Speaking up when it’s time to

CHERRIL DOTY

If nobody speaks of remarkable things, how can they be called

remarkable? This line from the novel I just finished reading sticks

with me like gum on my shoe. I cannot seem to shake it. Does this

mean it is time, time to speak of the personal -- the remarkable

personal -- things? My friend Sean just said yesterday, “Well, as a

writer, you certainly have acquired some fodder.” I suppose, Sean,

that I have. And if nobody speaks of remarkable things ...

I could not have known when I awoke that morning filled with

intention. I could not have known that when I wrote in my journal of

holding grace and joy, exploring edges, and “beginner’s eyes” that I

would need all this and more. On that January 21st , after a

joy-filled day of exploration, I found myself at sunset waiting in a

world bathed in color. The tangerine sky aglow, blinding in

intensity, I waited and waited for the sun to fall, seemingly, into

the ocean. It was a remarkable thing -- the wait as precious as that

final disappearance of that golden orb. I could not have known at

that very moment, at the southern tip of Baja, another fall had just

taken place. Waiting would soon become everything.

Brushing sand from the seat of my jeans and filled with the warm

euphoric glow of that sunset, I walked up off the sand and headed

home. Not long afterward the call came. Mike’s been in an accident

... he’s OK ... emergency clinic ... Med-Evac ... My husband’s

business partner Bill’s voice was easy and serious. I wondered what

was the joke? I waited for the punch line. None came. Finally, I

caught on and paid closer attention.

As I listened to Bill the story began to unfold: My husband had

fallen from a cliff on a job site near Cabo San Lucas just before

dark. Landing headfirst on the granite face some 30 feet down, it

was amazing that he still was alert and aware, though inert. He did

not even try to move. A remarkable thing.

Medical help was summoned. He was stabilized and “eight small

men,” as he would later tell us, carried him down the rest of the

cliff, having come up from below. From there he was transported to

the local emergency clinic, where CT scans and X-rays told the

doctors that he had a cervical fracture -- his neck was broken, the

top three vertebrae being involved. Yet he could breathe well, his

movement was good -- no paralysis -- and he was stabilized for the

moment. Another hugely remarkable thing.

A medical evacuation plane had been dispatched from Orange County

to get him and transport him to Long Beach where an ambulance would

take him to Mission Trauma Center. The doctors in Cabo were already

talking with Dr. Shaver at Mission. I listened in awe. It was

remarkable that so much had been accomplished so soon. We discussed

times and payment for services already rendered . Sometime during

this conversation I had gone numb, operating from some deep space

reserved for such times, closing off other parts for the moment. Yet

another remarkable thing is this ability of humans to function in

crisis. Even through numbness, those hours still remain crystal

clear.

Throughout the past three-plus months I have remained reluctant --

even resistant -- to write of these things, saying by way of

explanation that this isn’t my story. I still believe this to be

true. I believe that this story belongs to Mike and to Bill, to Glenn

and to Netto, to Carol and Celeste, to the “eight small men” and the

doctors in Cabo. It belongs to the people who fly those missions of

mercy to Mexico and the people at Rainbow Air in Long Beach. This

story belongs to the two wonderful women from Bowers Ambulance and to

the many extraordinary doctors and nurses and technicians who took

over Mike’s care for the three weeks he was in Mission Hospital. This

story belongs also to the phenomenal friends and family who have

offered such extremes of support. They are all remarkable!

Today, awaiting results of yet another CT scan and X-ray that

decide the fate of Mike’s “halo” device, I ponder the imponderables

of these few months. It is not my story and, yet, I am reminded by

the phrase in Jon McGregor’s novel and by my friend Sean ... I am a

writer and if I don’t speak of these remarkable things ... well, who

will?

* CHERRIL DOTY is a creative living coach, writer and artist who

lives and works in Laguna Beach. She can be reached at

[email protected] or by phone at (949) 251-3883