When my son Nathan left the house on that snowy Thanksgiving morning, I felt an uneasy pull in my gut, one of those quiet warnings a mother can’t explain. Still, I trusted that God would be with him and that he would make it safely to his father’s house after brunch with me. I have often been labeled overprotective, especially when it comes to Nathan. He is my only biological child, born after four long years of infertility treatments and a pregnancy filled with complications. Protecting him has always felt like part of my purpose.
When my husband and I rushed out the door toward the hospital after learning there had been an accident, I had no idea what awaited us, only that my child was hurt. The hospital was just twenty minutes away, but the drive felt endless, as if we were moving toward eternity. As soon as we stepped into the hallway, cold, sterile, heavy with the sharp scent of alcohol, I heard his screams. They cut through everything around me. I don’t think I will ever forget them.
I was told to wait outside, left to listen helplessly to his pain without any information about how badly he was injured. I felt terrified, lost, and utterly powerless. Every cry from that room pierced me like a knife. The waiting felt unbearable until a paramedic who had been at the scene approached me and offered fragments of an answer. Nathan had hit black ice while pulling onto a major highway. His car rolled, and he was ejected, landing who knows how far from where it began. The paramedic couldn’t tell me the extent of his injuries, only that they were serious. I broke down.
After X-rays, imaging, and heavy narcotics, the emergency room doctor delivered the devastating news: Nathan had broken his neck, sustained multiple spinal fractures, fractured both pelvic bones, suffered a collapsed lung, and possibly fractured his wrist. I felt faint, devastated, yet strangely relieved to hear that he would walk again and that he had survived being thrown from the car.
Nathan spent four days in the ICU and one in the pediatric unit. On the fifth day, we were finally able to bring him home, though not without a challenge I hadn’t anticipated. Getting him into the car was excruciating for him and heart-shattering for me. We hadn’t thought to request an ambulance; we just wanted him home. His screams as we tried to settle him into the seat are sounds no mother should ever have to hear. Somehow, we managed to get him home, into bed, and begin the long road ahead.
The days and nights that followed blurred into a painful routine. When Nathan wasn’t sedated, he was awake and hurting. Every time I lifted him, helped him stand, or moved his body, I felt the weight of his sorrow just as deeply as his physical pain. Soon, the emotional toll surfaced, anger, isolation, grief. I could tend to his wounds and support his body, but I couldn’t bandage the grief of a life suddenly altered. Words offered only fleeting comfort; to wounded ears, encouragement can sound like a song stuck on repeat.
A week and a half after the accident, his 17th birthday arrived. His father, brother, my husband, and I did everything we could to make it a celebration rather than a reminder of loss and surprisingly, it worked. His favorite cake, gifts, and messages from friends were exactly what he needed. When his girlfriend and friends came the following weekend, he even moved what little of his body he could to the rhythm of music playing from one of his gifts, a portable speaker he immediately attached to his walker. It was the first time since the accident that I saw him smile without effort.
Two weeks later, we began to see small but steady signs of progress. Nathan could walk to the bathroom on his own and shower using a chair. I started sleeping more than a couple of hours at a time. His mood still shifted between flat and hopeful, but hopeful days began to outnumber the rest. I didn’t fully accept what had happened, maybe I never will but I learned to take it one day at a time. If Nathan had a good day, then so did I.
My anger toward God slowly softened. Six weeks after the accident, gratitude began to replace disbelief. Research revealed how rare it is for someone ejected from a vehicle to survive, let alone walk again. Even through confusion and heartbreak, I became grateful. I still didn’t understand why God allowed it to happen, but I could finally see that He had protected Nathan from the worst.
I may never fully understand the lesson in all of this, whether it was meant for him, for me, or for both of us. What I do know is that pain shapes us. It forces growth in ways we never ask for. Nathan’s road to recovery will be long, but I feel blessed to walk it beside him. His determination and resilience convince me he won’t just survive this, he will thrive.
As for me, my healing is slower. I still regret not canceling brunch because of the weather. I still blame myself for not trusting my instinct about the Jeep. Those regrets may stay with me for some time, but I know I will work through them.
What I know without question is this: we will survive. We will get through it. And one day, this will no longer be our reality, only a painful memory and a powerful story of what we overcame.
