The fierce, tingling pain cut in, but all I could think about was never walking again. At first I couldn’t feel my legs. I desperately missed the rolling sensation on my feet when walking. Nothing seemed to be real. I slipped in and out of consciousness in the somber, white room I thought I would die in. Rumors went around that I was in critical condition and that I wouldn’t make it. No one had a plan; no one knew what would happen. All I could do was sit in the blood­stained hospital bed with her hand in mine and cry.

When I first fell 10 to 15 feet off of the rope swing onto the dead corral, I had no idea what had happened. I sat in shock for a few seconds, then the sharp, twitching pain kicked in and I screamed. I still hadn’t realized what had happened. I inched into the water, but couldn’t kick to stay out of it. I couldn’t feel my legs; I couldn’t wiggle my toes to the oblique position to feel the odd stretch. From the waist down, I was useless. Nothing.

Right after the accident, I had no idea what happened. I sat there for a few seconds on the hard, wavy iron­shore rock that seemed to be almost consuming me. The light blue waves continued to crash over me, but I still had no idea what had happened. To this day, I still don’t.

When I sank into the cooling water, I couldn’t feel my legs. I couldn’t kick; I couldn’t even wiggle my toes. Tears streamed to my eyes immediately, but not because of the pain. I ignored the pain. The only thing I could think about was never walking again. I remembered the rolling sensation on the bottom of my feet when walking. All I could do was try to remember what it felt like. That thought consumed me. It ate at me. I wanted to hold onto it for as long as I could.

As I became more and more concerned with it, I became engulfed in the ocean. I began to sink. I couldn’t kick.

To this day, I still hate talking about it, so details are never fun. To finish the story, everything came out okay… mostly. I’m still recovering six months post­op. I roll with titanium rods and screws in my back. I can’t run fast; I’m stiff and feel beaten at the end of most days, but I’m not giving up. I work for what I used to be. I work for what I can be.