In February, my precious little girl was involved in a horrific accident that forever altered our lives. I can still hear the thunderous crash and the haunting silence that followed. It’s a sound I wish I could erase from my memory. What’s worse? Witnessing it or simply hearing it and being oblivious to the chaos unfolding?
You never think an event like this can strike your family. It’s something that happens to the unfortunate, to someone else. Then it becomes your reality, and you realize you’re not immune. A 50-pound mirror fell right on my daughter’s head—fifty pounds on her delicate frame, on her beautiful little head. “I’m an awful mother. I’m a terrible person. I’m not a mom anymore.” Those were the thoughts that spiraled through my mind as I saw my husband rushing down the stairs, cradling my daughter in his arms. She was purple, blood oozing from her nose, lifeless—my beautiful girl.
I couldn’t stop screaming, consumed by the thought that I should have been home instead of at voice lessons. What if we had gone for a walk or snuggled up with books on the couch instead? As someone who had dreamed of motherhood, I never imagined I would be faced with the painful reality of un-imagining it. I had envisioned what kind of mother I would be, what my daughter would become—who she’d resemble, her personality, whether she’d sing like me or be bold like her father. No one prepares you for the moment when you have to let go of those dreams.
While dialing 911, I desperately conveyed my fears that she might not be alive. Just the day before, she had been dancing and laughing to her favorite song. Now, she lay limp while her father performed CPR. I remember racing into the street, waving down the EMTs like that would hasten their arrival. When I returned inside, my daughter was intermittently crying, thanks to the guidance of the 911 dispatcher who had given my husband instructions.
We arrived at the Harborview Medical Center trauma unit, and though it was only about 10 miles away, it felt like an eternity. The EMTs were nothing short of heroes. They saved my baby and, in many ways, saved me too. I don’t recall their names or faces, but I will always remember their calm demeanor and professionalism, as if they were seasoned veterans in this kind of crisis. One EMT even spoke to me throughout the ride, sharing a personal story about his son’s accident, admitting he couldn’t fully grasp my pain. But that honesty somehow brought me comfort.
We spent five long days in the hospital, surrounded by a dedicated team of medical professionals, including EMTs, doctors, nurses, and social workers. My wonderful parents were there every day, and I will forever be grateful to them. They are the reason I’m here telling this story rather than a different one, the reason I still hold the title of “Mom.”
As we rushed through the hospital, the dramatic TV shows I once enjoyed lost their appeal, overshadowed by the reality of our situation. They took my daughter behind a curtain in a shared emergency room. My heroes, the EMTs, stayed longer than I anticipated, conversing with me while my husband was with our daughter. I felt ashamed I couldn’t go back there, unable to bear listening to the medical jargon that could only interpret the worst-case scenarios. I stayed put, allowing the doctors to work, and for the first time, I prayed. I had never been one for prayer, but that day, I sought something greater than myself.
After a CT scan and an MRI, the doctors ruled out any life-threatening injuries. She had a skull fracture extending from the back of her head to her right ear and a small contusion on her cerebellum, which would necessitate physical therapy for her to regain her ability to walk. Thankfully, they also dismissed concerns of a blood clot, sparing her from anticoagulant injections for six months.
I will always remember the pediatric ER doctor telling us, “One day you’ll look back on this as a terrible event that occurred, but you’ll feel incredibly grateful.” As we sat there, I couldn’t help but think of the other stories in the pediatric ICU—stories that didn’t end with such hope. From the boy who faced fatal injuries from abuse to the infant injured by a falling crock-pot, each tale reminded me that while my daughter’s accident was devastating, it could have been much worse.
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In summary, my daughter’s accident was a turning point in our lives, filled with overwhelming emotions and guilt. Yet, we emerged with a newfound appreciation for life and the support of those around us.
Keyphrase: My Daughter’s Accident and Guilt
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