Our Christmas memories will be made this year. I have a lot of memories to choose from, but the one that will be the best is yet to come.
On June 29 of this year, our son, Robert, was in a motorcycle accident. When we arrived at Washoe Medical Center we were told he wouldn't live. To parents, this is probably the worst thing that can ever happen, to be told your vibrant, 24-year-old son will die.
We were told to get the family together, as it didn't look good, but before that we decided to go in and see him for ourselves. He was covered in blood, he had tubes everywhere, tubes in his chest where his lung had collapsed, tubes and machines breathing for him. We knew the doctor was right . . . or so we thought.
We gathered the siblings, Mikie, Robbie (his older half-brother), Lisa and all his friends. We told them what we were told. Each went in to say their good-byes. Each came out in tears of total sorrow.
Six hours later the neurosurgeon came in. He told us that Rob will probably live, but he doesn't know what Rob's quality of life will be. He could be a vegetable, in a constant coma, severely brain damaged or he could be close to what he was before the accident. We were in shock.
Our son was an honor student, held a 3.97 average at UNR, was majoring in accounting and was on the dean's list every semester for the four years he'd been there. He was healthy, loved sports and was only 24. Our minds were wondering how to take care of him if he were not able to care for himself. Who would take care of him after our deaths? So many things to worry about.
We waited. Daily we went in to see how he was doing. Daily he would sleep, in a light coma, sometimes on his own and sometimes drug induced. We waited weeks, and months enduring the pain of wondering. Will he be like he was? Will he be brain damaged? What, what, what?
After several surgeries and physical rehabilitation and five months later, Rob is on his way to a full recovery. He still takes medication several times a day, he lost his driver's license due to his head injury, but he has his life and it looks like it will be close to the same. He can never regain what he lost, but he's getting close. We are looking at a year of rehabilitation for him. But what's a year? Compared to what could have been, it's nothing.
This year we celebrate with fewer presents, fewer decorations, but with more friends and all of our family. This Thanksgiving we gave thanks that our children were alive, with us and well. This Christmas we will celebrate that we are still a family, that we have wonderful friends who gave time, money and support during the time we all needed it most. We may not have much, but we do have our family.
Robert and Linda Beveridge are residents of Dayton.
