Dragged Through the Gravel: A Birthday I’ll Never Forget

   As a teenager, I would wake up aching every morning. I had always been active, so active that I never questioned the soreness that came from walking, running, and playing outside. Summers were full of adventure, but exercise wasn’t a choice, it was a part of life, something I couldn’t escape. And yet, every night, I went to bed with legs that felt like jelly, my body heavy with aches I couldn’t explain. Back then, I didn’t know the difference between muscle pain and joint pain. I didn’t understand anxiety attacks or depression. My childhood was one of survival, and I carried the weight of it silently.

    I remember lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, counting down the hours until it was time to get up for school. Laying down made my body ache worse than standing or walking, but there was nothing to do except endure. Cell phones weren’t a thing yet, so it’s not like we could lay awake scrolling on one, and our parents wouldn’t let us stay up all night, no matter how restless we felt. As teens, we did start sneaking out on weekends, testing boundaries, but even then, Daddy’s meant business when he told us not to do something, we knew the consequences if we got caught. I was always petite, even as a teenager and well into adulthood, and that small frame made me feel fragile at times, even when I tried to be strong and tough.

    One summer, during my birthday weekend, my step-sister, a school friend, and I left walking to meet a group of friends beside the old factory in our little town. It was blazing hot that day, the sun beating down so intensely I could feel it on my shoulders and the back of my neck. I was wearing white shorts, a red Southern Choctaw high school t-shirt, and sandals. Daddy had told us not to be on the four-wheelers again, but as usual, we ignored the rules, walking over to the group where the boys were doing donuts in the parking lots.

“Let’s play chicken before we go riding!” someone yelled.

    The girls lined up, hearts racing. One by one, they chickened out and ran before the four wheelers even got close. I stood there, secretly terrified, but determined. I convinced myself he would swerve at the last second. The engine roared, sending hot air against my face. Gravel kicked up, dust clinging to my skin. Neither of us moved, panic settling in as the four wheeler barreled closer. Then it happened. I dodged too late, and he hit me head on. I was dragged under the four wheeler across the rough gravel.

    I remember seeing the fear in my friends’ eyes as they froze, unable to move, as the scorching sun baked down on us all. My body went numb, adrenaline coursing through me, while the rough gravel scraped my skin raw. Finally, the four-wheeler stopped. My heart was pounding, my voice trembling as I tried to say I was okay. I wasn’t. My ankle was filleted open to the bone, My knee was pounding pain, blood soaking my shoe, but I couldn’t let anyone see me break down.

    A man my family knew well rushed over, concern etched on his face. He carefully lifted me onto the back of his truck to make sure I was okay. I’ll never forget the fear, embarrassment, and shock that washed over me that day, lying there under the scorching sun while everyone else watched helplessly. He offered to take me to the hospital and I refused saying I was fine. I was really just afraid of how Daddy was going to react. Or honestly my stepmother. She was worse. 

    That evening, we went home. Daddy handed us each a pair of K-Swiss tennis shoes for our birthday. I tried to walk normally in them, limping awkwardly and giving a million excuses about stepping in a hole or hurting my ankle, just so he wouldn’t see how badly I was hurt. It was all I could do to hide the injury, to pretend nothing had happened.

     The next day, our parents took us to the beach for the birthday trip they had planned. I thought maybe I could finally relax, but that hope was short lived. My stepmother told Daddy that the sister of the boy that had accidentally hit me with the fourwheeler had called the house earlier to check on me and, unknowingly, told on me in the process. Daddy and my step mother confronted me at the hotel at the beach, and when Daddy pulled back my sock, he gasped. Blood had leaked through, and my ankle was far worse than I had let on. I spent most of the trip crying in the hotel room, only being allowed to go to the swimming pool on the last day. It was a painful lesson learned. I never played chicken again, but I still couldn’t resist the thrill of four wheelers. After all, I WAS a teenager. And a little rebellious. 

    After that day, my joint pain worsened. Back then, people weren’t educated about conditions like arthritis, and I may not have known the signs myself. But now, after decades of living with fibromyalgia and arthritis and learning and being educated about them, I can’t help but think I might have had juvenile idiopathic arthritis. I’ll never know for certain, but that possibility lingers.

That summer, that accident, and the beach trip shaped so much of who I am, the resilience, the caution, and the quiet strength that comes from surviving. It’s a story I share to connect with others who have endured unexplained pain or childhood injuries that leave lasting scars. My journey is far from over, and I invite you to follow along as I explore life with fibromyalgia, arthritis, and the lessons learned along the way. Please subscribe to read more about my journey, my pain, and the strength I’ve found in surviving and thriving.