Allison Diaz, grown from a mix of Georgia Red Clay and Canadian dust, a southern girl with a heart for God, her family, and big dreams, is a warrior for Jesus, her husband, and her family.
What have you overcome? “We live on the northwest corner on the ninth floor of a high-rise condo building. Each day, the sunset paints a new picture through the windows of our living room. And, each evening, the sunset reminds me that I’ve overcome that day; I’ve made it through again. For more than 10 years now, we’ve been living in a perpetual state of overcoming, of turning our life’s tragedy into something triumphant one day at a time.
On August 16, 2005, I walked into the corner room of neuro-ICU at 2am and tentatively, I stepped towards my husband. Tubes and wires disappeared into his skull, his nose, and his mouth. Dried blood still pooled in his ears. Every part of him was etched with wounds; some wounds that would be surgically repaired, and wounds that would heal with time. Unseen with unanswered questions were the wounds that instantly changed the course of our lives.
Danny had gone to the post office and used the errand as an excuse to test drive a customer’s motorcycle, but he never made it back to his shop. A red, Chevy Astro van pulled an ill-timed left hand turn in front of him. He tried to stop, braking hard and leaving an 80FT skid mark at the scene, but it wasn’t enough. Danny lay the bike down on his left, breaking his femur, all the ribs on his left side, slamming his shoulder into his sternum. The bike hit the driver’s front wheel and the momentum threw Danny in the pathway of the van. He was run over and no longer wearing his helmet.
Hours later, in the heavy quietness of the neuro-ICU room, I held his swollen and road marked hand. I attempted to slow my heart in rhythm with his; if not for myself, but for our unborn son. With Corbin, still being God-formed in my womb at 33 weeks pregnant, I held the hand of my comatose husband while the other rested on my swollen belly. I had never felt so alone.
Brain activity was minimal and intermittent. Even with the withdrawal of sedatives and pain killers, Danny still didn’t wake. The traumatic brain injury (TBI) Danny sustained tore apart neurons in his brain. The neurologist said he could die from these injuries; recovery would be a marathon, not a sprint.
Danny did not move. He didn’t talk. He didn’t blink once for “yes” and twice for “no.” He did nothing. Danny’s body wasted away to 159 lbs. His muscles had atrophied and he was unable to even hold up his own head. He would open his eyes, but the spirit was missing, covered in the wake of traumatic brain injury.
Five weeks after Danny’s accident, our son Corbin came through heaven and into my earthly, aching arms. He fought me for 27-hours of hard labor, finally emerging face up with an arm raised in victory. All I wanted to do was hold him, believing that in some way he connected me to Danny. Though I couldn’t hold Danny, still comatose, I could hold his DNA.
I missed him so much. He was my rock, the one who took care of me and now he was in buried somewhere in the darkness of brain injury and I could not save him. I couldn’t talk to him. He could not comfort me and tell me it was going to be okay. I didn’t know if it was all going to be okay.
Overcome with the enormity of our circumstances, I found myself at the starting line of a new life on the parallel of our dying quintessential American dreams. Days were filled with a suffocating waiting for a waking that only emerged at a rhythm too slow to be miraculous, but enough to give winks of hope that I could take one more step forward in this race.
Danny’s parents and I were a team. We set about the busyness and details of surviving, of taking care of Danny and Corbin’s needs even at the neglect of our own. As weeks turned to months, we began to see small signs of improvement; inconsistent physical and whispered responses to questions, movement in his right hand and arm, and kicking his left leg. Danny began to tolerate food and his feeding tube was removed. He began to speak more words and recognize people by name. He was able to stand supported by a standing frame and began to assist with his daily living needs; brushing his teeth, showering and getting dressed, though still bound to a wheelchair.
Mentally, Danny grew in awareness of his limitations and became angry and frustrated. The feelings he expressed were what I would have expected of him, but TBI intensified these feelings. He wanted to die more than he wanted to live handicapped. He verbalized regret in trying to stop the motorcycle and regularly told me to take Corbin and leave. Danny began to have explosive emotional outbursts and even though doctors had told us to expect this stage in recovery, there isn’t anything to prepare you to witness the person you love most in the world effectively lose their mind.
Doctors had told us that a year to 18 months was the most recovery we should expect from Danny, both physically and cognitively. But, we kept on fighting to help Danny recapture what had been taken from him. Danny began an aggressive physical therapy program about two years after his injury. When he started he could not bear his own weight and now, Danny can walk with a walker with supervision and minimum assistance. His core strength and balance is still an issue. He battles his right leg and foot and requires a toe brace for assistance. His left arm is still the weaker of the two and his fine motor skills are not what they once were. And, though he still uses a wheelchair for mobility, he is able to do most daily living activities independently.
People often ask me how long it took Danny to wake up from his coma. And, I’m always unsure how to answer. What do you consider awake? When he gave his first thumbs up? When he finally spoke a word? When he moved all his extremities? When he knew my name? The truth is that Danny never really woke up; he emerged slowly over weeks, months, years and now a decade. We still battle forward through the loss and difficulty and make every attempt to turn something so tragic into something better. No one sets out on the doorstep of tragedy and prepares themselves for 10 years. No, you do the next thing and then the next. You survive. Our bodies and our souls bear the wounds of our choice to fight daily in the spirit of overcoming.”
The Bible says, “… when troubles of any kind come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete, needing nothing.” How has your endurance grown with the process of your tests and how do you operate in the now looking onward?
“Brain injury is a thief, making a mockery of the person you love. It is a terminal disease that does not bring the mercy of death to end its’ suffering. It is a tool that twists the injured and the relationships tied tightly to them. To remain is to endure.
To come to a place of endurance, we must first, unfortunately, enter a place of suffering. To endure, requires us to be challenged and placed under continuous pressure. There cannot be endurance without an obstacle, a testing of faith and a decision to press on anyway. We always have a choice. We can choose to be a victim or a victor. We can choose our faith over our fear. It is easier said than done.
I want my husband wholly restored. But, I have to measure my circumstances against my faith in God. I have to decide to bow to my sufferings or bear up into them with endurance. I want to run my race, whatever that looks like, and do it well. It is hard and I often feel like quitting. But, God has remained faithful. He has made Himself known to me when my endurance was failing. It is not in my own strength that I endure this race; it is only through God.
To overcome, we must choose to take the pieces of our sufferings and make ourselves vulnerable to others so that they may be encouraged in their own circumstances. Overcoming is taking our hurts and sitting down with the hurting and letting them know they’re not alone. Overcoming is sharing our story, showing our scars and letting others see hope through us.
The Bible also says, “Praise be to the God and the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”
For more of Allison Diaz, her family photo shoot, and the many faces of perseverance order your copy of the November | December, Overcoming Issue here. And, to read more about Allison and her journey, visit her personal website, allisonmdiaz.com and the site she writes about living in the wake of traumatic brain injury, dannyandallison.com.
Mavian Arocha-Rowe
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