Beyond the Pain

Every word of this book is true — except for those that aren’t.

• I knew from the beginning that I had to write the ambulance team as a man and a woman. In twenty eleven I started requesting my patient records. When I reviewed the ambulance records. I found out that the actual ambulance team that treated me were a man and woman and the woman rode in the back with me. Who knows what’s picked up by the subconscious mind. Their dialogue and actions are imagined but the medical data are taken from my actual records.

• I have acknowledged the physcian specialists who names I know from my medical records. I had lots and lots who cared for me but I never knew their names. THANKS. THANKS. THANKS.

• The nurses who worked in the trauma and rehabilitation units are amalgamations of several actual people, most names are made up, except for those specifically acknowleged. Many conversations are imagined but the gist of any conversation is accurate.

• Ever since the resident, I call Elisabeth, told me it was a great idea to write a book and introduced me to other patients on the trauma unit as the “fellow who is writing a book about the trauma unit”, I’ve been compelled to write this book. It took two months to actually get started on the book. I’ve worked on the book since January 2011.

• Writing the book has been a kind to therapy. Many times I have written while I’ve been in pain from Fibromyalgia. In fact as I first wrote these words I was in pain from Fibromyalgia. It’s been good to have something to distract me from my pain. And, writing is a more helpful strategy than driving into a concrete wall.

• A couple of the physician specialists who were assigned to my care told me that my recovery was miraculous. I could kick myself for not asking why they felt that way. Most of the time I don’t feel miraculous. But when I compare myself to the patients I knew who suffered motor vehicle accidents, I begin to see how miraculous has been my recovery.

• Did I or didn’t I deliberately drive into the cement wall. All the evidence suggests I did. I got off easy: I now sometimes have a tremor in my left hand that primarily affects my penmanship. Fortunately I type most documents. The existing tremor in my right hand has worsened. Fortunately I can type and do most tasks if I just focus. I have a slight speech problem with finding words. It has improved markedly and is still improving. Finally, my right ankle is often painful when I walk. At I write this, in 2016, I have no plans to have surgery. Instead I will do physiotherapy. All in all not a bad deal, especially when I think of what could have been.

• Now, I don’t mean death. For death was what I would have been seeking: an end to pain. No, I again refer to the consequences I might have received. For example, I met and talked to a man in an electric wheelchair who had been in a car accident in Afghanistan. He was completely paralyzed from the neck down and could only move his head and neck. I got off easy.

Is all just a cosmic crap shoot? I don’t think so. But as my Spiritual Mentor, Clarence Thomson, once told me, “God as as much to do with what happened before the accident as after the accident.”

Life continues.

As does death. Since the CRASH: my twin sister has died, my dad has died, and my step mom may as well be dead.

Some day I will be too.

Pre-publication Draft — ALL Rights Reserved, Lyle T. Lachmuth

Prologue

Death was calling him.

He remembers her most recent call. May first-twenty ten.

He had just moved into his apartment. Beginning a new life. Alone. Hopeful. Joyous.

Then it all turned to shit.

Somewhere around noon. The witching hour. His mood dropped. Crashed. Plummeted. Lower than a salamaner’s belly. Lower than a cockroach’s. Lower than a snake’s.

Winnie Churchill had called IT his Black Dog. Depression. The Big D. She came to visit that noon. That first Saturday in May. He had done his yoga practice. He had picked up the keys from Mike.

Just back in his apartment. Lunch made. Consumed. Standing in his living room. The depression started in the bottom of his feet. Icy. Crept up his legs. Like water. Like liquid fire.

Exactly like the eighth of March nineteen eighty five.

This time the depression took six minutes to capture his body. And, his brain. His mind. Neurochemicals one and all. Fixed in his blood.

How long this time, he thought. Three months. Six. A year.

Not those. It turned out to be exactly one hundred thirteen days and three hours.

Three in the morning. August twenty first. Three in the morning. His life ended. Almost.

His front bumper rocketing into the concrete sound barrier. A second later his neck slammed into the shoulder strap. His seventh cranial verterbra cracked. Then the second verterbra followed. In rapid succession: His upper body smashed into the steering wheel. It bent. Cracked. Shattered. Severak ribs cracked. A rib on the right puncturing his lung. His lung deflated. His forehead smashed into the front windshield. The ridge over his right eye impinging first. The skin ripped. Blood began cascading out. Soaking into his T-shirt. Dripping onto his jeans. Soaking his running shoes. Then his right carotid severed. Almost. Blood seeped into the flesh surrounding the artery. Pumped directly to his mid-brain. Ballooned the artery wall. A haemorhagic stork followed. The best or worst event. For last. His right foot had been planted firmly on the gas pedal. His Oldsmobile was rocketing at ninety kilometers per hour. His right heel bone shattered into a dozen pieces.

The Olds came to brief stop. The contents of the trunk smashing through the back seat. They came to a stop. Cushioned on the back of the front seat. Compressing his spine. The Olds rocked back.

Ten seconds. And, his life was over. Almost.

Or, had it just begun.

Pre-publication Draft, Copyright Lyle T. Lachmuth, ALL Rights Reserved