“I will give you back your health and heal your wounds, says the Lord. Now you are called an outcast—‘Jerusalem for whom nobody cares.’”
JEREMIAH 30:17
Some things happen to us from which we never recover, and they disrupt the normalcy of our lives. That’s how life is.
Human nature has a tendency to try to reconstruct old ways and pick up where we left off. If we’re wise, we won’t continue to go back to the way things were (we can’t anyway). We must instead forget the old standard and accept a “new normal.”
I wasted a lot of time thinking about how I used to be healthy and had no physical limitations. In my mind, I’d reconstruct how life ought to be, but in reality, I knew my life would never be the same. I had to adjust and accept my physical limits as part of my new normal.
As a child I’d sit on a big brown rug in my great-grandparents’ living room and listen to them talk about the good old days. After hearing several stories, I thought, Those days weren’t that good—at least the recollections they shared didn’t seem so great. Maybe for them they truly were the good old days, or perhaps they forgot the negative parts of those days. At some points in our lives, most of us want to go back to a simpler, healthier, or happier time. We can’t, but we still keep dreaming about how it once was.
In my twenties, when I was a disc jockey, we used to play oldies, and people who called in to request those songs often commented that music used to be better than it is now. The reality is that in the old days we played good and bad records, but the bad ones faded quickly from memory just like bad ones do now. No one ever asked us to play the music that bombed. The good songs make the former times seem great, as if all the music was outstanding. In reality, there was bad music thirty years ago or fifty years ago—in fact, a lot of bad music. The same is true with experiences. We tend to forget the negative and go back to recapture pleasant events. The reality is, we have selectively remembered—and just as selectively forgotten.
Once that idea got through to me, I decided I couldn’t recapture the past. No matter how much I tried to idealize it, that part of my life was over and I would never be healthy or strong again. The only thing for me to do was to discover a new normal.
Yes, I said to myself, there are things I will never be able to do again. I don’t like that and may even hate it, but that doesn’t change the way things are. The sooner I make peace with that fact and accept the way things are, the sooner I’ll be able to live in peace and enjoy my new normalcy.
Here’s an example of what I mean.
In early 2000, I took a group of college kids on a ski trip from Houston to Colorado. Skiing is one of the things I’d always loved doing. Unable to participate, I sat in a clubhouse at the bottom of the hill, gazed out the window, and watched them glide down. Sadness came over me, and I thought, I made a big mistake. I should never have come here. As happy as I was for them, I mourned over my inability ever to ski again.
Then I thought for the thousandth time of other things I would never do again. When I was a senior pastor, most of the adults greeted me at the door following each morning service.
“Enjoyed your sermon,” they’d said. “Great service.”
Kids, however, behaved differently. They’d race up with a picture they’d colored for me. Before my accident, I loved the kids flocking around me; I’d kneel down and talk with them. After my recovery, I couldn’t squat down and stare at their smiling faces the way I used to before as I said, “Thank you very much. I really like this picture. This is very nice.”
After my accident, the best I could do was lean forward and talk to them. Perhaps that doesn’t seem like a big thing, but it is for me. I’ll never squat again; I’ll never be able to kneel so that I can be at a child’s level again, because my legs won’t give me the ability to do that.
Here’s another example: When I go to a drive-through fast-food restaurant, I can’t reach for the change with my left arm. The best I can do is reach out across my body with my right arm. It must look strange, and I get a few odd looks, but it’s the best I can do.
While neither of these examples is particularly dramatic, they are nonetheless reminders that sometimes things we take for granted every day can be taken from us permanently and suddenly, and we’re changed forever.
During my long hospitalization, somebody gave me a magazine article about a young man who lost his sight. He went through an incredibly bitter, depressive time. He wrote that he got so demoralized that a friend who cared enough about him to tell him the truth said, “You just need to get past this.”
I paused from reading and thought, Yes, that sounds like the way I was after my accident. The article went on, however, to tell the practical instructions the blind man’s friend gave him: “I want you to make a list of all the stuff you can still do.”
“Now what kind of a list would that be?” the angry blind man asked.
“Just do it for me. You can’t write it, obviously, but you can get a tape recorder and dictate it. Just make a list of all the things you can still do. And I’m talking about simple things like ‘I can still smell flowers.’ Make the list as extensive as you can. When you’re finished, I want to hear that list.”
The blind man finally agreed and made the list. I don’t know how much time passed, but when the friend returned, the blind man was smiling and peaceful.
“You seem like you’re in a much better frame of mind than the last time I saw you,” the friend said.
“I am. I really am, and that’s because I’ve been working on my list.”
“How many things are on your list?”
“About a thousand so far.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“Some of them are very simple. None of them are big, but there are thousands of things I can still do.”
The blind man had changed so radically that his friend asked, “Tell me what made you change.”
“I’ve decided to do all the stuff I can. The more I thought about it, the fewer limitations I saw. There are thousands of things I can do—and I’m going to do them for the rest of my life.”
After I read that article, I thought, That’s exactly what I need—not mourning, pining, and going back over the way things used to be or what I used to have that I don’t have anymore. Instead, I need to discover what I have now, not only to celebrate but also to recognize I’m not helpless.
As I continued to ponder that idea, I realized I had more going for me than I thought. I had focused so heavily on my losses that I had forgotten what I had left. And I hadn’t realized the opportunities I might never have tried otherwise.
In the article, the blind man said something like, “I’m not going to worry about what I can’t do. I’m going to do what I can do well.” Those words seemed simple.
I read that article at just the right time, and the words seemed incredibly profound. God had sent the message I needed when I needed it. It was one of those powerful moments that caused me to say, “I’ve got to get on with my life. Whatever I have, I’m going to use it and magnify it to the max.”
I’m running out of time, I thought, but so is everyone else. I suppose I’m more conscious of time than some people are for two reasons: First, I lost a big chunk of my life because of the accident. Second, I know we don’t get to stay long on this earth. As many of the old hymns say, we’re really like strangers passing through. It’s something we all know from reading the Bible and other books, but those realizations became a wake-up call for me.
I also know that my loved ones are waiting for me at the gate. Some days I can’t wait to get back there.
I also realize that I have to wait until God sends me back.
Members of South Park Baptist Church moved our family while I was hospitalized. We had been living in a town called Friendswood, about ten miles from the church. We had needed a place nearer the church but hadn’t found one. While I was in the hospital, the church leaders found a house, rented it, packed up everything for us, and moved us. When I got out of the hospital, I entered a house I had never seen before. After the ambulance backed up and unloaded me from a gurney to my home hospital bed, I stared at our house for the first time.
I soon adjusted to the new living quarters, because for a long time I could only see the living room, where they set up my hospital bed.
In some ways the move into the rented house was more difficult on the family than on me. I sensed some of the adjustments and difficulties my wife went through with my illness. Eva almost lost her job because she had spent so much time with me that she ran out of conference days, vacation days, and sick days. Other teachers donated their own sick days to her so she could come and be with me in the hospital. Eventually, she ran out of those donated days and had to go back to work. She was our primary source of income.
Eva’s colleagues at Robert Louis Stevenson Primary School in Alvin often graded her papers for her, wrote her lesson plans, and covered her classes when she left early to come see me in the hospital. Her fellow teachers even made little gifts to give our kids each day so they would have something to look forward to. They called them “surprise boxes.” Fellow teachers also came to our home, along with church members, to clean our house and bring meals. Had it not been for the teachers and the church, Eva would have certainly lost her job and so would I. Yet even with all these incredibly sacrificial gifts and assistance, how she and our children got through that spring semester of 1989 remains a miracle.
One time when Eva inquired about my long-term prognosis, a nurse told her, “Honey, you don’t need to know all of that, you’re just a wife.”
To that nurse, she may have been “just a wife,” but Eva took over and functioned for both of us after my accident. I had always taken care of the bills, bank accounts, insurance, and most family matters. She had no choice but to handle them herself, and she did everything well. Eva found strength and a new level of confidence. God provided her with the wisdom to help her take care of family matters. She also learned to remain calm during my complaints and grumbling throughout my lengthy recovery.
The church didn’t stop paying me, but we realized that they might, and they were entitled to because I wasn’t working. We never talked about the money, but it was always a possibility that hung over our heads.
When the State of Texas was found at fault for the accident, the law limited their liability to $250,000. All the money went to hospital bills, and a quarter of a million dollars didn’t make much of a dent.
Ironically, the attorney general of Texas defended the man who drove the truck that hit me, because the defendant was an indigent inmate. Therefore my tax dollars went to defend the state and the man who caused the accident. Isn’t life strange sometimes?
During the 105 days I spent in the hospital, Eva had the most strain. Not only did she take on the burden of everything in our home, she got up at 6:00 every morning and did everything she had to do around the house and hurried to school. As soon as school was over, she rushed to my bedside, where she stayed until 10:30 every night. Day after day was the same stressful routine.
One of the most challenging experiences for her—by herself—was to buy a van to replace my wrecked car. By then, I was home and able to walk with my Ilizarov still attached. That meant, however, that if I wanted to go anywhere, we had to have a van to transport me. We had no idea how long it would be before I could sit in a normal sedan.
Eva had never bought a vehicle in her life, but she didn’t complain. She went to a dealer, test-drove a van, picked out one, and brought it home. “Here’s our van,” she said.
She made me proud of her—and I felt very grateful.
I learned to drive again in that van. One day as the family was washing it, I walked outside still wearing my Ilizarov. As I lumbered around the van, I noticed that the driver’s side door was open. Peering inside, I calculated what it would take for me and my thirty pounds of stainless steel to get behind the wheel. While the family wasn’t looking, I maneuvered myself into the seat and started the engine. My family was stunned.
Eva came around to the door and asked, “What are you doing?”
I smiled and said, “I’m going for a drive!”
Incredulous, she stammered, “But you can’t.”
However, something told me that not having driven for nearly a year, and having had my last drive end in my death, it was now or never for taking the wheel and driving again.
I backed out slowly and drove around the block. It wasn’t a long drive, but it was another milestone in my recovery. I’m still not very fond of eighteen-wheelers or long two-lane bridges, but so far I manage to get where I’m going.
Of course, it fell on Eva to make all my appointments and to see that I got to my doctor’s office twice a week. And I must add that I wasn’t the easiest person to look after. In fact, I was difficult. As my health improved, I became demanding and curt (I wasn’t aware of that), and Eva agonized over trying to please me, although she handled it well.
The fact is that I was very unhappy. Many of my problems stemmed from my feeling completely helpless. For a long time I couldn’t even get myself a glass of water. Even if I could have poured one for myself, I couldn’t have drunk it without help. Even the simplest tasks made me feel useless.
Eva often had to make decisions on the spot without talking to me. She did the best she could. At times, when Eva related what she had done, I was quick to let her know how I would have done it. Almost immediately, I’d realize I hurt her feelings when I did that, but the words had been said. I reminded myself, and her, “I’m sorry. You’re doing the best you can.” I also reminded myself that regardless of how I would have done things, I wasn’t able to do them.
Although she said little during that period, she later allowed me to read what she wrote in her diary. One entry reads: “Don is critical of everything I do. He must be getting better.”
That’s both sad and funny to me. She knew I was getting better because I started to make decisions again. The desire to get active in doing things was her yardstick for my recovery. I seemed to want to get more involved in life and to question what was going on.
I just wish I had been a better patient and made it easier for her.
The worst part of my convalescence for the family was that we farmed out our three kids. They weren’t orphans, but they lived with other people for about six months. Our twin sons stayed with Eva’s parents in Louisiana. I know they weren’t happy about having to move so far away. The distance made the boys feel detached and separated, but they handled it quite well. They were still in elementary school and, at that age, it probably wasn’t too difficult relocating. Nicole, who was five years older and thirteen at the time, moved in with her girlfriend’s family and was able to stay in her middle school. It would have been much more traumatic for her to move away.
The accident happened in January, and the kids didn’t come home permanently until June. I felt terrible that we couldn’t provide for our children.
The kids came to see me on weekends during my hospital stays, which was tough on them. When they made their first visit to the hospital, a staff psychologist did a kind thing for them. He took all three kids into a room and showed them a life-size dummy with devices attached to it, similar to what was on my body. This way he could explain what they would see when they entered my room.
I’m glad he did that for them, because even many adults, not having that kind of preparation, showed obvious shock when they first saw me. In my condition, I interpreted their reactions as horror.
When the children came into my room the first time, all three of them stepped as close as they could to hug me. They loved me and wanted to see for themselves that I was okay. Of course, I was barely alive, but it still did me a lot of good just to see them. The staff didn’t let them stay long. As awful as I looked, the children believed me when I said I would get well.
After they left, Eva came back into ICU. I don’t remember this—I don’t remember much from those days. She said I looked at her through my oxygen mask and said, “We have the best kids in the world.”
I’ve never gotten the impression that our children felt as if they had missed anything, but I sometimes felt they were cheated out of experiences with their father.
When I finally was out and could walk, I remember trying to play pitch with the boys, even though I knew I couldn’t take more than a step or two. If one of them hit a ball that went out of my immediate range, I couldn’t chase it. They felt terrible about that.
I sensed my limitation kept them from enjoying the game, so we stopped doing it. Although they didn’t say so, I knew they didn’t want to see me try to run or risk falling down—though many times I did fall.
Also, both boys like to surf, and before the accident, I went surfing with them. After I was able to walk and drive, on several occasions I loaded them and their boards in the van and drove them to the Gulf, but I couldn’t do anything with them. I could only watch. They seemed to understand, but it was still hard on me.
I have no doubt that there are things my sons probably wanted to do, but they never mentioned them for fear of putting me in a situation where I’d have to decide whether I might hurt myself. So I do feel that my boys were cheated out of normal boy things in their growing up years.
Nicole, being a girl, had that “Daddy thing.” She was our oldest child. She expressed her feelings very differently from Joe, who is a very emotional kid. Chris is the cool one, although deeply sensitive, and doesn’t show his feelings as easily as his twin.
While writing this book, I asked my kids to tell me how the accident affected them and our family and how it changed their perception of me. When the accident happened in 1989, Nicole was thirteen years old. Here is her response:
The biggest impact on my life was living away from my parents for several months. I lived with the Mauldin family from our church during that time. The accident taught me to appreciate my own family. I’m very close to all of them, because I realize how fortunate I was to be a part of such a wonderful family. I also feel that I am able to help people in crisis situations because I learned at a young age how to use prayer and friends to help me get through difficult times. It caused me to look at life in a different way. At a young age I was able to realize that life is precious, and that we have to seize every moment.
I feel that our family is very close because of the accident. I also feel we really look after one another, and that we would do anything for our family members. The boys and I have a special bond that we don’t always see between brothers and sisters. Daddy’s accident and recovery taught us to be there for each other. Mom became a lot stronger and independent, because Dad couldn’t take care of the things he always had. I only wish Daddy didn’t have to go through this to bring us so close together.
After Dad was hurt so bad, I saw for the first time that he was a vulnerable person. Before the accident, he had seemed indestructible. Over the years since, I have seen that the accident has made him even stronger. He may have been hurt physically, but he is the strongest person I know spiritually and emotionally. To have gone through what he did and still be such a loving and devoted servant of God is amazing to me.
For a long time I was angry about the accident, but I grew up and realized how fortunate we are to still have him and how the accident brought us closer. If he had died in that accident I don’t know how I would have made it through some of the toughest times in my life. There is something very special about getting advice from someone who has been to heaven, survived countless surgeries, and lived to tell about it. I tend to listen a little harder to him now.
Joe was eight years old at the time of the accident, and this is how he responded:
My first memory was being picked up by a teacher friend of my mother’s. When I saw my mom crying, I knew something was very wrong.
I remember going to the hospital to see Dad. They showed us a doll made up to look like Dad’s injuries, so when we went in we would be prepared. It was really hard to see Dad like that. We didn’t stay long, which was fine with me because I did not like seeing him that way. Chris and I had to move in with our grandparents in Louisiana. I thought it was cool at first, but then I started to miss my family. I’m really glad I had my twin brother with me. Every weekend we drove from Bossier City to Houston. That got old very fast.
The worst thing about the accident was that while other kids were going camping and fishing with their dads, I never got to experience those things. I still think about that a lot even today. Sometimes I feel kind of angry and cheated or depressed. But in the past few years, I’ve gotten to go camping and fishing with Dad. I’m not sure that he realizes how happy that makes me. Through this experience I realized how many people loved and cared about our family. If we hadn’t had God in our lives, I don’t know how we would have gotten through this.
This is Chris’s response:
When you’re an eight-year-old, your father is a superhero. He’s invincible. When I first heard about Dad’s accident, I didn’t think it was nearly as serious as it turned out to be. Mom was upset when she told me the news and couldn’t hide the tears. But Dad was strong, and I’d never seen him cry. Even when I saw him surrounded by monitors in the ICU, hooked up to oxygen, and barely able to speak, I fully expected him to be home in a week.
I wasn’t present for most of the major surgeries. I went to live with my grandparents only days after the accident and saw my dad only on weekends. During those brief encounters, I began to understand just how bad he hurt—both his body and his spirit.
I was fascinated by the metal contraptions that surrounded his left arm and leg, but I knew they caused him immense pain. He looked so worn out as if he had just woken up, or maybe could never quite fall asleep. Sometimes I got the impression he didn’t want me or anyone else in the room. Even as little as I understood about depression, I knew he was suffering from it.
The first thing I did each time I visited him was to approach slowly and put my arms around him. I hugged him gently. For the first time in my life, he seemed fragile. Even when he returned home from the hospital, I continued the same routine—come home from school and hug Dad. It was as much to reassure me as it was to comfort him. I hope it served both purposes.
As my brother, Joe, and I grew older, and Dad’s recovery continued, we became more interested in sports and the outdoors. Dad would do his best to join us. I remember feeling terrible when I threw the football too far for Dad’s reach. He’d stumble and sometimes he’d fall. I choked back tears on a number of occasions. I’m sure he did the same. But from an emotional standpoint, Dad was always there for me. He is vitally interested in what his kids do. After all, I suppose we make his return from Paradise worthwhile in some regard.
The family grew closer as a result of Dad’s accident. We all took different roles out of sheer necessity. Mom became the decision maker and disciplinarian during Dad’s recovery. I tried my best to be the man of the house. Sometimes I was really just a bully, but I grew out of it. I learned to lean on the others as they leaned on me. Nicole mothered Joe and me as best she could.
Dad suffered from depression for years after the accident—still does to some extent. Maybe he struggled with it before the accident, but if he did, I never noticed. Dad is fiercely independent and seldom lets his family into his darkest corners. I guess I’m the same way.
Here is Eva’s response to how her perception of me has changed:
I was most surprised by Don’s lack of determination during the initial days following the wreck. He had always been a fighter, one who was constantly pushing himself and others to do more. When he wouldn’t try to breathe it was almost as if I didn’t know him. The depression had also been a new aspect. I learned to recognize the sign of a “bad time” approaching. It is harder when the pain is worse; he doesn’t sleep and the stress builds.
Through the years I’ve learned that if I leave Don alone he eventually returns to a more even keel. When I wanted to tell him something he really needed to hear but didn’t want to know, I had to bite my tongue—and on a few occasions I didn’t succeed.
Today, I don’t think of him as injured, even though I know he is and always will be. Don goes at such a pace that it is easy for me to forget his pain and handicaps. My husband is truly a remarkable person.
My kids were probably more confident about my recovery than I was. They never saw me receiving therapy, agonizing, or throwing up because I’d gotten so sick, or seen me when I tried to stand up too fast. As much as possible, we tried to insulate them. Eva saw me at my worst, but she protected the children as much as possible.
Although they don’t admit it, there probably is a “Dad gap” for my children, especially the twins. Because they were eight years old, they missed my being there for an important developmental time to help them learn to do things such as play team sports and go camping.
Looking back, I think the accident affected my parents more permanently than anybody. In fact, they were devastated. I’m the oldest of three sons, and all of us had been healthy. Then, suddenly, when I reached the age of thirty-eight, they were heartbroken and felt helpless to do anything for me. For a long time, they thought I would probably die.
My dad had been a career military man, and my mother had to learn to handle just about everything. Yet when they came to see me during the first week in the hospital, Mom fainted. Dad grabbed her and helped her out of the room. She wasn’t prepared to see me in such bad shape. I’m not sure anyone would have been.
Even now, I’m not sure my mother has fully recovered from my accident. But here are two of many very beautiful memories of my parents’ devotion to me.
First, during the summer following the accident, as if Eva didn’t have enough to concern herself with, she decided to take the South Park youth to summer camp. That would have been my job had I been physically able. But she tackled it with gusto. That meant someone would have to stay with me while she was away.
My mother cheerfully agreed to do so. The week of the church youth camp came, and Eva left me with Mom. Each day Mother prepared meals for me, and I was so glad to have her there. But I did dread one daily occurrence—my mother would be required to empty my urinals and bedpans. Now, I know she had diapered me when I was a baby, but a lot of time had passed between infant powderings and the present.
I remember the first time I had to go when she was caring for me, and I asked for the bedpan. She acted as if it were the most natural thing ever. After I had finished, I agonized over having to tell her.
She saved me the embarrassment by asking if I was through. I just nodded. She took the bedpan into the bathroom, and then I heard one of the most remarkable sounds I have ever heard in my life. After she entered the bathroom and flushed the commode, I could hear my mother singing. In spite of the most lowly of tasks one human can perform for another, she sang as she washed out the bedpan. It was as if her whole motherhood was wrapped up in that moment. She was again doing something for her son that he could not do for himself, and she was happy and fulfilled. I will cherish that memory, for it defines the devotion that only a mother could have.
Second, I remember one private moment I had with my father, equally poignant and dramatic. One day, following yet another 250mile trip to see me for an afternoon at St. Luke’s, my parents were preparing for the return trip to their home near Bossier City.
For some reason I don’t recall, Mom had stepped out of the room. Alone now, my father came close to my bed and took my only unbroken limb, my right hand, in his gnarled hand. He leaned close to me and with great emotion and absolute honesty said, “I would give anything to trade places with you and take this on me.”
He’s my dad, and more than at any other time, I realized how much he loves me.
Repeatedly, my doctor has told me, “Everything we did for you is the best we can do. Don’t count on being able to live a long, productive life. Because of arthritis and a lot of other complications that will set in, you’re going to have an uphill battle to be even as mobile as you are now.”
He knew what he was talking about. It’s been fifteen years since my accident. I’ve already felt the beginning of arthritis. Weather changes affect me; I grow tired faster. Some of it may be age, but I think it’s a reflection of the fact that I have to use my legs and knees in ways God didn’t design them to be used.
Even today, my left knee hyperextends, so if someone comes from behind and inadvertently slaps me on the back, I have to catch myself or I’ll keep going forward. I can’t lock my knee into place to keep from losing my balance and pitching forward.
I’ve tried to make light of this, quipping, “I’ve fallen in some of the best places in Texas.” Or, “I’ve considered commissioning some little plaques that say, ‘Don Piper fell here.’”
One time I led an outdoor conference in the Texas hill country. The ground was uneven and I’d walk along and all of a sudden, I’d fall. I wasn’t hurt, but I fell three times the first day.
Despite everything they did for me, one of my legs is an inch and a half shorter than the other. That alone makes my backbone curve. The backbone is beginning to show wear and tear, as are my hip joints. My left elbow is so messed up I can’t straighten it out. Doctors did everything they could, including operating on it several times. The elbow was fractured on the inside, and when it knitted back together, it wouldn’t allow me to straighten it. To use the doctor’s expression, “It’s a very gimpy joint.”
An injury like that, he pointed out, is not forgiving. Once it gets messed up, it’s hard to fix it again.
This is part of my new normal.
Once after a visit to Dr. Tom Greider’s office, he asked me back into his private suite. Despite his busy caseload, I felt he was genuinely interested in me, and we talked about a lot of things.
On a whim I asked, “Tom, just how bad was I when they brought me in that night of the accident?”
He didn’t flinch. “I’ve seen worse.” He paused for a moment, leaned over his desk, and then continued, “but none of them lived.”
I’ve had to find different ways to do things. I am alive, however, and I intend to serve Jesus Christ as long as I remain alive. But I already know what’s ahead, waiting for me.
I’m ready to leave this earth anytime.