I lifted the sheets to look at my right ankle. Bruised, maybe broken. My back hurt, too. I called my friend Danny to take me to the emergency room. We laughed about our big night out while limping down the stairs, driving south on I-91 and sitting in the waiting room — until the doctor said I may have broken my cervical spine and could become paralyzed.
When the doctor pulled on a latex glove for the anal muscle exam, Danny stepped behind the curtain to call my mother. She asked him what happened. Danny told her he didn’t know. I had passed out on the couch of the third floor of the fraternity house, but I woke up in a bed on the second floor. Everything in between was a blank.
Suspecting that Danny was lying to protect either me or himself, my mother got in her car and drove to the hospital to find out. From Colorado. To New Hampshire.
A week later, she wheeled me from the hospital to an extended stay hotel to recover. My tibia-fibula and lumbar spine fractures were immobilized in hard white casts — and I was 40 pounds lighter. But not paralyzed.
Our first night there, at 1 a.m., the fire alarm went off. In the rush to safety, my wheelchair got stuck in the doorway; it couldn’t summit the lip of the door frame. My mother rescued me with a pair of backup crutches. I hobbled to the parking lot, nightmares of a fiery death looping in my head.
We returned the wheelchair and refilled the painkiller prescription. A few days later, I went back to my senior year of college on crutches, hazy and housed in a room with special accommodations.
