Press on!

THE CRASH – On June 5, 2016, my wife, Stephanie, and I were coming home from church in our late model GMC pickup truck when a couple of teenaged boys (both 16), who had been horsing around in the cab of an older pickup, inadvertently swerved over into our lane and hit us head-on. Steph shouted, “Noel!” and pointed to the opposite lane. As I glanced left, we collided. It seems that, while punching and wrestling with each other, as boys will do, the inexperienced driver’s two right wheels slipped off the blacktop road. When he attempted to edged them back up onto the road, he oversteered. We were traveling about 35 mph, and the boys were going a bit faster at about 45 mph – thus, the energy of the impact was equivalent to a truck hitting a granite wall at 80 mph. It was so jarring and violent that the cab of our truck crumbled in on itself and the engine dropped out of its compartment. Though secure in our seatbelts, Steph’s left hip instantly dislocated, and both my legs were broken – the right one smashed by the brake pedal, and the left one punctured through by the smaller emergency brake pedal.

NEXT MOMENTS – I screamed to Steph, “Oh my God! Are you okay?” She said, “I think so, are you?” I looked down at myself and said, “Both my legs are broken.” I couldn’t see for the airbags, and I was concerned about a fire or explosion. I told Steph to “Get out!” She opened her door easily, as my side took most of the impact, wobbled over to the shoulder, and eased herself down. People were immediately at the windows offering help. I said, “I need someone to call my son, I need someone to cut down these airbag curtains, and I need some water.” In turn someone came back with a phone and asked for Noah’s number. Someone else reached in with a knife and began cutting down the airbag curtains. And someone handed me a bottle of water. Everyone was helpful and caring.

JAWS OF LIFE – In no time, fire trucks and paramedics were on the scene. Since the cab was crushed on my side, my door would not open. Responders tried to pull me out from the passenger side, but my left leg was hung up on the small emergency brake pedal, which had punctured my shin. They cut off my door with the Jaws of Life. I remember a large fireman wedging himself between me and the door as it was being cut off, so as to protect me. When they finally dislodged my leg from the emergency brake pedal upon which it had been impaled, I began to bleed rapidly, quickly filling the truck’s rubber floor mat. They lifted me out onto a stretcher and started applying a tourniquet. It wasn’t working, so they added a second one. (You can see them working on me behind my truck and checking one of the other boys on the extreme right: here.) I yelped out in pain as the paramedic cinched it up tight, wrenching my flesh into the buckle. He said, “Sorry sir, I’m trying to save your life.” I said, “Do what you have to do.” They had just placed me into an ambulance when a younger paramedic pulled the back door open and began asking me my name, address, and identification information. The paramedic attending me shouted, “Shut that door. He’s bleeding out!” and to the driver, “Let’s go!”

LIFE FLIGHT – At a nearby hospital, an emergency room team worked to stop my bleeding. By this time, the adrenalin had worn off, and my pain was getting very real. Another team was trying to set my broken legs while I watched in amazement and terror. I was screaming every worship song I could remember as the shocks of pain shot through my body. In between the twists and pulls on my legs, I was witnessing and sharing the Gospel at the top of my lungs with the doctors and staff – some chuckled; some ignored me; some humored me. Blood was getting everywhere – on the walls, the floor, and the medical personnel. The decision was made to call Life Flight to chopper me down to The Medical Center. I was told later that the emergency room looked like live pigs had been slaughtered there.

TOO MUCH BLOOD – I had lost a lot of blood. One person said one-third of my supply; another perhaps close to a half gallon. With the loss of blood, my pressure had dropped too low to risk pain meds. They told me my heart could stop. When I was being rolled into surgery that evening, six hours after the accident, and with no pain meds in my system, I was ready to go under. I had the odd sense from the conversations around me that I might not wake up. I was asking the Lord if I was really about to see Him. Giddiness washed over me as I surrendered to the anesthesia.

A NEW REALITY – My then 18-year-old son, Noah, recounted the following to me. I came to in the corner of a large recovery room. (I remember hearing Noah’s sweet, compassionate voice down close to me.) He was whispering, “Dad, things went really well. They were able to save your right leg. You got a titanium rod, just like me.” Still trying to come fully awake after more than 9 hours of surgeries, I was confused. I asked more than once if my other leg was okay, so Noah had to explain a few times that, although they could not save my left leg, I would be able to walk again. He told me where they had to cut (below the knee), and that keeping my knee was a good thing. Once I was awake enough for everything to sink in, Noah said I was content and went back to asleep. My close friend Stuart Sheehan saw me next. He told me later that I made a joke, and then quoted Scripture. “I lost 15 pounds!” – meaning my leg, and “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.” – from Job 1:21.

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