The doctors told me I was lucky; there is no way I should have survived that car crash. I am inclined to agree with them.

It took two years of grueling work in rehab to learn how to walk again, a year in speech therapy to learn how to speak like a normal human being. They performed six reconstructive surgeries before I stopped looking like Frankenstein’s bride. But that wasn’t nearly the most painful part:

“Happy Birthday, son; I thought we’d come out to your favorite place on the pier. I brought you balloons.”

Lucky? Precited is more like it.

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