The Most Beautiful Word
Twenty years ago, an accident left my son in a near-vegetative state. Everyone else gave up on him...
BY: Angilee Wallis
"Please God, let my son live," I pleaded during the hour-long drive to the hospital. All I knew was that Terry and his friend, Lowell "Chubs," had been in a terrible car accident early that Saturday morning in July of 1984. My son was eighteen with a wife and beautiful six-week-old baby girl, Amber.
Since we had no phone at that time, a neighbor had come over to tell me the hospital was trying to contact us. There had been a bad accident. My husband Jerry was out on errands with our other two sons, Perry and George, ages seventeen and ten. Terry's place was about a mile away, so I drove over to break the news to his wife, Sandy. Chubs's wife was there also. With a car full of various family members, we sped off to the hospital in a panic.
A cloud of fear and disbelief hung over us all. We prayed unceasingly, pleading for the lives of Terry and Chubs. My shock prevented any tears.
I could not believe this was happening to us. We lived a simple but happy life in a modest, two-bedroom house in Marshall, Arkansas. The two youngest boys lived at home while my daughter, Tammy, and Terry both lived close by with their spouses. At the time, my husband Jerry worked as a mechanic. I had been employed at a shirt factory for eight years.
When we reached the hospital, we were told the boys had both been taken by helicopter to Springfield Hospital, a trauma center that was three hours away. We got back into the car for the longest drive of our lives.
At the trauma center, we were taken aside so medical personnel could prepare us. Terry had a brain stem injury. This meant paralysis was a possibility. He had been given medication to reduce his brain swelling, but the swelling still continued.
"There will be machines and a lot of tubes," the nurse explained. "Terry has been given medication for pain and is not awake. It is possible he might be able to hear you, so it important that you remain calm. We do not want to upset him further in any way."
As I walked into the room and saw all the tubes and machines, my emotions spilled out. I quickly turned around and stepped back out. Shaking, crying, and gasping for air, I tried hard to get myself under control so I could go back in.
Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I walked over to Terry's bedside. Love and fear overwhelmed me as I looked at my son lying unconscious. Yet, seeing him gave me hope. The only physical sign of the accident was a cut over his eye that required three stitches. Terry's arms were twisting back forth. "Isn't that good?" I asked the nurse when I saw his arms moving. "He can't be paralyzed if his arms are moving."
The nurse explained to me that twitching arms were a reaction to his brain swelling and it was not a good sign. I swallowed hard but could not stop my tears from flowing. I touched his hand and struggled to keep my voice steady. "Terry, hang in there. I love you and I'm going to be here for you," I whispered.
His wife also touched his hand and talked to him reassuringly. I looked at my boy who had always been so healthy and energetic, lying there with tubes going into him. This can't be, I thought. But I could not change reality. I could only pray that Terry would recover.
Chubs did not make it. It was still possible that Terry could die also. For several days the doctors tried in vain to stop his brain from swelling. And day after day the only word was: "We don't know what the extent of his injuries will be."
But whatever kind of life Terry would have, as his mother—the one who gave him life—I would be there for him. For weeks I slept on a couch in a waiting room. Jerry came often with the other kids. Together, we kept praying and reassuring Terry to hang in there.
Since we had no phone at that time, a neighbor had come over to tell me the hospital was trying to contact us. There had been a bad accident. My husband Jerry was out on errands with our other two sons, Perry and George, ages seventeen and ten. Terry's place was about a mile away, so I drove over to break the news to his wife, Sandy. Chubs's wife was there also. With a car full of various family members, we sped off to the hospital in a panic.
A cloud of fear and disbelief hung over us all. We prayed unceasingly, pleading for the lives of Terry and Chubs. My shock prevented any tears.
I could not believe this was happening to us. We lived a simple but happy life in a modest, two-bedroom house in Marshall, Arkansas. The two youngest boys lived at home while my daughter, Tammy, and Terry both lived close by with their spouses. At the time, my husband Jerry worked as a mechanic. I had been employed at a shirt factory for eight years.
When we reached the hospital, we were told the boys had both been taken by helicopter to Springfield Hospital, a trauma center that was three hours away. We got back into the car for the longest drive of our lives.
At the trauma center, we were taken aside so medical personnel could prepare us. Terry had a brain stem injury. This meant paralysis was a possibility. He had been given medication to reduce his brain swelling, but the swelling still continued.
"There will be machines and a lot of tubes," the nurse explained. "Terry has been given medication for pain and is not awake. It is possible he might be able to hear you, so it important that you remain calm. We do not want to upset him further in any way."
As I walked into the room and saw all the tubes and machines, my emotions spilled out. I quickly turned around and stepped back out. Shaking, crying, and gasping for air, I tried hard to get myself under control so I could go back in.
Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I walked over to Terry's bedside. Love and fear overwhelmed me as I looked at my son lying unconscious. Yet, seeing him gave me hope. The only physical sign of the accident was a cut over his eye that required three stitches. Terry's arms were twisting back forth. "Isn't that good?" I asked the nurse when I saw his arms moving. "He can't be paralyzed if his arms are moving."
The nurse explained to me that twitching arms were a reaction to his brain swelling and it was not a good sign. I swallowed hard but could not stop my tears from flowing. I touched his hand and struggled to keep my voice steady. "Terry, hang in there. I love you and I'm going to be here for you," I whispered.
His wife also touched his hand and talked to him reassuringly. I looked at my boy who had always been so healthy and energetic, lying there with tubes going into him. This can't be, I thought. But I could not change reality. I could only pray that Terry would recover.
Chubs did not make it. It was still possible that Terry could die also. For several days the doctors tried in vain to stop his brain from swelling. And day after day the only word was: "We don't know what the extent of his injuries will be."
But whatever kind of life Terry would have, as his mother—the one who gave him life—I would be there for him. For weeks I slept on a couch in a waiting room. Jerry came often with the other kids. Together, we kept praying and reassuring Terry to hang in there.
Continued on page 2: Almost imperceptibly, Terry started to open up... »
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