Six months.

Six months. I'd like to say time flies and it sure does, but this last six months has seemed like a lifetime. But maybe that is because a lifetime of tragedy and other fun stuff has been crammed into the past six months. Either way... it has been a journey and I am beyond thrilled to have made it to this six month mark.

So what exactly happened six months ago? Our accident. THE accident.

It was Monday, September 24th. A pretty typical morning for us. We were up early, on our way to school. Aven had recently started sitting in the front seat of our Buick Enclave. Cruz was sitting in his booster seat on the passenger side, second row, bucket seat. Lola was directly behind me in her seat. I had just turned on to the main road that takes us from our home to the school. Aven was finding a song that would slightly amp us up on a Monday morning. I don't even remember what song she had decided on.

We were approaching the school, the play ground was in sight. And in front of us, barreling towards us, was a blue transfer dump truck, the kind that has a cargo container attached and then is also pulling a second cargo container. I heard the most horrific screeching sound, I smelled the burning rubber tires. And that was it.

Above is my car. The two holes you see are the sunroofs. 

From what I have gathered, the truck hit us head on but also jack-knifed. It then rolled us, rolled on top of us and then rolled off. The truck's engine had detached and was lying in the middle of the road. The dump truck had pretty much engulfed our entire SUV.

I woke up moments later, just briefly, to the sounds of a man screaming "The car is on fire. We have to cut her out."

When I woke up the second time, I was laying in the dirt, weeds and thorns everywhere. A man was next to me, telling me not to move, to lay very still. My head was throbbing, I was cold and slightly numb and my Michael Kors sandals were full of glass. My glasses had broke in the crash so there were little shards of glass laying on my eyelashes. He started asking simple questions. What was my name. What were the names of my children. Was there anyone else in the car.

My children. In a panic, I tried to get up, as though I was going to go find them, make sure they were okay. But he forced me back down. He told me they were fine but that I couldn't move because he was sure my neck was injured. I heard Lola crying but he said she was in the arms of one of our teachers. He said Cruz was fine too. I asked about Aven. He said, "She's in pretty bad shape. We are going to life flight you both down to the hospital.We are just waiting for the helicopters."

I lied there for what seemed like forever. I was cold. I started to feel the effects of my broken neck. There was a huge gash on the top of my head. Broken glass in my foot. My knees hurt.

Paramedics came by multiple times. Different people came by to tell me about the kids. I was in a daze. Eventually I heard the sounds of the helicopters. They landed in a field near the school and they began prepping me to get in. They put me on a board, took off my sweater that was completely covered in thorns. They lifted me over the fence, I was sure they were going to drop me. The helicopter propellers made it windy and even colder. And we were off. Two paramedics introduced themselves and started an IV line. We were headed to UC Davis. Aven was on her way too via another helicopter. Cruz and Lola were riding down in an ambulance.

I remember the sun shining ridiculously bright that morning. I was in and out. I think the pain had kind of taken over and my body was just trying to hold itself together. I prayed. I remember thinking about our friend Kurt who had died just a year before in Las Vegas. I talked to him. I told him and God and I think maybe my deceased grandfather that if they really wanted me, I was okay to go.

"Not yet Jess." That was the answer I got from Kurt. And I will never forget that.

We arrived at the hospital. Getting out of the helicopter hurt like hell. The jerking movements. The propellers were so loud. I remember when Cruz was life flighted a few years ago to this same hospital, I was in the helicopter with him. I knew we were on the very top of the building and I thought again, for sure, we are going to fall off.

We got inside. Doctors and nurses everywhere. We got into the ER. I got put in the most uncomfortable neck brace. They rolled me to my left side, no anesthesia, and began stapling my head. Eleven staples. I counted. That hurt like hell. They pulled the glass out of my foot and put stitches in. Once again, no anesthesia. I was trying to be so still. They poked all along my spine, trying to pin point where the break was and what all was being effected.

Friends and family had been notified and started to filter in. My best friend Casandra was the first. I gave her the very difficult task of finding me some freakin chapstick! Then my mom. Both told me that Cruz and Lola were fine. Aven was not okay. She had suffered a skull fracture and needed emergency surgery to repair it. I could tell from their voices, they weren't completely sure she was going to make it.

More people came in. School mom friends. Teachers. Church friends. The hardest person to see was Al. (My dearest ex boyfriend of three years who is still one of my favorite people on the planet.) He sobbed. "My baby. Oh my God, my baby." I will never forget that either.

I was on a ridiculous amount of pain meds. I didn't really get the opportunity to tell them that most pain meds make me sick to my stomach. I got so nauseous. At one point, I remember Al holding a small bucket while I attempted to throw up, all while in a neck brace. One of the nurses told me to sniff an alcohol wipe, somehow that would cure my nausea. So while I was in getting x-rays and an MRI, I was sniffing alcohol wipes like a champ.

Aven had gone into surgery. Her dad, step mama and sweet baby sister were on the first flight down from North Dakota. Aven's surgery took hours. But eventually she was in recovery. Her teacher stayed with her. Lola got sent home with my mom. Cruz was kept overnight. He had a few stitches put in his forehead. Lola was completely unharmed. She had a little bit of bruising from her seat belt. She was untouched. And Cruz really was too. He had bruising as well from his seat belt and just the small cut to his forehead.

We were surrounded by people at the hospital. The pictures started pouring in of Aven. My sweet girl. And I couldn't do anything to help her. I was unable to move, unable to comfort her. I was waiting on surgery as well. But she was in good hands. Her teacher, April, was by her side. My best mom friends came down too and helped out in any way they could. I kept praying and I just remember feeling the most comforting feeling. I had to let these other amazing moms take care of Aven for now. I had to let God watch over her. I had to lay still and stay calm.

I forget what day I had surgery. The waiting rooms were full of our people. People met for the first time. People who had gotten into arguments over the years, made peace in those waiting rooms. Moms with new babies who couldn't come visit my room in the ICU, they waited in there. Finally I was able to leave my ICU room for just brief periods of time and I got to hold some of these precious babies. 

On Friday, Aven was released to go home. I still can't believe we were released that fast. I was released on Saturday. 

The next month was a time of healing. People donated money, brought endless amounts of food to our house, helped transport kids to school, helped clean our house. I don't think I was ever without a visitor for at least the first three weeks. Friends would come over and just cuddle with me on the couch. Aven went back to school the end of October. I was back to driving and returned to work within four weeks. All I knew then was that I wanted to return to normal life as soon as possible. 

From the outside, I'm sure I appeared to be some sort of miracle. Single mom of three gets hit by dump truck, survives and takes on the world! But on the inside, I was a mess. I wasn't sleeping. I wasn't eating much. I didn't feel depressed, I just felt nothing. I kept hearing horrific sounds. My ears would start ringing. But I was ridiculously energetic. Back on the go go go. I swept whatever I was feeling right under the rug. I was determined to let the girl from the accident just disappear. I didn't want to be her anymore. My life thus far had been tragic and I was done living that life. By December, this whole thought process had taken over and I found myself in therapy. I was detached. Disassociated. Numb. I didn't cry. I wanted to die. I felt guilty. I felt like it should have been me that got hurt the worst, not Aven. I should have had her in the backseat. (Although later I would find out that had she been in the third row, she would not have survived.) I should have left five minutes earlier. I should have done this and that and whatever. I felt empty. 

My therapist diagnosed me with severe PTSD. 

I didn't even think PTSD was an option. I thought you got PTSD directly after trauma, not a couple months down the road. We figured out I was probably showing symptoms earlier but I was so determined to be "Super Mom"... I wasn't in a place to even notice the symptoms. I'd like to say things instantly got better but they didn't. They actually got worse. I was so lost. It really wasn't until mid January that I started to show signs of improvement. 

Now here we are, mid March and I finally feel like me. PTSD is a real thing and it's no joke. What I have discovered in therapy is that I have probably had PTSD for years. Due to things that happened to me as a teenager and things that happened well into my twenties, I got into a habit of just moving forward. I guess I wasn't given the tools to deal with trauma. I would shed very few tears and then move on with life and wait for the next tragedy. So as much as I finally feel like me again, I'm not the old me. I'm lighter. I unpacked the suitcases. There isn't so much that's weighing me down anymore. The old me feared so much. That girl didn't have the tools to deal with trauma or loss. I now have all the tools. I have dealt with all the trauma of my past (still working on some things) and I now understand so much more about my life. I'm able to move forward with grace and love and understanding. 

I don't exactly know why it was us that got hit that day by that truck. Perhaps it was God's way of forcing me to deal with my past. It was through our accident that I sought out therapy and discovered a pattern of trauma and my attempts to cope. But I discovered that I wasn't really coping. I wasn't even really living. Or maybe God just knew we were strong enough to handle that trauma, that we would surely survive and live on to tell our story and help others. I've never been angry though about our accident. I was mad at one point that Aven had to go through what she went through. No nine year old deserves to have her forehead ripped open and stitched back together. But she's managing. She's happy. She's my miracle girl and her beauty shines brighter than ever, both inside and out.

Life is really quite crazy. It seems beyond crazy to somehow be grateful for the trauma I have experienced. I hate the term "Survivor." But I guess I am one. I could never survive on my own though. My children give me a reason to keep going. My friends and my family are always by my side. And my Savior is always holding my hand. I never have to walk alone. My life has been full of trauma and tragedy. But I see the hand of God in all of those moments. It is my choice now to go forward with a grateful heart and a spirit that desires to help others. 

If you feel like you are suffering from a traumatic experience, please go seek help. Don't wait. Don't detach yourself from this world. Know that you are loved. You are loved by God and you are loved by me. We are only given this one life. Don't let trauma or loss destroy you. 

Lastly, I cannot thank those around us enough for the love and support during the last six months. Mr. Dave Stringer, the hero who pulled us all out of the car, you are forever in my heart as the man that saved us that day. To the man driving the truck, I pray for your recovery too and pray that you know how much you are loved. First responders, we owe you our lives. To our friends, the ones who stayed the nights with us, brought us whatever we needed during our hospital stay. Those that helped us in any way, we are forever grateful to you. It was the love and support of our community that healed us. From the very bottom of my heart, thank you. 

Here is to the next six months. For us, I hope it brings continued healing, both physically and mentally. I hope it brings us laughter, adventures and love. Lots of love. 

Xoxo

Jess

My very favorite picture of some of Aven's cute friends who welcomed her home.