I fell off a third story balcony my freshman year of college

Alcohol didn’t almost kill me, I almost killed me. And coming to that realization is one of the scariest thoughts I have ever encountered.

After 18 days wasted in the intensive care unit I was finally let go. And let me tell you, the feeling of the cold air from the lake I had been admiring from my hospital window wasn’t as cold as my visitors had complained about. Then again maybe it really was cold, but complaining isn’t an option for me anymore.

Doctor Boyd-King said my survival was one in a million, so I guess I don’t have much room to complain about anything. My stay in the hospital started to feel home-y as I made friends with the neighboring patients on the fourth floor I was stationed in. As I faced the lake, from the outside this time, images of my fall flashed through my mind and struck through my heart.

The images were sort of like those little picture books I used to flip through as a child that created a little movie of a monkey dancing. So much time had passed since I had felt fresh air, and I couldn’t help but think about all the things I missed. My memory was fuzzy and at this time I could only remember the major events of my stay. The pneumonia, the breathing tube I had three times, my catheter that allowed me to urinate, the shots given to me in my stomach at four every morning, and the blinking light by my bedside that seemed to flash quicker as I would get sicker.

The rest of it was a blur – maybe due to the fancy medicine the doctors kept locked up by my bed or maybe because of my concussion that blocked out many of my thoughts. Either way, I knew I had done something really bad to myself.

Most people would think the physical pain of falling off a third story balcony is the worst part of the recovery, but it really played the smallest role throughout it all. Although Doctor Boyd-King told me I had broken all of my ribs (front and back), my collarbone, my shoulder blade, both my wrists, and fractured my skull, my physical recovery wasn’t my biggest concern.

Other than my lungs, which had now both been collapsed at this point (thank you pneumonia) I was mostly saddened that a month ago I had my whole life in my hands and I almost just threw it all away. I mean I did throw it away, I couldn’t go back to Arizona State, my sorority sisters, my classes, my intramural teams, my dorm – it was all gone.

My items were packed away and sent to me quick enough for the next freshman to replace me in Manzanita Hall. The get-well letters began to fade as well as the gifts and phone calls. My relationships with friends and family were weakened as everyone became busy with their own lives. People knew where I was and they knew my story but after a while, they gave up.

Thoughts like “maybe I should have died” or “why did I get a second chance” overflowed my brain as I tried to imagine a greater purpose for me on this earth. I couldn’t seem to put my finger on the reason I was still standing here today. And I think that until the day I die I will be haunted with the idea that I don’t deserve this – to live. In that moment I stared into the lake and I thanked God for not taking my parents’ first baby away: that, I decided, was the only reason I was given a second chance.
February 11 was the day I was finally released from my temporary home. It feels good to say temporary because for a while I convinced myself room 401 was going to be the last place I got to call home.

I didn’t think I was going to make it, truly. The doctors were too proud to admit that they couldn’t save me, but I knew what they were thinking. The expressions on the nurse’s faces when I refused the breathing treatments assured me that I didn’t have a chance. I would watch my parents hold their tears back until they exited my room so I wouldn’t be worried or scared but I wasn’t.

At this point I couldn’t tell if I wasn’t worried because of the massive amounts of painkillers I had been fed or because I believed that we all have a time and it looked like mine had come. You know, there is something really spiritual about being in the hospital. So many people were on their way out while so many were on their way in.

It really wasn’t until Roger, the severely injured motorcyclist in room 402, that I thought I had a chance. He told my nurse to leave him alone and to only take care of me because I wasn’t going to die that day. Roger didn’t even know me but I imagined he had heard about my fall, because it felt like every single person in that hospital knew. I could tell by how slow people walked past my room and how quick the nurses reacted when I needed something. I mean there weren’t too many 18-year-olds in critical condition anyway, and there weren’t too many sports teams and sorority sisters who visited that floor either.

I remember the day my dad came into my room without my mom by his side. He looked at me and said: “Nicole, you are not trying.” His voice trembled as he said it. “And you are going to try. And not for me, not for your mother, not for you. But you are going to try for your sister.” His eyes blinked tears but his face remained very still and close to mine.

“You don’t get to leave her in this world without a big sister, Nicole.” This is the only part of my story that gets me to break down to this day.

If it wasn’t for the kind motorcyclist who believed in me and my dad’s words by my bedside, I wouldn’t be here today. I began to fight, I did all of my treatments and I actually tried for once. Soon enough, I found the strength to cough up the water stuck in my lungs and I saw my mom smile for the first time in weeks – I was getting better.

It’s been a little over two years since my accident occurred. Now, when I hear sirens, I can’t help but think at one point in my life, paramedics were rushing to get me onto one of those. I imagine them lifting me in a stretcher and then hooking me up to all the wires inside.

The thought of peace has wiggled its way into my mind and somehow it is strong enough to dismiss my thoughts on death. It is inevitable I will face some form of pain again, I just hope it’s not anytime soon.

When I walk on campus today I know these are the same steps I took my freshman year of college; they are on the same sidewalk of the same street leading to the same exact place. I know things are going to be different and despite my therapist’s opinion, I think it was the right decision for me to come back to Arizona State.

People have this stigma around ASU where they think it’s only a party school, but this place has shown me so much more than a good time. Now I go to parties with my friends and I watch the people who resemble an old version of myself. No one is thinking, everyone is just doing – and it worries me. After some difficult breakdowns, I have learned how to address it.

The way I look at alcohol now is a way I would have found humorous as an oblivious freshman. Binge drinking has lost its value in my eyes and is now perceived as pointless. Although I am human, and I am young, I do continue to make mistakes. I think if this hadn’t happened to me I would be in a much worse place today.

I sometimes thank God for putting this obstacle in my life because I only hope that with my story I can save at least one life. I hope that my fall has left its mark on the hearts of the people who love me, the people who know me, and the people who hear my story.

No one ever thinks this can happen to them, but I’m living proof that it can.