A wheelchair detective personal exclusive

Greetings, my fellow sleuths and investigators. I had intended for this post to detail a new true crime story concerning injustices against those with disabilities. However, today’s narrative is a personal one, detailing a recent experience that has significantly affected me both physically and emotionally. And in a strange twist, it has become a crime scene all its own.

Sometimes, the most treacherous crimes are the ones that are not even recognized as crimes. On April 3rd, I became a victim of a silent and dangerous hazard. A simple piece of pavement turned into a dangerous threat to my safety. This location could be a threat to anyone, especially those who are elderly, or those who use wheelchairs. Today, I returned to this location to show my readers the threat that this location has.

The moment I rolled over the lip of that uneven pavement, I felt my chair tilt forward, a sickening lurch into the unknown. Time seemed to distort; seconds stretched into an eternity before the harsh impact of the concrete. When I finally hit the ground, the stars exploded in my vision, a brief moment of blinding light. My brother-in-law, witnessing the fall, immediately alerted my husband to the blood streaming from my head. My first thought, a desperate attempt to maintain clarity, was to repeat the date: ‘April 3rd, April 3rd, today is April 3rd.’ My husband, in a moment of quick thinking, used his shirt to apply pressure to the wound, a stark reminder of the severity of the situation. He then called 911, while my brother-in-law urged me to stay awake, a battle I waged against the encroaching darkness.

As I fought to stay conscious, repeating my name and counting to ward off a potential concussion, a stranger approached, offering an ice pack from his car. The kindness of a stranger in such a chaotic moment was a small beacon of light. Moments later, medical professionals from the nearby doctor’s office rushed to the scene, a nurse applying saline and pressure to my wound. The chaos was punctuated by the rumble of city buses passing by, a strange juxtaposition of the mundane and the traumatic. My brother-in-law’s voice, a constant anchor, kept me tethered to consciousness. When my husband finished the 911 call, I broke down, overwhelmed by a wave of guilt. I muttered about not wearing my seatbelt, a ‘what if’ scenario that haunted me. He held my hand, reassuring me it wasn’t my fault, but the question lingered: Could this have been avoided?

The ambulance ride was a blur of flashing lights and the sterile smell of antiseptic. EMS workers gently lifted me onto a gurney, a strange sensation of being both fragile and handled with care. A neck brace, a rigid reminder of my fractured C1 vertebrae, was placed around my neck, and oxygen was administered. At the hospital, the urgency was palpable. I was whisked into the emergency room and immediately prepped for a CT scan, the threat of surgery hanging heavy in the air. The resident’s words, ‘fractured C1 vertebrae,’ sent a wave of anxiety through me, a fear of more surgeries, a chapter I desperately hoped was closed.

The CT scan with contrast was a surreal experience. The IV, a battle in itself due to my difficult veins, was finally placed, and I was wheeled into the stark, clinical room. The contrast dye injection, with its large syringes and warm, unsettling sensation, felt strangely reminiscent of a scene from a movie. But I trusted the medical staff, and after the scan, the technician’s reassurance about the normal sensation was a small comfort. Then, the agonizing wait for the results. Hours passed, each minute stretching into an eternity, until finally, the news: no surgery required. A wave of relief washed over us, a collective sigh of gratitude.

Now, almost a week later, I’m still adjusting to the rigid confinement of the neck brace, the forced stillness a constant reminder of the ongoing investigation into the effects of the incident. Sleeping on my back, a necessity for now, has become a nightly challenge. But today, April 9th, I returned to the scene of the crime, the very doctor’s office where my stitches and staples were removed. I faced the location of my trauma, camera in hand, to document the hazard and to prove that even amidst fear and pain, I can confront what happened. This case, as personal as it is, reminds me that accidents are a part of life, an everyday occurrence for many. I realize that others have endured similar or even more severe situations, and I am grateful to be here, to share my story and continue this investigation into the dangers that surround us. I want to express my deepest gratitude for the outpouring of prayers, comments, and support I’ve received since last week. And a special thank you to my husband, Jason, my constant support and unwavering strength, who has been by my side every step of the way.

Until next time, be wise, stay safe, and support one another.

Jennifer, AKA wheelchair Detective 💚