Kimberly A. Bettes's Blog, page 17

The Story

I get asked a lot about this, so I've decided to post the story so I can tell it once (though I will write a story about it later; in fact, I have one in progress). Sorry it's so long. This is not the as-condensed-as-it-can-be version, but it's condensed a lot. I left out a lot of stuff that isn't necessary, but it's still lengthy.

November 10, 2004.

I get ready for work like always. My husband walks me to the car as I leave. I have a flat tire. Panic sets in. I HATE missing work. Equally, I hate being late. The previous week, I missed 4 days because I was sick, so it's very important that I get to work on time. And I work 65 miles away from home. I have to hurry.

I call my mom to see if I can borrow her car. Oddly, my father works at the same place I do, but he carpooled with someone else and has rode with him that week. So I rush to town to get her car and finally head to work.

November 11, 2004.

After working my usual 8-hour shift, I clock out. Any other day, I would've stayed 2 or 3 hours overtime, but I'm in my mother's car and don't feel right keeping it out later than usual. So I stop for gasoline and cigarettes and head home. The time is 12:45 a.m.

I pass another gas station on my way home. It's there I see my father and the guy he's carpooling with standing outside the station drinking coffee and talking. They'd gotten off work 15 minutes earlier than me, and had left sooner. I pass them and continue home. If only I had stopped and let my father drive his car home, I wouldn't be telling this story to you now. But I didn't. So the story continues.

It has been drizzling rain all day. It still is. I'm about 15 minutes into my trip home when things go wrong. Coming out of a detour, the car hydroplanes. I slide across two lanes of fortunately empty highway and onto the opposite shoulder. Gravel clinks angrily at the underside of the car. Everything I've ever learned about driving springs into my mind. 'Don't hit the brake; tap it.' 'Turn into the skid, not away from it.' And I do all those things. I'm actually thinking that I can ease back onto the highway and get home. And it would've happened that way, if not for the pile of boulders stacked at the side of the highway.

Hitting the boulders, the car begins to flip. I watch out the windshield as the world is up, then down, then up again. I somehow manage to count the flips as I watch out the windshield, through dust, shattered glass, and debris. What am I thinking? Mom's gonna kill me for wrecking her car.

The car is flipping again, and this time, I feel myself being pulled toward the driver's side window. Even in this moment, I know that if I go through that window, it's over for me. I have no doubt that the car will land on me and I will die. Instinctively, I put my hands to the missing window and as the driver's side of the car rolls across the ground, I push myself back into the car. Another flip. Three and half in all.

Suddenly, everything is silent, but for the stereo still playing. I open my eyes and try to assess my situation. It's dark and I'm confused, but there are certain things I know. I know my left leg is lying in front of my face. I know my body is tingling. I don't know where my arms are, but I know I'm in trouble. I think, "I'll lay here for a minute and collect myself, then I'll get out of the car." A few minutes later, I still can't move. I think, "I'll lay here a couple more minutes, and then I'll get out." I still can't move. I'm lying on the roof of the car on my neck. My sweatshirt and my breast is sliding down and covering my face. It's already hard to breathe with my chin nearly resting on my chest and the weight of my body on it. But now, my sweatshirt hinders my breathing as well.

I panic, but only for a second. I know that if I lose it, I'll die. I have very little air and I can't waste it on things like crying or screaming. I have to be calm and conserve my air.

A man's voice comes to me from the passenger side window. He tells me help is coming. I can't help but wonder if they'll make it in time.

My chin creeps closer to my chest and my breathing becomes raspy and ragged. I remind myself of a dying dog, and it's becoming clear to me that these are to be the last thoughts I'll get to think. If that's the case, I better make them good thoughts. I think of my son, in Kindergarten, so handsome and smart and funny. It's a shame that he's going to have to grow up without a mother. Will he remember me? How old will he be when he starts to forget me? I think of my husband, so loving and wonderful. He's a great father and will remind my son of me. Surely, they'll be okay without me.

The man leans into the window again to tell me to hang on. I tell him I can't breathe. He has a hard time understanding me, and it's no surprise. I've pushed my tongue between my teeth to keep them from being pushed together, closing off my airway. Also, my sweatshirt has muffled my voice. I tell him again as best as I can that I can't breathe. He tells me he can't move me, but I don't want him to. I know what kind of trouble I'm in here. I know I can't be moved. I only want him to move the shirt from my face to allow me just a little more air. But he stands, leaving me alone in the car with a rapidly diminishing supply of air.

This is it. I'm going to suffocate, never finding out where my arms went. I close my eyes and see my son.

Then, outside of the car, I hear a familiar voice. I snap open my eyes. I hear someone crawling through broken glass toward me in the car. "Are you okay?" he asks. It's my father. Thankfully, there's someone with me, someone I know. He mistakenly thinks I'm my mom and why shouldn't he? He doesn't know that I borrowed their car. I tell him I can't breathe and he pushes my shirt away from my face. It helps, but I still fear help won't arrive in time. I've never heard breathing that sounds like mine. Wet and raspy. Quick, shallow, gasping breaths. Very scary.

I've noticed a tingle at the corner of my eye from time to time, but haven't given it much thought. I've been too worried about breathing and about the whereabouts of my arms and why I can't see my right leg.

What feels like forever passes before help arrives. A paramedic replaces my father in the car with me. He places an oxygen mask over my face. It helps, but not much. After all, I'm lying on my neck, virtually eliminating my airway. I relax a little, though, because I'm still alive. Help is here and I'm still alive. I suppose since I haven't died yet, I probably won't. When I feel myself being pulled from the car and flipped onto my back on the gurney, I gasp a big, beautiful breath of air as I stare up into the drizzling night sky. My father told me later that he thought that was my last breath escaping me, but it wasn't. It was the first breath of what was to be the rest of my life.

I'm placed in the Ambulance and I hear the paramedic asking my father questions. He's answering as if I'm my mom. I tell them I'm me, not my mom. It's silent for a moment, then I repeat that I'm not my mom. My dad says, "That's not my wife. It's my daughter." I feel horrible for him in that moment.

I'm rushed to the hospital. I keep my eyes closed as much as possible because it hurts to blink. My eyes are full of glass and dirt. I answer questions and I beg for pain medication. I'm denied. They won't give me anything until they know the extent of my injuries. So I lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, waiting. Then, I hear another voice I know. My cousin. She tells me she's there and I cry, telling her they won't give me anything for pain. She asks them, and they tell her the same thing they tell me; they can't yet.

Later, I hear my grandmother. She says to the nurse, "She told me that if anything ever happened to her, make sure to tell you she wears contacts." The nurse tells my grandmother that I'd already told them that, but they haven't had time to take them out. I smile because she'd remembered to tell them. Then, I drift away again.

At one point, I wake to find my husband standing over me with my son. I tell them how much I love them. (My husband told me later that he wasn't going to bring our son in to see me, but he was afraid it might be the last time he would see me.)

*This is a picture of the x-ray of my neck that night.

I wake later, in an Ambulance. I'm being transferred to another hospital with a top neurosurgeon. I was supposed to be flown, but the weather didn't permit flying. So instead, I'm in an Ambulance that makes an hour trip in about a quarter of an hour. Every bump in the road causes me much pain. I drift away.

The next time I wake, there's a man with his hand inside my head squirting a cold liquid under my skin. I tell him it hurts. He says he knows, but he has to get the dirt and gravel and glass out of my head before he sews it shut, which will end up taking 67 stitches. I let him work. What choice do I have?

A man walks toward me carrying some sort of curved metal thing. I ask what he's going to do with that. He says he's going to screw it into my skull. I ask if it'll hurt and he assures me it won't, though I will feel pressure. Before I can protest that, a lady comes toward me with a clear plastic hose. I ask what she plans to do with that, and she tells me she's going to put it in my nose and into my stomach. I ask why. She says in case I get sick. I promise I won't throw up, but she puts it in my nose and forces it down my throat. Everything they're doing hurts. But surprisingly, having the tongs screwed into my skull doesn't hurt. I do, however, smell my bone shavings as he drills the holes. Then, I drift away.

I wake later as I'm wheeled into my new room in SICU. It's to be my home for the next month. I'm strapped to a rotating bed. There is 25 lbs. of weight on the tongs, pulling my neck. The worst part is I still can't move or feel anything below the neck. I'm on a lot of drugs. I sleep 23 hours a day. I hallucinate a lot. I eat nothing more than chocolate pudding and applesauce. I'm afraid I'll choke. If I do, there's nothing they can do for me. I can't be moved. My neck is still broken. In fact, it remains that way for 11 days. Technically, it's severely dislocated. My spine was 75%  offset. My doctor tells us that he's never seen anyone with an injury as severe as mine regain anything more than a little use of their arms. He pricks me daily with a needle to see if I can feel it. I can't.

They x-ray my hands many times because they're so swollen, surely they're broken. The car rolled over them, after all. They're cut and bruised, but not broken.

2 days before my 27th birthday, I have my first surgery. A piece of my hipbone is fused into my spinal column through the front of my neck. I lay in bed what little time I'm awake and I focus on moving my toe. My right leg was twisted in the wreck and is stuck now in a boot, so I focus on the big toe on my left foot. I ask my mother if it's moving. She says no. The next day, I ask and again she says no. But there comes a day when the answer is yes. She tells my doctor who tells us to not get too excited. It may just be muscle twitches. But it's not. I know it's not. I've worked my ass off to move that toe. And I keep doing it. I think that it's okay if I'm paralyzed from the waist down. I can still live a pretty normal life that way. But if I don't regain the use of my arms…I lay there in that bed and think about how I'm now such a burden to my family. And the worst part is, I can't even kill myself.

A couple weeks later, I have another surgery. This time, a plate and a cable is installed into the back of my neck. The muscles are cut and pulled away from the bone. This causes me pain later. Even though I'm still a quadriplegic, when people bump my bed, I cry. It hurts my neck. The doctor also has to cut away a piece of skin off the back of my head. It was a cut from the wreck that couldn't be touched, therefore became an infected mess.

My hair still contains mud, rocks, glass, and dirt from the wreck. It is a knotted mess. They try to wash it, but it's all but impossible. They try to comb it, but it hurts way too much. I tell them to 'just cut it'. They do.

I'm transferred to another hospital to start rehab. I suffer through more pain than I thought possible.

My son calls me and says, "I wish you still lived with me and my dad." I choke back tears and say, "Haven't you noticed all my stuff's still there? I still live there, I just can't be there right now. But I will be soon." This hurts me more than my neck.

I eventually learn to walk again and I'm released to go home 79 days after my accident. With the aid of a walker, I walk out of the hospital. It is the happiest day of my life.

There were bruises that stayed with me for nearly a year before finally going away. A few weeks after being released from the hospital, I had to return to have another piece of my hipbone fused into my neck.

I regained the use of my arms and hands, though my fine motor skills aren't great, especially in my right hand. I have a lot of nerve damage which bothers me constantly. It creates a tingling sensation, almost like when your foot's asleep and starts waking up. I can't look too far left, right, up, or down, and I sure can't look either way for very long. My knee, though I've had one surgery on it, still bothers me. I get what I call 'jelly leg' after walking a ways. The farthest I can walk is a mile and a half. Then, I can't control my right leg. It gets all floppy on me. I have a scar on the right side of my face that extends up into my hair where I was cut in the wreck. The back of my left hand is covered with little scars from the car rolling over it. I have a scar on my left hip, as well as on the back and the front of my neck, and one on the back of my head and the top of my head. I am in pain always. But at least I'm not still a quadriplegic.We are constantly aware of how different our lives could be. We take nothing for granted.

If you just met me, you'd probably never know anything was wrong with me. Most people don't even see my scars. But though I may look fine, I'm in pain every second of every day. I get frustrated at times when my body fails me. It's been so long now, I can't even remember what it was like to be able to do things I can't do now, and have forgotten what it's like to not be in pain. But I don't complain much. I don't have the right to. I know what my life could've been. I've been a quadriplegic. I've been a functioning mind trapped in a lifeless body. And let me tell you this. There is nothing, and I do mean nothing, as bad as that. I'll take the pain with a smile.

Don't Argue With the Characters

I used to read books and think 'Man! Can that so-and-so make-up a great story!' Then, I started writing my own books, and I realized that you may start out making up the story, but it soon takes on a life of its own. It becomes a story that you're not creating, but rather telling. As the writer, you want certain things to happen. You want your characters to do this or that, but they just won't do it. I often wondered if it was just me. Maybe I was doing it wrong. But at the end of Draculas, the emails that were exchanged between J.A. Konrath, Blake Crouch, F.Paul Wilson, and Jeff Strand comforted me. In one of the emails, one of them said, "See what you can do with these characters. I've been trying to make them fight, but all I can get them to do is trash talk each other." I laughed out loud. Literally. I knew I wasn't doing anything wrong because other writers were having the same problem. Sometimes, characters really do take on a life of their own. Their have their own agendas, their own wills, and sometimes they're just downright stubborn.

My friend/beta reader gets a kick out of me being surprised by my stories as they change and evolve. I do too, but sometimes it's frustrating for me if I want the story to move one way, but it ends up going in the opposite direction because one of my characters is hard-headed. I love that my stories surprise me. I think I have the perfect story all laid out before me, and as I write it, it becomes something else, something even more perfect than I had planned. It is a rush, to say the least.

My new novel RAGE is a great example of characters coming to life. One of the secondary characters, Carly, was supposed to be just that – a secondary character. She was supposed to only have a few speaking lines throughout the story. Halfway through the book, she became much more than I wanted her to be. She ended up with as many – if not more – speaking lines than the main character, Brian. She refused to sit idly by and watch the story unfold without participating. So I let her have her way. I learned a long time ago to not argue with my characters. They usually know what they're doing. In the same story, the main character Brian was supposed to be a good kid pushed too far who ended up doing bad things. But he just wouldn't do the bad things I wanted him to do. He turned out to be too good a kid to do anything bad.

Though I ramble, my point is never be mad at the author when the story you're reading turns out differently than you wanted it to. Chances are, it turned out differently than they wanted it to also.

Down the Alleyway

1/21/04

On a sunny day with brisk air

I walked along a city street

Gazing in the windows

At merchandise so neat

When I passed by an alleyway

I thought I heard a sound

So I stopped and listened intently

And slowly looked around

City noise disguised this sound

That I wasn't sure I heard

I was starting to feel

Maybe a little absurd

After all, I no longer heard the sound

That I had heard before

I smiled at myself and started to walk

But heard the sound once more

I stopped again, not smiling now

Feeling colder than the air

I slowly looked to the alley

And wondered what was there

Common sense said 'walk away'

It said 'just let it go'

But human nature and instinct said

'You can't leave until you know'

Down the alleyway I went

Leaving all good sense behind

My entire body tensed

At the thought of what I might find

A dumpster at the far end of the alley

Was the source of this bone-chilling sound

I stood with my hand on the dumpster

And my heart fiercely began to pound

How could a sound so beautiful

How could a sound so sweet

Be the same sound that sent chills

From my head to my feet?

I took a deep breath and swallowed hard

Before I raised the lid

And brought myself face to face

With what the dumpster hid

I raised the lid and prayed to God

Not to see what I knew I would see

But sure enough, there it was

Looking back at me

I leapt into the dumpster

And cradled this being so kind

How anyone could do this

Completely blew my mind

Thrown out like the daily trash

Was someone's bundle of joy

Upon closer inspection

I saw it was a boy

So perfect and so beautiful

Yet left to die anyway

And he probably would have

Had I not gone down the alleyway.

I Never Really Knew You

I wrote this poem after the death of my paternal grandmother.

I Never Really Knew You

January 26, 2004

Coexisting in the same world

Living separate lives

Both starting out as little girls

Both ending up as wives

I knew who you were

You knew me as well

People ask me things about you

Things that I can't tell

Things I don't know now

Things I never knew

There are just so many things

I never knew about you

I didn't know your favorite color

Or if you liked to write

I never knew the things you hated

Or any of the things you liked

I never even knew

Whether or not you liked me

It was only after you died

That I began to see

Now I know you loved me

And I know I loved you too

But still and I guess always

I never really knew you

How great was the pain you suffered

How heavy the burden you carried

How happy were you exactly

The day that you got married

Hugs and kisses never given

Questions never asked

Conversations never held

Now too much time has passed

I always had so many questions

Always will and I still do

Now it's only my fault

That I never really knew you

Did you cry yourself to sleep at night?

Did you laugh when you were alone?

When you were out somewhere

Could you just not wait to go home?

How like me were you really

How different could we have been?

How much closer could we have gotten

If I'd have asked these things back then

I guess I'll never know

I'll add it to the list

Of all the things I don't know

Of all the things I missed

As sad as it is

All these things are true

As terrible as it is

I never really knew you

Don't Overanalyze

I love when people read my stories. It's a great feeling. But it aggravates me when people read more into them than there is. And not just my stories, but any story.

For example, when someone says they know what I was going for, or my use of this to symbolize that, or I see the world this way…Come on! Stop reading more into it than I wrote. I'm not using anything to symbolize anything. I'm never 'going for' anything other than a good, scary story. That's it. Sorry to disappoint you if you thought I was deeper than that. In my whole life, there's only one thing I've ever written that had more than one meaning. It's a poem called Hope. That's it. Everything else I write is nothing more than a story. A story I've made up completely. Don't waste your time searching for metaphors and similes and meaningful representations because you will find none.

I'm intrigued by the way people can become monsters. Anyone at anytime can cross the line that separates us from them – the psychopaths, the sociopaths, the serial killers. They become the stuff of nightmares and good horror stories. That's the only thing I've ever tried to convey to my readers. I don't believe in writing hidden meanings or using one thing to mean another. I tell it like it is. I'm a writer, and as a writer, I don't have to write in riddles. I can just be blunt. It's a perk of the job.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe subconsciously, I do write that way. But if I do, it's completely accidental. I'm simply telling you a story. So please, for me, stop being so overly analytical. The picture I paint isn't one that you must cross your eyes in order to see the 3D image behind the image. Just look at the picture and move on. Thanks.

Little Wednesday Rant

Some of the images that will remain forever burned into my mind are those of other countries celebrating while we suffered on 9/11/01. As innocent people died, they cheered. I was horrified.

I think part of the problem is that they see America as a big, easy, egotistical nation. What they don't understand is we're not all like that. Sure, there are many people who are all of those things. But our country contains far more people who would NEVER, under any circumstances, cheer at the misfortune of others. I think for the most part, Americans are empathetic people. Our emotions run deep. Why do you think that 10 years after 9/11/01, it's still such a sensitive issue?

I can understand why other countries might hate us. I don't agree with it, but I can see it. After all, we're (and by 'we' I mean the government) always sticking our noses in everyone else's business, trying to make them do things our way or else. I get that. But that's government and politics. That's not the people who simply went to work one day to provide for their families and never returned. Those people didn't deserve the cheers from gathered crowds who were celebrating their deaths.

Many other countries think of America as a fat and lazy nation. In reality, Americans work more hours a week, more weeks a year, and for less pay, less vacation time, and less benefits. So who's lazy now?

More importantly, if we're such a horrible country, if America is so bad, why are we ALWAYS the first to aid and defend other countries? Countries that hate us, yet we send them money when they're in need, and we deploy our military to defend them, even at a time when we can't afford to do so. Since they hate us so much, why don't they just turn us away with a 'No, thanks. We'll do fine without your help.'

Yes, our government is flawed (and that's putting it lightly). But the people here aren't. Not all of them. We're good, hard-working people who just like the people of other nations are struggling to make our dreams of a better life a reality and to provide for our families. Don't judge us by what our government does. Is that how you'd want us to judge you? We, as citizens, are kind and compassionate. You won't find gathered groups of Americans cheering at the deaths of thousands of innocent citizens of another country. That's not who we are.

Kimberly A Bettes: Author of many terrifying tales!

 

Kimberly A Bettes: Author of many terrifying tales!.

My interview with Elizabeth Sogard!

I vs. Me

If you know me personally, you're sure to have heard me complain (or as my husband puts it – bitch) about people using I when they should've used Me. Even if you don't know me personally, you've probably read some smart remark I wrote about it. Sorry. I can't help myself.

Let me begin by saying this to those who misuse the two words: I recognize that you're trying to do better. I really do. I recognize your efforts and I thank you for trying to be proper and intelligent. Now that I've said that, let me say this: stop screwing it up! In your efforts (however valiant they may be) to appear more intelligent, the misuse of the words makes you appear less intelligent. It's true.

Now you're probably wondering, "But, Kim, how do we know when to use which word?" It's a good question with a simple answer.

Many people think it's always the other person's name and then I. But that's not true. Well, the part about putting yourself last is true, but it's not always I. So how do you know when to use I and when to use Me? Simple. Take out the other person's name and see if it makes sense. For example:

This is a picture of Joe and I.

If we take out 'Joe and', it says:

This is a picture of I.

Sounds pretty stupid, doesn't it? That's because it is. You surely see how this could annoy the ever-loving crap out of me.

This is a picture of Joe and me.

Without 'Joe and', it reads:

This is a picture of me.

See how simple that is? Now that you know, you can use the two words properly. And if you don't, you have no excuse, and I won't overlook it again. I'll hunt you down and be the I's out of you. I'll make you a character in one of my stories and torture the daylights out of you. I'll start a petition to have you removed from society. I'll spearhead a campaign to see that you're shunned by your peers and families. You may think that's a good thing now, but after months – even years – of isolation, you'll begin to see the error of your ways. Then, you'll think to yourself, "I wish someone was here with me." Because if you think, "I wish someone was here with I," I'll put out the hit on you and we'll call it a day.

Now go forth, good people. Go forth and spread the wisdom I have shared with you. Work it into a conversation. But don't screw it up. And if you do, don't mention my name.

99centebooks – home

 

A great site set up by Dan DeWitt for authors to promote their 99 cent ebooks. Have a look:

99centebooks – home.

 

My Break

If you're wondering what I've been doing with myself these last few weeks and thinking, "Hey. She hasn't posted how many words a day she's writing or anything!", well, that's because I've been a on a break. Oh, yeah. I take 'em. See, I wrote 2 novels in 2 months over the summer. Cranked them suckers out back to back. (By the way, my goal was 2. Then I got cocky and thought 'If I can do 2, why not 3?' So I changed my goal to 3. But many things happened over the course of the summer, leaving me with my original goal of 2. So I'm still happy with myself and feel that I attained my goal and had a productive and successful summer.)

Anyhoo, I've felt the need gnawing at me as it often does. No, not the need for meth or even the need for speed (though I do likes to break me some speed limits). I know I need to write. Actually, I first need to edit the 2 novels I wrote this summer. They are awesome, awesome books. One of them needs way more work than the other one, but they both need me. After that, I need to write. I'm in the middle of a short story I started just before deciding to take a break. I'd certainly like to see it finished soon. I have a ton of stories I've taken notes on that I need to write. And I will. Just as soon as I make it through this week.

I know my break is over. After all, it couldn't last forever. Things rarely do. But this is one crazy week lying ahead of me. I'm one day down, about another 7 to go. Then, back to thumping on these little black keys. That is where my fingers feel most at home, after all. For some, it's their nose. For others, their butts. But for me, my fingers belong on the keyboard. That familiar clicking sound is peaceful to me and I miss it. It's been a few weeks since I heard the steady sound of a work of art being created from my own fingertips, which never ceases to mystify and amaze me.

So bare with me, folks. In about 7 days, I'll get back to work. In the meantime, read something.

P.S. I've settled on a release date for my next novel. I was going to release them both this summer. After all, crank 'em out, send 'em out. But, I decided to only release one in the fall. So I thought, what would be a good day? Well, my birthday is in the fall. So. I will release my novel RAGE (which I love with all my heart) on…wait for it…November 24. Happy birthday to me! And happy reading to you. I'm going to put a couple covers up soon and let you vote on which one you like best. That'll be the official cover. And of course, I'll tease you with lines, paragraphs, maybe even chapters between now and then. Yeah, I'm evil like that.