Lost Year
Dazzling Chinese lanterns bobbed merrily over the ornate, gold-vined, red door. The restaurant’s romantic lighting glowed invitingly, radiating the promise of a good time within. My father held my hand tightly as we approached; we were in the lead; my mother was trailing with my 4-year-old brother on her hip.
It was New Year's Eve, and we were out on the town to sing an ode to the old as we celebrated the opportunities of the new. Magic was in the air as we sat down to a six-course Chinese dinner by candlelight. It was the last day of our holiday in Zimbabwe, and we’d done all the touristy things there were to do: we’d been to the Victoria Falls, the Zimbabwe ruins, and traveled into the bush to see the elephants.
My father knew how to have a great time, and his enthusiasm was infectious. My parents, of course, had no intention of waiting for the New Year to strike with two kids in tow, but it was 8:30 PM before they carried the pair of us up a steep flight of steps to reach our holiday resort’s premises.
That’s when it began.
There was a curfew in Zimbabwe at the time, which meant that all tourists had to be off the roads and behind gates by 9:00 PM. The gatekeeper decided to be obtuse; he would not let us in. My mother pleaded, my father begged, and I leapt under the guardrail into the resort, wide-eyed and on a mission to save the day. It didn’t take long before the guards were in hot pursuit. I’m not much of a runner, but that night I know I ran as if all the bats in hell were chasing me.
I was breathless and half-mad with fear by the time I reached the management office. The guards arrived shortly after. A homely woman dressed in a dark cotton dress with huge white polka dots on it listened intently to my case. I’m not sure how she came to her conclusion or how she felt justified in her actions, but at the guards' insistence, she decided that the gates were closed.
My father wanted to find help, but my mother talked him out of it since there were rumors of people being shot for breaking curfew. We slept in the car. The next morning, dog tired, my parents packed both cars: my mom’s Mini and my father’s Valiant. They were both in no condition to drive over a thousand kilometers home. So my father booked us into a guesthouse at the halfway point, and we set out, most of us still teary-eyed, on our road trip.
Now, the journey from Zimbabwe to Johannesburg is marked by steep roads that wind over the mountains. Many roads are extremely narrow and end in perilous cliff faces.The Valiant had been serviced in Zimbabwe, but, unfortunately, the workmen had not done a good job—on one of the highest mountain passes, the steering wheel refused to turn. My mom was driving at a slow speed, but still, the momentum sent us sailing out over the edge of the cliff.
The car hit the telephone lines, bounced down two levels of the mountain pass, and shattered into a million pieces before dumping us on the third level. Fortunately, a siding ledge on the third tier stopped our freefall.
They say that you don’t feel anything during the rush of an accident, and that’s true. I remember walking around the metal-strewn impact site in a daze. I only discovered that my left ear was hanging by a thread because I reached up to find out why my neck was wet. Of course, once I saw the blood, hysteria set in, and I don’t remember anything else at all about the scene apart from that single fact.
It was a spectacular accident; we knocked out tele-communication between South Africa and Zimbabwe. The road was closed to traffic, and we made the news. However, we would not learn about these astounding facts until much later. My sorry little family was broken, battered, and totally incapacitated. The only fortunate thing was that my father wasn’t in the car and was able to organize a quick emergency response.
My mother sustained a severe spinal injury; the word was that she’d never recover the use of her legs. My brother spent a year in a full body cast as therapy for his injured neck, and I had multiple surgeries, all of which resulted in excruciatingly painful recovery periods.
We lost a full year.
But fate decided to give us a break. My mom spent the year in the hospital. A group of specialists wanted to operate, but our family physician was against the idea.
Then three days before New Year my father summoned my brother and me to a family gathering and delivered precious news—a true Christmas and New Year's gift.
My mother would be coming home the next day.
It was a true miracle; she had avoided surgery and little by little, with the help of her physician, began to walk again.