Stunned, I looked up into the branches of the snow-covered trees. Wet snow crystals dropped on my face when the wind shook the branches. Andy was screaming my name, but his voice disappeared into the cold ground. I could taste blood and feel it, fast and wet, filling my mouth. I heard Mom’s shouts and hurried steps down the path. I wanted to move, but I could not. Sun moved over the snowy branches, and then the whole sky exploded into a glowing, sparkling white.
Fading into consciousness I could see fuzzy shapes, hear the buzz of the device delivering the mind numbing drugs and the keeping track of my vitals, and my mouth was too dry to taste anything. Looking hazily around, I could make out the bodies of family members crowded into the small recovery room. This was the basic hospital scene that I would become familiar with over the next seven days: white, hard floors, cold atmosphere, and the sounds of nurses chatting in the hall. I was worried when I looked around at the faces staring at me. These people – my family – were never this quiet. With a scratchy voice from being sedated I called out, “Why is everyone so quiet?” They all shifted uncomfortably and didn’t attempt to make conversation with me, not wanting to disturb me as I was in pain. As another buzz sounded off, my eyes became heavier. The drugs were working, and the pain I thought I would feel from my newly made spine was nowhere to be felt. As I drifted back into unconsciousness, my last sight was of my step-grandfather, with his long, blond beard and pot-belly stretching a redskins football shirt, looking at me with a mix of worry and relief. My eyes closed before I went back under, but I could still hear the nurses chatting, the buzzing of the devices, and now the taste of saline flooded my senses leaving a clean, strong taste in my mouth for days to come.