A Common Condition

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life" –Steve Jobs

I have been working in health care for over thirty five years as a licensed chiropractor and a certified medical hypnotist. I have observed and treated, both as a chiropractor and a hypnotherapist, a common condition. This common condition is a result of anxiety that is mostly chronic but often can be acute and very intense. It is known in hypnotherapy circles as a trance state or waking hypnosis.

This tranced state causes us to feel overwhelmed and often powerless to make the changes that we know deep inside— need to be made if we are to ever realize our full potential. Information overload and feelings of overwhelm lead to this tranced state and often manifest as various ailments including neck and back pain but—they are also responsible for most injuries and accidents that send people to emergency rooms— or even worse.

As a hypnotherapist, my first and foremost responsibility is to get my clients out of hypnosis and then teach them how to stay out of hypnosis during the so-called— waking hours. Because clients are almost always in a state of waking-hypnosis or trance the first time they see me, I have to take them out of hypnosis before I can put them back into hypnosis— so that I can install positive ideas and suggestions for the changes they want—into their Subconscious mind. As crazy as that may sound, my colleagues have the very same experiences with their clients.

I had observed this tranced phenomena for many years in my patients— and just about everywhere else but— until the night of February 23, 2010—when my life would be changed forever— I did not fully understand how dangerous and devastating it could be. My wife Terri and I were getting ready to leave our office near Lake Tahoe in the mountain town of Truckee. It was getting late and I was feeling significant anxiety because we had a one hour drive ahead of us to our home, north of Truckee, and, it was beginning to snow. I was finishing up with my last patient and looking out at the snow from my treatment room window. It was showing no signs of letting up.

My heart was beating faster and my face flushed as a feeling of dread began to move up from my stomach to my solar plexus. I fought to push it down but —it was too late. My sympathetic nerve system's fight or flight response had been triggered. As my receptionist and my wife Terri were finishing up with shutting down the office, I stared out the window at the steady snowfall. My anxiety had now elevated to mild panic as I hurried to get the last patient out the door so we could close up the office and get on the road.

We were putting on our ski jackets and loading the office laundry and our assorted bags of paperwork into the four-wheel drive Toyota Tundra when the snow began coming down in big soft fluffy flakes—at an ever increasing rate. We quickly finished loading the Tundra, locked the front doors to the office and then, settling in for the long drive home, we drove out of the parking lot and onto the road that lead to Hwy 89 going north— to the little mountain community of Sierraville.

That night, and on one of the most dangerous twenty-five mile stretches of mountain highway in the state of California, all the cars were moving cautiously at twenty five to thirty miles per hour. The white and yellow lines on the road were being quickly obscured by the big, sticky snow. The temperature of the road was low enough not to melt the falling flakes and it was accumulating fast as the storm brewed. The pine trees on each side of the road were now frosted by an ever-thickening layer of new snow with each mile we drove.

My feelings of fear had now risen to a level probably not unlike those of a soldier who would be going into battle—at any moment. I was hyper-vigilant and prepared for all possible scenarios—and the heavy, wet Sierra snow slowly and steadily gathered depth. Terri and I were used to driving in snow-country because we had lived here nearly fifteen years but— this drive— on this night was somehow, different.

Many times and for many years we had driven over thick ice and heavily snow-covered highways— even in blizzards and white-outs. Many times, and for many years I had always felt some anxiety or what I would think of as— healthy vigilant awareness —but never had I felt such a gripping terror arising from deep within me like I did on this particular night. I had been dreading the day when the snow would come and I would have to make that drive for nearly two years and now— it had finally arrived.

Two years earlier, we had moved from our home in Truckee to the northeast Sierra Valley. We had decided to move to the Sierra Valley for several reasons, not the least of them being the cost of living which is much lower than Truckee and Reno, but, the incredible beauty of the Sierra Valley is breathtaking. Later we would come to know that the people that live there—are much like the land. We had both felt that the fifty plus minute commute would be worth it because we had already established a small practice in the town of Loyalton. Loyalton is almost exactly half-way between Truckee and Reno, where we did most of our shopping. So, after moving our home we had expanded our lives and made new friends, once again.

But this night would be the first time in nearly two years of commuting to and from Truckee that we would be driving home— on this particular road—during a snow storm. We frequently saw patients up until seven pm so our custom was to stop and get a protein snack before making the commute home, even if it was just a taquito from the local Taco Bell— but not this night. I was feeling such an urgency to get on the road before the storm got worse, we did not stop to get our snack. We had gone too long without eating and were cranky with the weather and each other.

As we drove on, our moods were not improving. We both were watching the snow falling as it was steadily increasing. There were several other commuters driving behind us that night and we were all driving slowly, up and down and around blind curves of treacherous Hwy 89. The snow continued to fall more heavily. I drove as attentively as I'd ever driven during a snow storm on mountain roads, without talking, until about half-way into the twenty-five mile stretch between Truckee and Sierraville.

Approaching one of the worst parts of the road near Sage Hen Creek we both saw the headlights of a vehicle driving around the curve in the road, up the hill, ahead of us. Through a veil of falling snow the lights moved eerily—across the road like a ghost or spirit crossing a room and then—as if suddenly aware of our presence— turned and headed right toward us. The headlights of this phantom-vehicle were now pointing down the hill in our direction. My foot stepped on the brake pedal as I began pulling over to the right side of the road—as far as I dare.

"I think he's in our lane!" I said incredulously. I watched in utter disbelief as the headlights were now aimed directly at us— and coming fast.

"He is in our lane" Terri cried out— pushing her feet hard against the floorboard of the Tundra—bracing for the impending crash.

Our truck came to a near-stop I was still hoping this ghost-vehicle would correct in time and miss us. The Tundra stopped with my right foot jammed down hard on the brake and my hands gripping hard on the steering wheel— I braced myself for the inevitable impact and then— the headlights found us. My fears about making that drive in a snowstorm had become a terrible reality in the form of a head-on collision!

Our truck's interior cab light was lit when I noticed the deflated airbag draped limp over the steering wheel. It was strangely quiet as if I had cotton stuffed into my ears. My head pounding as I surveyed the cab—as if in slow motion— to my right and toward my wife.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I think my leg is broken", Terri replied. "It feels like there's cold water running from my knee and down my leg."

I remember feeling relieved that she was conscious.

"Are you bleeding?" I asked.

"I don't think so", Terri gasped.

I reached over to check her left leg for bleeding as my right foot fell off the brake pedal. I felt a horrible grinding in my lower leg and no sensation of a foot being attached there.

"My leg is broken" I said as a matter of fact— not registering the implications or the severity.

"I think my right ankle's broken too", Terri groaned.

"Oh my God", I exclaimed.

I don't know how Terri had the presence of mind to do this but, she reached into her purse and retrieving her cell phone— dialed 911. There had never been cell phone reception in this section of the highway but, for whatever reason on this night— she got through and spoke to a dispatcher.

"Where are we?" Terri asked me urgently.

"I don't know exactly" I said—looking at my left wrist for the watch that was no longer there. Terri was talking to the dispatcher on her phone and trying to guess where we were. I don't remember what was being said.

I still don't know to this day how much time had passed before I was aware that someone was pounding on my side window. There were rushing sounds like heavy surf in my ears as I struggled to stay conscious.

"Open your door!" a woman was shouting from outside, "Your truck is smoking badly and might catch fire ... you've got to get out!"

"Get my wife out first", I shouted back at the woman through the glass.

"We tried— the door won't open", she replied.

"Okay", I said, but my door latch was not working. "It won't open!" I said as I began frantically to pull at the door latch.

"Push against the door and we'll pull" she urgently shouted back at me.

I pushed the left side of my body hard against the truck's door, feeling nothing as my upper body slammed against the door while lifting the latch and then, suddenly, it reluctantly popped open a few inches as it stiffly moved open a bit more, all the while making creaking and grinding sounds as if the hinges had been rusted shut. When the door finally opened I looked out and saw two women in winter coats as the snow continued to fall, heavier now.

"Get out—they shouted in unison—your truck is catching fire".

"My leg is broken— I can't walk on it", I replied.

"We have to move you away from the truck—we'll carry you—hang onto our shoulders".

I turned my body to the left, feeling my right foot drag across the floorboard—limp— as the nauseating grinding in my lower leg reminded me of the severity of the fractures that were just now becoming real to my conscious mind.

At this point I would have welcomed the bliss that severe shock would bring with its attendant unconsciousness—but I also knew that I could not let that happen. I had to be assured that Terri was safe and being tended to. The two women struggled to act as human crutches as I hopped slowly on my left leg across the snowy-covered road and away from our smoking vehicle. I heard the woman under my right arm suddenly scream out.

"He's not going to stop!"

I glanced to the right in the same direction she was looking and I saw the white pickup truck coming too fast down the grade and heading right toward us.

"He's going to hit us", the other women shouted.

I was now rolling down a steep snow-covered grade to the sounds of metal colliding into metal—then loud shouting and screaming.

"That sounded like two impacts" I thought to myself when I had finally stopped sliding down the steep ridge. I then realized what had happened. The two women had thrown me over the side of the road and saved me from certain death as the vehicle that had hit Terri and I head-on—was hit by the white pick-up truck. The white pick-up truck had then slammed the ghost-vehicle back into our truck where—Terri was still sitting, waiting for help.

I struggled to climb up the steep ridge and strained to listen to what was happening on the road above.

I was praying to God out-loud now—"please, oh please, oh please let her be okay, let her be okay", over and over again but the incline was too steep to climb where I had finally had stopped sliding. My right leg was useless so I crabbed my body to the right using my arms and left leg to move to where the incline was less steep.

After several minutes of crawling sideways I could finally see the road and made my way up to the shoulder. I listened intently for the sound of Terri's voice—but all I could hear was a man screaming and shouting profanities over and over until I heard another male voice shouting back at him.

"Shut up!" "Shut up!" That voice was mine—I only had ears for Terri's voice.

"Let her be okay, let her be okay" I kept saying—over and over as I pulled myself toward the road.

When I neared the road, crawling on my belly toward a road-marker pole— I watched in amazement as a Jack Russell terrier trotted down the snowy highway, going south, away from the wreckage—right in front of me. I reached out and grabbed onto a road-marker pole. Using the pole as a crutch, I pulled myself up and onto my left knee and then up onto my left leg while my right leg hung above the road. I was looking to see if I could determine where Terri was.

I called out "Terri, Terri?" The two women who had thrown me over the road and into the crevice apparently had been looking for me and now were walking quickly toward me.

"Your wife is conscious— she's conscious—they assured me—they're getting her out now".

"Thank God—thank God" I said and as I hung limply on their shoulders my body began to shake uncontrollably.

My eyes searched the crash scene to find the Tundra. I then heard Terri's shouts and moans of pain as men were trying to move her out of the truck. Eventually the men got her out of the truck and were carrying her on a ski jacket that acted as a makeshift litter. I didn't know at the time that both her legs had been badly broken. They were carrying her back to a safe area, several yards behind our downed Toyota Tundra— on the mountain side of the highway. The Tundra sat still and helpless with its front end smashed up against its windshield. I would never drive it again—but it will always be a fallen hero to me because—it had saved our lives.

Once again the women acted as human crutches to take me back across the road to where the men were taking Terri. Once across the road they had me sit on the back of an open-hatched Subaru station-wagon while they removed the floor mat.

Another woman now helped move the floor mat and place it down on the shoulder of the road—maybe ten yards behind our truck. The men who were carrying Terri laid her as gently as they could onto the Subaru's floor mat. Then my two angels, disguised as women, helped me over to the mat to lie down with my wife until the ambulance arrived. Terri was lying on her right side, as she did when we slept with each other in our bed. I reached over with my left arm to hold her as I'd done thousands of times but—we were both shaking so uncontrollably that my arm wouldn't rest on her shoulder.

"Hang on—keep breathing" I said, over and over as we lay there shaking—together. Someone put a ski jacket over us. The snow kept coming down and fell onto our faces as we lay there together, shaking in the aftermath of the trauma and cold. When the paramedics arrived—they did their triage.

"Can you hear me—where are you hurt?" they called-out as calmly as they were trained to do.

"My right leg is broken and my wife's broken both her legs" I said with a shaky and raspy voice as though through a tunnel. They moved on to look at others who were hurt. I could hear them talking among themselves about our injuries and the others who'd been involved in the accident. I think I was the first to be lifted and then put into the ambulance. The paramedic in the back of the ambulance was trying to get an IV into me but was unable to get a vein.

"Where is my wife" I kept asking.

"They're taking care of her" he tried to assure me.

After what seemed like an hour he finally said, "They're bringing her up now". He was professional but was still very concerned and very kind.

"What's your name?" I asked, still fighting-off unconsciousness.

"Crash ... they call me Crash".

"Well, that's apropos" I said and then his face lit up with a broad grin.

"They're bringing your wife in now sir".

"My name is Mitch" I said as I looked to my left to see Terri.

The paramedics carried Terri in on a real stretcher—placing her in the ambulance—beside me.