Chapter 2: Never Trust a Crackhead

Around the time I was in 2^nd grade, most of my family, except for my grandmother and my aunt Pat, were getting high on crack. That smell would sometimes seep into my room when they smoked in the bathroom. Unlike the magnetic effect which the aroma of freshly baked cookies has to draw you towards it, crack made me want to get away. One Saturday morning while watching cartoons in my room, that smell started to percolate into my little safe haven. I became quite annoyed as to which crackhead family member of mine was disrupting my peace this time. My father’s presence was the most obvious because of his heavy steps and wild antics, but for the others, I had to leave my room to investigate. When I poked my head through my door, I noticed my uncle’s girlfriend Lisa (also a crackhead), was about to head out the front door so that left my uncle as the likely suspect for disrupting my Saturday morning cartoons with his crack smoke. Looking for a reason to get away, I asked Lisa where she was going. She said she was walking to the little neighborhood store a few blocks away to get a few groceries.

Usually, I never went anywhere with Lisa because she was often under the influence of something, but she didn’t look high this time. Besides Lisa’s drug problem, she also had a dark history that scared me as a child. She was at one time married to an older man who was retired and received various monthly checks while he was alive. Lisa had her drug problem during his later years and often used much of his income for her addiction. Her husband passed away (reportedly of natural causes), but rather than reporting his death immediately, she kept his body in the bedroom of their home for a few months after his death to continue collecting his checks. I was never told if she faced any charges or served any time over this, but regardless, I always thought of her husband’s body rotting away and turning into a mummy while she continued to live there. That memory gave me pause about asking to go with Lisa, but that musky sweet smell was getting pretty bad and I thought I might be able to get some candy if I tagged along. It was pretty rare for any of my crackhead family members to get me any of the good stuff, but back then there were nickel and dime candies that I could always convince them to buy for me.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning as we walked out the door. Birds were chirping, the Mulberry tree out front was starting to bear fruit, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Plans for going out later with the neighbor kids to play football were high on my list. I yelled out to Mama that I was going to the store with Lisa and grabbed my skateboard before closing the door. Mama ran that house, but she let me do as I wished most of the time. The store was only a few blocks away and there was only one busy street to pass. I rode my skateboard part of the way, going back and forth along the side of the street alongside Lisa. I didn’t wear a helmet and I don’t recall ever seeing any other kids wearing them back then. I don’t think it was uncool or anything like that, I just don’t think it was looked at as being important enough for anybody to care. If I only knew what was about to happen to me. If I only knew how this knowledge would haunt me over 25 years later with my own son.

There was a small church across the street from the corner store that had a steep ramp. The ramp was great to ride my bike down when there were no services going on. I had never tried this with my skateboard, but I contemplated finally trying on the way. If I fell and looked stupid, it was just my uncle’s crackhead girlfriend there to make fun of me. As we approached, I saw that there were people standing outside for a service that had either just finished or was about to start so I had to skip out on the whole ramp adventure. We crossed the street and entered the shop. I headed straight for the candy aisle. I don’t remember what I got or how much, such details likely would have been forgotten anyway, despite what was about to happen. I do remember the exact layout of the store and the family who owned and operated it. My aunt Pat had a “credit” account with them where she would pay off her bill monthly after each disability check came in. Pat even had a “credit” account at the Popeyes chicken restaurant a few blocks away from the house. The candy aisle was within view of the checkout line. This probably helped dissuade kids from stealing. These folks knew my family so I never even thought about stealing from them. On the candy aisle, they had all the good stuff around eye level for a kid. Sometimes you could catch a sale where they would sell four for a dollar. Usually, it was the less popular brands like Watchamacalit or Rolo, but to me, candy was candy, it was all good. The bottom of the aisle had all the bite size nickel and dime candies. I grabbed a few of my favorite choices and put them in the basket. We checked out and began walking back home, across the one semi-busy main street.

I was a few steps behind her and didn’t look for oncoming traffic. I suppose I thought it was safe being close enough to her, but I was wrong. Sesame Street did teach me to look both ways and to cross the street with an adult, but they never taught me to mistrust an adult who happens to be a crackhead; I didn’t look both ways and missed seeing the approaching car on my left side. Lisa was several steps ahead of me and out of the line of impact. I was not so lucky.

According to witnesses, the car hit me on my left side. My head and body struck the windshield, breaking it, and I was thrown over 30 feet from the car as the driver slammed on the brake. I have scattered memories surrounding this event, but the prominent memory is of waking up on the asphalt and seeing blood and glass all over the street around me. I couldn’t move and was terrified. I don’t remember anyone being around me at first, but after losing consciousness and then waking again, my father had magically appeared and was pacing back and forth, freaking out. He was frantic and crying, saying over and over that I was going to be ok. I lost consciousness again and then woke up briefly as I was being loaded into the ambulance. My final memory of that day was waking up with my leg placed into a cast and being cleaned up by a nurse, wiping my face and combing pieces of glass out of my hair. This was back in the day when Jheri curls were the style, so I had a bunch of hair grease in my hair. I remember how the glass stuck to the comb with globs of the hair grease. I often joke that the hair grease absorbed the impact on my head and saved me that day, but I would be lying if I did not acknowledge that this was the first miracle of my life. The amount of force it takes to break a windshield is not small and the distance my body was thrown would suggest an extremely high likelihood of injury to major organs. Most commonly, such a trauma leads to death from a major brain injury or other serious injuries that would require emergency surgery- I only had a broken leg.

While my lack of memories surrounding the accident are likely from a concussion, the absence of other injuries is hard to rectify in my scientific mind. Those who believe in God often pray for miracles, but we often overlook the miracles that happen to us. Until writing this, I had never before considered what happened to me as a miracle. To be struck by a car, have my head and body break the windshield, and then be thrown 30 feet away from the vehicle without any other injuries besides the femur fracture and some abrasions is hard to believe. When I think of roadside accidents with cars striking a deer at high enough speed that the deer hits the windshield, I would bet that the poor deer ends up as roadkill. If I didn’t have the femur fracture, one could argue that perhaps I wasn’t hit that hard, but to break the femur and the windshield cannot be overlooked. Without hesitation, I give credit to God in saying it was a miracle.

I was unable to walk without crutches for several weeks after the accident. One day, I answered the phone at the same time my grandmother did and eavesdropped on a conversation between her and my doctor. I was a nosey little kid. He was telling her that I needed to increase my mobility and start bearing weight on my leg if I wanted to walk normally again. It had been several weeks where I was barely moving around with my crutches. I had been doing very little weight bearing out of fear of causing further injury to myself, but after hearing that I could be setting myself back by not moving around, I started walking on that leg immediately. My leg was stiff and deconditioned. It hurt like crazy to put weight on it. This was the first time where I started to realize how much power my mind had over my body. Before picking up that phone and hearing the doctor say that I could walk, I was disabled. Moments later, after hearing the doctor say it was ok for me to bare weight before they cut the cast off, I was up and moving around. I walked so much so that the cast started to crack at the bend of the knee by the end of the week. Similar to the title character in Forrest Gump who started running to the point that his leg braces shattered and fell off, I was moving around so much that I could completely bend my hip and knee fully before the cast was removed. The cast was removed and I returned to school walking and running normally. The awareness that it was my own mind that held me back led me to realize the potential I possessed to overcome other challenges in life. The fear of getting hurt or of failure is enough to discourage most from ever trying. Many people live their lives always taking the path of least resistance. It is the reason why many never chase after their dreams. It requires some level of sacrifice. This tragic event may have led to a bad injury, but I believe it was God’s plan to teach me about resilience.