Joe will never forget the sound of bone meeting pavement.
On October 17th, 2003 I was a freshman at the University of Wisconsin – Madison. It was a Friday. I and a dozen or so freshman teammates were given the task of “hosting” a dozen or so swimming recruits. We were essentially their personal guides to Madison and the team itself. In our efforts to “wine and dine” them, we decided bowling would be a good activity. The real fun, we thought, would come after Saturday morning practice before the football game vs. Purdue. We met in the main lobby of our dorm, “The Towers”, before excitedly herding out the sliding doors. It was a cool, clear night, and I was wearing a black Badgers sweatshirt with a white t-shirt underneath that would soon become unwearable.
The plan was to walk a few blocks where a group of seniors and juniors would pick us up and drive us to the bowling alley at Union South. I was in a good mood. I was energetic. I was feeling goofy and fun. I shouted, “Screw this! I’ll just ride Darren!” And in the middle of a tiny cul-de-sac nestled between State Street Brats and University Inn, I jogged a few steps ahead to my buddy Darren, placed my hands on his shoulders, and vaulted myself straight up. Not unlike the motion of pulling myself out of a pool. Now, I had no intention of actually piggy-backing Darren. But how would he know this? He put his arms behind his back and grabbed my legs just above the knee. I did not hold on. With my legs acting as a fulcrum, I plummeted backwards from about eight feet up (Darren had to be at least 6’4”). I landed with the full force of my 185 pounds directly on the back left side of my head.
I have no memory of the impact. The rest of the evening is broken into a series of vivid images. Sitting on the curb, confused beyond imagination, repeatedly stating, “This is not good… this is not good...” A passerby rushing into University Inn for towels. The vibrant red overwhelming the bleached cotton. Kevin frantically driving to the hospital in his Jeep Wrangler. Chris in the back seat holding the soggy towel against my head. The wheelchair. The drawn curtain. The staple gun closing the wound. “Ca-chunk! Ca-chunk!” The doctor repeatedly asking, “Have you been drinking?” Me repeatedly shaking my head. The Dixie cup full of pills. Amanda, Kevin’s girlfriend, giving me my only sense of calm by holding my hand and stroking my arm. The worry on her face. Being moved to my own room. Cranking my neck to keep up with the spinning ceiling. Throwing up Urban Pizza. The nurses waking me every hour so I didn’t drift into a coma. The golden sun filling my sterile room.
My mom, after making what she calls the longest drive of her life, listened with me to the doctor the following day. Grade III concussion. Skull fracture. Hemorrhaging. Bruised brain. Damaged cochlea. Permanent. The last clear thing my left ear would hear is my ear canal filling up with blood. I cried as my mom could only hug me.
I soon realized, though, this was no time for tears. I had to learn to walk again down the hospital hallway, my mom on one side, my IV on the other. I had to rest at the hospital and then at home in Barrington while my athletic counselor dealt with my professors. I had to figure out how to do sit-ups and flip-turns without vomiting. With the help of family, teammates, and friends, I regained my balance, finished on the Dean’s List, and got best times in the 200 and 500 freestyle by the end of my freshman year. But my left ear is still silent.
Beyond the obvious lesson of “NEVER do that again!” this experience taught me the unimaginable impact of my choices. There are a thousand strings attached to every decision I make in my life. Just think: I jump on Darren’s back in 2003 and you’re now reading a blog post. Every choice I make echoes throughout my entire existence, and because time continues to move forward, every choice is permanent. I am a free man when making my choices in life but a slave to their results.
Sometimes these choices are big, and I understand their gravity. I thoroughly consider where I go to school, where I work, who I marry. But most choices are small and automatic. And a select few of those can have a major impact. Anyone who was “in the wrong place at the wrong time” can attest to that. Will a change of clothes set forth my demise or simply ensure I see that rainbow before I get to the office? My doctor said that my decision to wear a winter hat that Friday night probably saved my life.
A couple months ago I went to see a Otolaryngologist (aka ENT) to see if technology has caught up to my injury. I took a hearing test in a padded room the size of a walk-in closet. While my right hand was very active, my left hand remained mostly still in my lap. After looking at the results, the doctor said that a hearing aid is out of the question. Simply turning up the volume will not help. A cochlear implant, which would address my problem directly, would work if I damaged both ears. Cochlear implants are not suggested for unilateral hearing loss. The sound would be delayed, raspy, and largely imperfect, confusing the sound processing in my brain. The only real option is a Bone-Anchored Hearing Aid (BAHA), in which a small rod is drilled into the left side of my head behind the ear. A receiving box captures noise coming from the left and sends the vibrations through my skull to my right ear. For vanity’s sake, I declined the offer. At least for now.
For the time being I will continue to put people on my right and sit on the left end of the dinner table. I will politely ask people to repeat things or sometimes give up and simply smile. I will miss out on some movies’ surround sound and always have an extra headphone. I will cock my head to the left to hear someone in a crowded party. I will worry my mom as I cross the street. My kids will learn to “talk into Daddy’s good ear.” I will tell this story many times throughout my life, knowing that I’ve lost my spare. That I don’t have a back up anymore. It’s not a tragedy. It’s not even a shame. It’s just life. My life. And I have no choice but to keep on living it.
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