This is a piece I never thought I would write. But given what I have gone through the past 13-plus months, I am thankful for the opportunity.
I was hit by a car in the late afternoon of May 24, 2022. As a longtime sportswriter—and Light correspondent in the 1990s—I am familiar with seeing my name in the paper. But as an author, not as a subject.
I was returning from watching a softball game at St. Helena High School, where the host Lady Saints notched a convincing playoff win. As I rode back into town in my motorized wheelchair, I began to wrestle with a decision: Should I go straight to my apartment on Main Street, or did I have time to cross the street using the half crosswalk—minus a stop light and stop sign—and savor the Lady Saints’ victory by spending a few minutes in the town’s arguably best-known watering hole, Ana’s Cantina? I had to stop in there anyway to see if I could confirm an interview with one of the bartenders as part of my burgeoning “where are they now” series. The first few installments had appeared in The Napa Valley Register over the past several weeks.
As I cautiously rolled out into the crosswalk with a line of parked cars on either side of me, I looked to my left and saw a car stopped, waiting for me to cross. I looked to my right, and when I saw another car waiting for me to cross, I turned my head and pushed the joystick forward.
I remember seeing the car out of the corner of my eye and screaming as it hit me. I never lost consciousness, but to be honest, much of what followed in the immediate aftermath will forever remain a mystery to me. One of the memories I have is asking the police officer who accompanied me as I was being airlifted to Queen of the Valley in Napa for surgery if I would make it.
Doctors inserted a medal rod and four screws in my broken tibia and fibula. (I am anxious to see what happens the next time I go through airport security.) What followed were three weeks of recovery and intense therapy in the hospital—including June 12, my 53rd birthday. The lone moment of joy came when my beloved Boston Celtics defeated the Warriors to take a short-lived 2-1 lead in the NBA Finals.
When I arrived home, I was faced with months of around-the-clock care: physical therapy, periodic x-rays to monitor the healing process, and day and night nursing services. I would be lying if I said my recovery did not include pain, frustration and moments of sadness.
But beyond the physical pain and the financial hardship the accident caused my family, I kept coming back to what I was told by the officers who first arrived on the scene and visited me in the hospital just a few days later: “Your wheelchair saved your life.”
I had been given a second chance at life. And that belief would be reinforced over the next few weeks.
The morning of the accident, I had an appointment at Duncan Dermatology in St. Helena. Near the end of the appointment, the doctor asked me if I wanted her to examine my back. Not being in a hurry, I said sure.
The doctor found a suspicious mole that had not been present during my previous examination just a few short months ago. She felt it prudent to have it biopsied, and she performed the procedure on the spot. We would wait for the results to come back in the next few weeks.
Fast forward to two days after I was discharged from the hospital. I was going through the messages on my answering machine when I came across the doctor’s voice. She said the results indicated a possible melanoma in its early stages, and she had referred me to a dermatologist who would remove the mole as soon as possible. The news was accompanied by the chilling words that coming in when I did, and the discovery of the mole, may quite possibly have saved my life. Moments like that put everything in perspective.
I do not know if I will ever be able to cross the street in my wheelchair with as much confidence and bravado as I once did, or not tense up when I hear a car or truck coming up from behind me. These are examples of post-traumatic stress disorder and I will have to cope with those after-effects of the accident.
But I have also chosen to focus on those things that are truly important: friendship, loving your family and those close to you, helping others and leaving this world a better place than you found it. We each have but one life to live. But sometimes if you are lucky, you are given the opportunity to rewrite the ending. And I intend to make the most of my opportunity.
Garrett Whitt is an Inverness Park native who lives in St. Helena, where he is freelance sportswriter for the local newspaper. A version of this piece appeared in the St. Helena Star.