It Was 20 Years Ago Today . . .

By Mike Apodaca
 
Twenty years ago my wife, Debi, and I were camping on the beach in Carpentaria. It was the first time we’d been on a trip without our kids—Nicole (nineteen years old) and Jeremy (twelve years old). It was our habit to call every day to make sure everything was okay.
     But on this day, July 30th, 2004 Nicole was not answering her phone.
    Nicole, tall with long, sunshine-blonde hair, was with her boyfriend, Joe Ribb, driving across Apple Valley Road on Mandan Street. She pulled out, her view momentarily obstructed by a car making a right turn in front of her. Another car, speeding down Apple Valley Road, used the turn lane as a passing lane and T-boned Nicole’s small Toyota truck in the center of the intersection. Her truck was lifted off the ground, rotated in the air, and landed back on the tires. Inside the truck’s cab, everything was chaos.
Nicole experienced a traumatic brain injury, where the denser center of her brain, the corpus callosum, tore through the brain’s neurons like a ball bearing through cotton candy. When the fire fighters and police arrived, she was posturing (pulling into a fetal position), a clear sign she was not going to make it. She and Joe were airlifted to Loma Linda.
     It was an officer who finally answered Nicole’s phone and told my wife what was going on. We left our camping gear to our friends to take care of and fought the Friday afternoon traffic for hours to get to Loma Linda.
      The sun had just set when we arrived, that growing darkness reflecting our mood.
     We found Nicole stretched out on a gurney in an induced coma, looking like Sleeping Beauty. Her elbow was shredded, ribs were broken, and her spleen damaged. Stitches crisscrossed her left temple. But the biggest concern was what we couldn’t see—her brain.
      Nicole had been a founding member of the swing band, Phat Cat Swinger. The band showed up that night and we all huddled (and some of them slept) in the Neurological ICU waiting room, hoping to hear some news about Nicole’s condition. That night, at about three in the morning, Marco Paulo received a phone call saying that his sister had been killed in a head on collision.
     It seemed to be a night where death was on a rampage.
    Nicole spent three weeks in the coma. Debi and I nearly lived in the ICU, visiting at every opportunity we were afforded. And then Nicole had improved to the point where they could bring her out of the coma. They moved her to a normal hospital room. Things were looking up.
    Of course, there were deficits. One of Nicole’s pupils was enormous (a symptom of brain damage). She was unable to talk. She appeared vacuous. The best we could get out of her was a smile and the ability to copy us when we would show her two raised fingers.
     The doctors told us that we might not get any more than this back.
    And then Nicole began failing. She started sleeping more. She appeared lethargic and weak. In days she got to the point where she couldn’t stay awake. Debi and I knew we were losing her.
     I pushed her doctor to do something. He tried to convince me that Nicole had a severe brain injury and that the truth was she was probably dying. I countered that it seemed to my wife and I that she had some sort of infection. The doctor said that she’d been given so many antibiotics that he didn’t want to give her more. I pointed out that that was ridiculous—if she is dying, what could it hurt? When I didn’t back down, he agreed to call in a specialist.
The next morning Debi and I met with the Chief of Neurology and her students in Nicole’s room. The mood was somber as these medical professionals sympathized with us as we were trying to adjust to the fact that we were losing Nicole. The doctor asked if we would like to see Nicole’s brain scans. We said, “Yes, of course we would.”
We were taken upstairs to a small office. The doctor showed us CT-Scan slices of Nicole’s brain. She muttered, “Hmm . . . that doesn’t look too bad,” and “There is some bleeding here, but it is not serious . . .” In the end, she turned to me and said, “Mr. Apodaca, I see no reason why your daughter could not grow up to be a rocket scientist. There must be something else wrong. We’re going to start antibiotics right away.”
     When we left the room, I collapsed in horrific sobs. All the tension of this ordeal was released at once. It was more than I could take.
The next day, Nicole had returned to us. She was where she had been before—bright eyed and lifting two fingers.
     The day after that she was put into rehab where she stayed for two weeks.
Debi and I knew that Nicole would need a lot of help when she came home. Debi quit her job and dedicated herself to rehabilitating Nicole. We tightened our belt and made it work. The doctors had told us that the first year was the crucial one. Most of what she would get back would come in this first year. Somehow, Debi worked miracles with Nicole. She patiently helped her regain her speech, her memories, and her life.
When Debi was taking Nicole back to Cal State San Bernardino, to resume her education one class at a time, I asked her, “You’re there, at the college. You never went to college. Is there anything you wanted to be?”
     Debi responded, “I wanted to be a nurse.”
     “So, start a program, become a nurse.”
    Debi did and for the last ten years she has been serving patients here in the High Desert.
     The effects of Nicole’s accident on me were mostly internal. It broke me—made me far less prideful, cocky, and self-assured. In all honesty, it made me a better person.
Nicole went on to finish college, get her teaching credential, and to teach kids with disabilities in the Hesperia Unified School District. She just finished her twelfth year.  She also married a wonderful man, Mark Bales, who is a first-rate firefighter with Cal fire.
Nicole and Mark have two kids, Cecelia and Owen, our beautiful grandchildren.
Twenty years ago today our life was changed forever. I am so thankful to God that He has made this for us a day to celebrate.