel better.

She would get it. She would get that I was happy. She would get that I had moved on. Everyone else had. The family had. We drew on the great things that had happened. We wanted to grab her and shake her and pull her in on all of the joy we felt.

She had become severely depressed. She kept saying that if people knew it was her, they would have been calling for interviews and she wasn’t ready to talk about it. I honestly felt she would have been viciously slandered in the media, and she didn’t deserve that. People were so judgmental, as if they’d never made a mistake: never taken their eyes off the road for a split second to change the radio station, never accidentally run a red light, never been part of horseplay or fooled around. Something bad had happened as the result of an innocent gesture, and that one moment did not, and should not, define her as a person.

I knew she wanted to be reassured that I was happy and doing well. The comments people blogged and e-mailed made her feel awful, and she took them to heart. Online, I argued that the people who had negative things to say had no life. I defended her. They sat behind their computers judging others when, in reality, I didn’t think they were happy with their own lives. It was a form of bullying. People could say whatever they wanted to online without anyone knowing who they were. They could say something hurtful and mean and then go about their day. It infuriated me.

I told her that these people must have never had a true friend and that was sad. We were lucky to have each other, and I still would rather have her as my friend than the use of my legs. People writing hate weren’t worth her time or her tears; we talked a lot about that.

From our conversations it became clear she had started to believe what people were writing about her. I told her all the time that she was not stupid, evil, or reckless, as everyone implied, and that she didn’t deserve her guilt. People actually wrote that she deserved to be miserable. These were comments on blogs and following online media stories. I told her that the people judging her had most likely done something in their lives that could have caused someone injury, but they were lucky to have sidestepped that fate. People didn’t realize how easily a spinal cord injury could occur.

Helping her heal became my mission: Her happiness would be the final piece to mine. I wasn’t healed until she was.

From there it just poured out. She told me she had major anxiety attacks and that she watched that night play out in her head, frame by frame. Every single day. She told me she was worried that someday I’d hate her, but I think she knew deep down I wouldn’t. She apologized for bringing it up because I think it had actually sunk in that I wanted her to be happy. I think she knew I was okay with it all, but she felt despair inside. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe me. She did. It was like a waterfall of emotion that she’d carried inside for six months, and the word
prank
broke her internal dam. It just shattered her, and she was reeling.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was worried about her. I was even more worried than I had been before. I knew it was really bad, and I knew I would have to help her. The irony was that, honestly, I
was
happy. I was happy to be alive, grateful to be in love, and thankful that I had so many great friends and family members. Sure, I was scared, and some days rather terrified, but I was happy inside. I knew she wasn’t. I knew I had to focus on putting aside my own issues, and I decided to take on hers.

One day I said to her, “I have physical pain. You have emotional pain. But they are so different. Don’t carry this sadness forever. I don’t intend to.”

I decided during that conversation that I would be her pillar of strength forever, and I told her that. I felt like our friendship was so strong that our shared experience would get us through this together. I told her she could always talk to me. I became her spine. I channeled optimism for her. I wanted to save her. I knew I would be fine, but I didn’t know if she ever would be.