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There I was, flat on my back in intensive care at Harborview Medical Center with a 35-pound weight screwed to my skull keeping the pressure off of my two shattered vertebrae and severed spinal cord. Now what?
"Have you ever heard of Murderball?" The sweet-voiced, redheaded nurse asked me through a slight grin.
I was injured Memorial Day Weekend of 2007 while diving into Lake Chelan. A mound of sand under the water broke my fall and my C6 and C7 vertebrae, severing my spinal cord and leaving me paralyzed from the chest down and without the use of my fingers.
Fast forward through three years of rehabilitation and adjustments to my new life on wheels and there I was, strapped into a mass of metal and rubber, about to embark on an experience that would change my life forever.
Murderball, also known by the more marketable name of quad rugby, is a fast-paced, full-contact sport that is played by quadriplegics and others with various disabilities, the only requirement being significant impairment to at least three limbs.
It is a highly competitive, sometimes violent sport that is played in specialized reinforced wheelchairs that are built to take a serious beating - which they most definitely do.
Four players from each team pass a volleyball back and forth on a basketball court and score by crossing an 8-meter goal line at the opponent's end of the court. The defensive team tries to prevent the scoring at all costs; by ramming and hooking and, if they hit them right, even toppling opposing players.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. After 13 hours of surgery to stabilize my crushed spine, I spent four weeks in intensive care and eight more in inpatient trauma rehab. Three months after I rolled into the hospital on a stretcher, I rolled back out in a 600-pound power wheelchair.
The next two years were filled with rigorous physical therapy as I tried to regain enough strength in my arms to perform basic tasks needed for independence. At 22 years old, adjusting to my new life proved to be extremely difficult at times.
I never imagined that even the simplest tasks could be so challenging. The first time I put on my own pants was an exhausting cross between a wrestling match and a balancing act. Sometimes it was such a struggle that I debated the importance of wearing pants at all.
Once I decided pants were a necessity, I found out how hard it is to turn a doorknob when you can't move your fingers, or reach that ice tray in the back of the freezer. And I had never before noticed how many steps there are in the world.
More than a year after my hospital stay, I was finally able to trade in my power wheelchair for a much more manageable - and stylish - manual one. This gave me the freedom and self-confidence to resume some of my favorite activities, like sampling the beer at the local watering hole.
I got involved with quad rugby after a chance encounter with Jeremy Hannaford (who stole my handicap parking space at that very watering hole). He also suffered from a significant spinal cord injury and happened to be one of the captains of the Seattle Slam, Washington's only sanctioned quad rugby team.
It was the first time anyone had mentioned the sport to me since my second day in the hospital. He invited me to come watch a practice. There, after a bit of pleading and heckling, I was persuaded into a rugby chair by the members of the team.
The first time I played, I was overwhelmed by a rollercoaster of emotions. As my hands were taped up and I was buckled and strapped into a wheelchair that closely resembled a war chariot, it started with anxiety and intimidation.
But these feelings quickly gave way to pure elation as I was met with an ear shattering metal-on-metal crash as soon as I hit the court. Game on.
The adrenaline rush it gave me was something I hadn't experienced since well before my injury. It was more than worth the multiple blisters on each hand. I was hooked instantly, and, two years later, remain so.
I'm not the only one.
There are over 500 players on the 44 sanctioned teams in the U.S. The sport was created in Canada in the 1970's by a group of quadriplegics as an alternative to wheelchair basketball. It was largely underground until it was added to the Paralympic Games as a full medal sport in 2000. Now, there are teams in 24 countries worldwide.
The challenges that come with the physical limitations are much more obvious than the mental obstacles. When compared to the general population, people with spinal cord injuries are twice as likely to suffer from emotional disorders, according to a study done by the Monash University of Psychology.
That can be attributed in large part to the feeling of loneliness that comes with having a handicap many don't know how to deal with.
During the three months I spent in the hospital, there were other people rehabilitating spinal cord injuries that I could talk with and relate to. But when I returned home to Maple Valley, I was no longer in the company of people who knew what I was going through.
Although there are about 1.3 million Americans living with paralysis due to a significant spinal cord injury, there aren't many avenues to bring us together.
That's what makes this sport - and all wheelchair sports - so amazing. They are so much more than just sports, and the teams are so much more than just teams.
Many doctors and physical therapists are reluctant to recommend the sport due to its violent nature, but the benefits greatly outweigh the risks. And, with most of us already having broken necks anyway, even the physical risks seem pretty minimal.
With ages on the Seattle Slam ranging from 21 to 52 and the length of time since injury anywhere from two to 30 years, we are like an informal support group. We can share stories and information that the able-bodied population wouldn't understand. To be on a team with 12 other guys who live your life daily is truly invaluable.
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