It was a day like any other, until it wasn’t. The morning sun filtered through the office windows as I hurried to my next meeting, my mind already racing through the day’s agenda. Then my phone buzzed. My husband Mike’s name flashed on the screen, not common during work hours.
“Mike never calls during work,” I told my boss, “I need to take this.”
The world tilted on its axis as Mike’s words poured through the line. Alex, our 20-year-old daughter away at college in Philadelphia, 3,000 miles from our home in San Diego, had been in a car accident. Hospital. Stable condition. Broken bones. Concussion. Jaw surgery.
You know that feeling when the universe seems to grind to a halt, yet everyone around you keeps going as normal? I found myself rooted to the spot in the lobby, my mind a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts. What could I do? My baby girl was 3,000 miles away, a six-hour flight at best.
My boss’s voice brought me back to the present. “Do whatever you need to do. Let us know how we can help.”
I did what moms do. I pushed aside the urge to break down and instead focused on what needed to be done. Planning, communicating, and researching became my immediate priorities. There wasn’t time for tears. Not yet.
Thanks to Alex’s friend and rugby teammate, Julie, I finally heard Alex’s voice twelve hours after the accident. The conversation was surreal. Alex sounded almost normal when she said, “Hey, mama,” but it quickly became clear she did not know the severity of her situation. She thought she was in the hospital because of a minor concussion from a week earlier. At that moment, I was grateful for small mercies — she had Potato, her stuffed lamb, by her side. This constant companion, who had traveled the globe with her, now provided comfort in the sterile hospital room, 3,000 miles from home.
As the days passed, the full extent of Alex’s injuries became apparent. The car she was in had been T-boned by an F-250 truck. The list seemed endless: eight broken bones (possibly more), a traumatic brain injury, a collapsed lung, a torn AC joint and labrum. It was a good thing we didn’t know then what we know now. God is merciful in that way, only allowing us to know just enough so as not to fall apart by the enormity of it all.
As the gravity of Alex’s condition became clear, we needed a plan for her immediate care. My sister Colette, always dependable and ready to help in a crisis, stepped in without hesitation. She traveled to Philadelphia, arriving at the hospital to be with Alex during those critical first days.
Following Alex’s discharge, Colette brought her to her apartment in New York City. This provided Alex with a temporary haven, a quiet place to rest before beginning her treatment. Days later, I arrived in New York to join them. Our stay in New York was brief, as we planned to return Alex to Philadelphia to start her medical treatments for recovery.
When we returned to Philadelphia, we faced a new challenge: finding suitable accommodation that would keep Alex close to her medical team. The best we could do at the time was to book a room at the Sheraton in West Philadelphia. It wasn’t ideal — a hotel room with no microwave or refrigerator is a poor substitute for a home, but it was close to her doctors and free from the challenges of her apartment. Little did we know then that this hotel room would become our base of operations for the weeks to come.
It was there, in that tiny hotel room, that I confronted an uncomfortable truth: I was a terrible caretaker. The challenges were relentless. Finding suitable food for my vegetarian daughter, who couldn’t chew, seemed an insurmountable task. My fiercely independent daughter now needed help with the most basic tasks — cutting food, changing clothes, bathing, opening water bottles, brushing her hair. The list seemed endless, and the toll it took on both of us was profound.
That moment on July 23, 2015, changed everything. Our family was about to be challenged in ways that are difficult to explain. Like most life-altering experiences, you had to have lived it to understand the full impact. We were embarking on a journey that would weave itself into our family’s story, a hard-fought challenge I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but one that would forge growth through pain and great struggle.
As the initial shock subsided, the true scope of our journey emerged. Beyond the immediate physical recovery, we soon discovered the profound effects of this trauma: Alex’s battles with PTSD, memory issues, and migraines. We also learned that her lack of appetite was causing problems with her medication, requiring a push to get her to eat enough. It was milk shakes and hash browns for the win! Each new day brought fresh challenges, but also small victories and moments of unexpected grace.
In those early days, as I wiped away my tears and steeled myself for what lay ahead, one thing became crystal clear — we would face this together, one day at a time. Little did I know then that our path forward would not only test our limits but also reveal depths of strength and resilience in Alex that we had yet to fully appreciate.
Our next chapter unfolds back in San Diego, bringing with it new trials and unexpected triumphs. It would reshape our relationship and transform our understanding of what it truly means to heal, both in body and spirit. As we prepared to leave Philadelphia, I couldn’t help but feel that despite the uncertainty, we were embarking on a journey of profound growth and discovery.
To get a sneak peek at the happy after part of the story, read My Comeback Girl and Her Heroes.