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Ode: Part of my body may be paralyzed, but I'm going places

Alex Watters
Ally Karsyn

I stood next to my mom at the end of the driveway… and said, “How much would that suck to be paralyzed?”

 

I was walking out on a dock around midnight, about 150 feet from shore, when a cold gust of wind blew my hat off. It landed in the water. I took off my shirt and dove in. That’s when I remember hearing it. The sound of my neck snapping. The water was 18 inches deep. I told myself, “You got start swimming, man. You got to swim.” But I couldn’t.

 

A wave of calm washed over me and I began thinking, “This is okay. I’ve had a really good life. You know, this has been a fun run.” I let go, and everything went black.

   

Two weeks earlier, I had convinced a bunch of guys from my hall to go to this college dance for freshmen orientation. They stood around like a bunch of wallflowers while the girls were all out in the middle, dancing by themselves. I wanted to be out there, too.

 

About that time a DJ announced that there would be a dance competition. I saw this girl from across the room, and she had moves. So I went up to her and tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned around, I took her hand and spun her into me and spun her out. I said, “We’re going to win this.”

 

I didn’t even know her name, but she joined me out on the dance floor. We stepped and bounced to the beat—our limbs sprawling out in every direction. Moving with the rhythm. Lost in the music. In the moment. She smiled. I smiled. And somehow, we won.

 

After that night, I played dumb like I didn’t know how to do my laundry. That way, I got to hang out with her a little more, and we became friends. Her name was Danielle.She invited me and some friends to her family reunion in Okoboji.

 

My parents live at the lakes, so that weekend, I stopped by their house first. They had company over—my godmother, her daughter and her son-in-law, who used a manual wheelchair.When they were ready to leave, I wheeled him down the ramp and into his van. I stood next to my mom at the end of the driveway. The van disappeared down the street. I looked at her and said, “How much would that suck? How much would that suck to be paralyzed?”

 

Danielle’s little brother was on the dock with me. When I went into the water, he thought I was just playing around. Until he realized I wasn’t moving. Then, he ran up to the cabin to get his sister and her friend, and they thought it was a joke.

 

When they saw the panic in his eyes, they ran out to the lake and found me face down in the water. They flipped me over and gave me CPR. I drifted in and out of consciousness.At one point, I remember looking up at a bright, white light. I was in a hospital.

 

Before going into surgery, my mom, my dad and my pastor came in and said a prayer like it might be my last. Then I was taken away.

 

The spinal fusion went well, but there was a long road to recovery ahead of me. Whether I knew it or not. I had shattered my C5 vertebrae and fractured my C6, leaving me paralyzed from the chest down. Different people started showing up at my bedside, trying to talk to me about rehab. Sometimes, I’d play possum and act like I was sleeping. If I was awake, I’d tell some of them to get the hell out.

 

My antics didn’t work with the physical therapist. He sat me on the side of the bed, laid a T-shirt on my lap and said, “Put it on.”

 

I could barely hold myself up. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I snapped. “Are you doing this to make me feel worse?”

 

“Oh, no,” he said. “Not at all. Just try.”

 

I reached for the T-shirt and immediately fell forward into his arms.

 

I hit an all-time low when I was put in a shower chair and wheeled into the bathroom. I begged the nurse to just leave me alone, and she did. Leaning up against the wall, I sat there and cried—with the water running over my body. I couldn’t adjust the temperature. I couldn’t reach for the soap. I couldn’t do anything.

 

I could have stayed there, wallowing in self-pity and despair. But up until that weekend at the lakes, I had always considered myself a pretty bubbly, outgoing, optimistic person. I had to find my way back to that part of who I was before.

 

Going to Craig Hospital, out in Denver, saved me from defeat. At the rehabilitation facility, I quickly realized—it could be worse.

 

One day, my mom and I were in the lower level of the hospital for therapeutic recreation. We were planting something. (I forget what it was. I don’t think the succulent craze had taken off yet.) So we were planting something, and I was making a mess, of course.

 

I was going to be late for my physical therapy appointment. My mom said, “Why don’t you go? I’ll clean up, and I’ll meet you there.” I went to the elevator. I hit the button. Ding! The doors opened and I rolled in. A man in a wheelchair rolled in after me, which isn’t unusual because almost everyone’s in a wheelchair there. The doors closed.

 

I started to ask, “Hey, will you please hit, uh…”

 

When I turned toward him, I noticed three things: he appeared to have a traumatic brain injury; I could no longer reach the button to take me upstairs; and from the look on his face, he was perfectly happy in that elevator.

 

We were not going anywhere.

 

Stuck there, I started to reflect on what had happened to me. And I thought, “This sucks. This sucks that I can’t move my body and get to that button. But at least I know where I’m going. I know where I want to go, and I know what I want to do even if I’m going to have barriers getting there. Here’s a man whose body works, but he has no idea how to use it or where he’s going. It could be worse.”

 

Now, nearly 13 years later, when I go back to Craig for annual checkups, I try to pay it forward. I ask staff members, “Who can I talk to? Who’s feeling down? Who’s in a bad place? How can I help?”

 

Right after my accident, I was nervous and scared. I didn’t know what was ahead of me. I didn’t know what I would be able to achieve.

 

I didn’t know I could go back to college and trade my dream of owning a golf course for some vague idea of working in politics and public service. Or that I could get a summer internship in the U.S. Department of Education in Washington, D.C. But I did.

 

I didn’t know who would hire me after graduation and never thought it would be the President of the United States. As a community organizer for Barack Obama’s re-election campaign, I didn’t know how I would be able to knock on doors and work at campaign rallies from a wheelchair. But I found a way.

 

After the election, I didn’t know I would be given the opportunity to work as an adviser, helping incoming freshmen navigate their future at a college that was so instrumental in helping me discover my own. But I was.

 

I didn’t know if I would be able to drive a car again or own a home. But I do.

 

And I didn’t know that trying to give back to a community that has done so much for me, and standing up—so to speak—for what I believe would lead me to run for public office. But it did.

 

This isn’t the life I would’ve chosen. Honestly, in a lot of ways, my life is hard. I still have bad days where want to lay in bed and cry or not rely on someone to getting dressed. However, I also recognize that we all have struggles. You may not be in a wheelchair, but that doesn’t make what you are going through just as challenging or defeating at times.

 

It is in those times that I remind myself: it could be worse. I could still be in that elevator.

 

Every time I tried to plan out my future or thought I knew what was going to be best, I was just setting myself up or disappointment. We don’t know what the next day is going to bring, but we do have the ability to choose how we react to it.

 

I wake up every morning and try to live like I’m here for reason.

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Alex Watters is afirst year advisor at Morningside College, and he is a member of the Sioux City Council.

 

Ode is a storytelling series where community members tell true stories on stage to promote positive impact through empathy. It’s produced by Siouxland Public Media.

 

Our next show is Friday, October 6 at ISU Design West in downtown Sioux City. The theme is “Home.” We’ll have live music by Angela Lambrecht and Shawn Blomberg of Ultra Violet at 6:30 p.m., followed by stories at 7 p.m. Tickets are $10 in advance; $15 day of show.

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