They cut it. They cut it right open, exposing my long underwear underneath. I was besides myself, riding in the back of a bumpy, roaring ambulance with gentle men in uniforms that I had never seen before. For a 4-year-old, those daunting scissors that chopped open my snowsuit were so distressing. That is one of the most vivid memories I have from the day that I almost lost my life.
It was soon after my parents’ divorce, early January of 2005. My dad picked me up from my nana and papa’s house, where my mom and I were staying. I was all bundled up, like a marshmallow in boots. I hopped in the car with my dad, and we headed off to the Lake County Fairgrounds to go sledding, as dirty snow crunched underneath the tires. My mom had sent me with her sled; it was black and pink and unnecessarily heavy. Fancher Lake is situated right on the outside of the fairgrounds in Crown Point, Ind., and it has some of the most popular sledding hills in the city. The layer of ice atop the water certainly looked a lot thicker than it was with snow piled on the surface.
I tended to have little fear, and just so happened to be awfully quick, as most little ones are. Before my dad knew, I was down the hill on a sled that weighed more than I did. The hill led right to the lake, where I swiftly slid past the bank. I was several yards away on the ice from my dad back on land, who was now witnessing a parent’s worst fear. The ice cracked under me, and my small body plummeted into the dangerously-cold water.
The one thing keeping my head above water was my instinct to hold on to the sled. My mittens were soaked and quickly freezing, but I remember the way my fingers felt fighting to maintain feeling to hold on. The firefighters and EMTs there tried to distract me from land, asking me my favorite T.V. show — obviously Spongebob. But, this situation was much different than the couch where I normally played the flute on my nose, just like Spongebob’s intro.
From being 4 years old to now 22 and graduating college, it seemed fitting to reflect on major events in my life as another life-changing shift is about to occur. I felt drawn to tell a part of my story at the end of my college career because I have spent the last four years telling the story of others. I had to ask myself which event had the biggest impact on the way I view life now.
A few days after I was released from the hospital, my mom treated me to Ponderosa, which is probably unknown to many since I haven’t seen an operating one in probably 10 years or better. We sat down at our booth with fresh plates from the buffet. An older woman approached my mom and asked if I was the little one from the newspapers that fell through the ice. She asked my mom’s permission to touch me because she wanted to “touch someone who had been touched by God.” My mom hesitated because a stranger had just asked to touch her child. But the old woman was gentle, and she handed my mom a medallion with an angel on it.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and one that I find pokes its way into my thoughts quite often.
I look back to that woman and her words frequently. They remind me that for some reason, known to me or not, I was meant to be here. Whatever powers exist above knew it wasn’t my time. I had a purpose. That mindset is something I need help with often. Between my own mental health struggles and the state the world has been in, I’m guilty of being blind to my own importance. But, I could have left this earth that day, and I didn’t.
Being that little, it was hard to wrap my head around a mindset so profound. It took me until my adult years to develop the confidence I needed to tell myself that what I do everyday is special for one reason or another. I found my affinity for words, meaningful ones that people read and relate to. My photographs capture moments of someone’s life in a way they can hold on to for as long as they want.
I found one hell of a voice. But, I have never told my dad that it wasn’t his fault. These tragic situations are called accidents for a reason, and it never made me love him any less. I have never told my mom and nana that the image of them sitting near my hospital bed is an important one that I remember. I have never told the firefighter who saved me, Tim Tully, who I grew up to be.
That last one I checked off on April 1, 2022. Facebook really is a special place these days. I found Tim’s page and sent him a message. I read that message over and over, wondering if he’d remember and if I was including the best information I could, as if I had a limited time to speak with him.
I cried. Reading his response started the flow of unexpected tears that I wasn’t able to stop. He remembers me, vividly, and I no longer see our moment to communicate as limited. The girl who delivered the firehouse a tray of treats for all they did that day was now 22, and sobbing in her shoebox college apartment because of a Facebook message.
Things change, but the things that changed me have not. I tell a lot of stories, and really incredible ones, at that. But, writing this has been one of the most transformative pieces of my college career. I leave this piece here, on Ball State’s campus, where I grew up to love my own story.
Images: Kami Geron
Featured Image: Becca Foerder
