From the beginning of this injury, it was never just my journey I had to concentrate on. It was never just my grief, my trauma or my transition to a new life. My accident happened to my entire family. All five of us—myself, my husband and our three children—were there as our life took a sharp turn in an unexpected direction; we were the only ones there. Our daughter—too young to understand what was happening—has no memory of it. Our boys however, can vividly recall their versions of the story and it breaks my heart. No, it was never just my journey I was worried about.
I’m sitting here, on the night before my first accident-iversary (it’s a word people use—I googled it to see if I made it up or not) and I’m attempting to write something eloquent about time passing and about the fact that it has been one year since my accident. Every time I think I have something decent, I read it back to find that it sounds artificial—it sounds like I’m trying to hide what I really want to say. So I imagine what I’m about to write isn’t going to be eloquent—it may not even be well written—but I can pretty much guarantee that it will be what I want to say.