If You Get Me Out of This One

By Fran Hollister

It started out to be what I would identify as a normal day. After work I was running an errand. I was in a parking lot when the car in front of me started to back up, so I extended my arm on the steering wheel to beep. I was hit anyway. There wasn't any damage, and I felt fine, so I didn't think it was necessary to exchange names, but luckily I remembered his license plate. Thirty to forty-five minutes later, my shoulder started to ache. Ten days later, my arm and hand were nonfunctional. It started out as a sprain, and it developed into reflex sympathetic dystrophy (RSD), which is currently known as complex regional pain syndrome (CRPS). Unfortunately, when my insurance company contacted the man who had backed into me, he denied it. Nearly two years later, thirty-two hours before the statute of limitation was up, there was a twist of fate; I was blindsided with a phone call. And this is when I hired my attorney, Elliott Pelegrin. It's my hope after reading, If You Get Me Out of This One...,readers will realize one needs determination not only to recover from RSD/CRPS, but any conflict. I was in for the fight of my life, I made it through because I did exactly what my doctors, therapists, and attorney told me to do. It took a lot of time, work, patience, and mostly determination. I gave it my best shot. Several times I've heard Robin Roberts from Good Morning America say, "Make your mess your message." It took me twenty-nine years before I could openly discuss my mess.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644623336

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If You Get Me Out of This One

Fran Hollister

Copyright © 2019 Fran Hollister

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

All names and businesses are fictitious in this story.

Any nonfiction names in this story are purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-64462-332-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64462-333-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Monday Afternoon, May 16, 1988

To

Dr. Ingalls

Dr. Merrell

Dr. Romano

In memory of Dr. Hanz

Monday Afternoon, May 16, 1988

Monday afternoon, May 16, 1988

I went to church and lit a candle. I prayed the rosary and St. Anne’s novena. Then I told Jesus, Mary, and St. Anne, If you get me out of this one, I’ll write a short story, sell it, and give the money away. I’m scared. Please guide me; make sure I make all the right calls. St. Anne, you have never failed me. Please don’t start now. Okay? Amen.

I don’t ever remember trying to cut a deal in the past as I’ve prayed, but I was desperate and terrified.

As I said that prayer, I had no idea I was so sick. I thought I would write a short story from an insurance angle. I was told by two doctors that I had a sprained shoulder. I once read that a sprained ankle can be worse than a broken one. I thought my sprain was an extremely bad one. Both doctors told me the sprain would last six weeks.

Chapter 1

I Went to Church and Lit a Candle

May 4, 1988, to June 28, 1988

Why is it when something exceptionally good or bad happens people usually remember what they wore that day? Well, at least I do, so I’m assuming everyone does. According to my first principal, Hazel Lind, one is not to assume anything.

I wore a pale-yellow skirt. The large, slanted pockets had a yellow-and-white checkered trim at the top. The stand-up collar of the long-sleeved white blouse showed the identical checkered trim on the inside of the collar. Had I chosen to roll up the sleeves, the same design would have shown on the inside of the cuffs, but it was cool that day.

I remember everything about that Wednesday. My box of Grape-Nuts spilled on the kitchen counter that morning. I filled my gas tank. I grabbed the wrong size box of paper clips off the supply shelf at work. One of my former students gave me a bouquet of flowers. I took the flowers and said, Oh, how lovely, my Miss America bouquet. All I need now is my crown and gown. What sound does ‘crown’ and ‘gown’ have?

One of my best students cried when she realized she left her reading book at home. I dropped my tack while I was doing calendar activities. I didn’t finish all of my strawberry yogurt at lunch. I had an unexpected conference with one of my parents after school. And after work, I needed to stop at my local neighborhood grocery store on my way home.

That day, I left the building at 3:25 p.m. Any other day I would have been out of the school by 3:15 p.m., 3:20 p.m. at the latest. But as fate would have it, I was running late that afternoon. Why? I often ask myself how the hand would have played had I left at my usual time.

Within ten, twelve minutes, my entire world would be turned upside down, and I didn’t even know it. This is the thing about life; there aren’t any guarantees. People go about their business and assume they will go home and continue with their ADLs (activities of daily living). This is what they’re called: flushing the toilet, climbing the stairs, drinking from a glass, folding a towel, tying one’s shoe, cutting one’s meat, cooking, even peeling an orange.

Even now, I ask the person reading this: Are you sitting with your legs crossed? Did you just take a sip of your coffee? Where are your hands? Is one resting on your cheek? Did you just reach for a Kleenex? Did you just lift your head due to a tiny distraction? Are your fingers and thumb in position to turn this page?

My story begins on Wednesday, May 4, 1988. It was on this day that I was fate’s target.

I was driving through a restaurant parking lot in order to get to the neighborhood grocery store. Had I gone directly into the grocery parking lot, I would have been driving against traffic. As I entered the restaurant parking lot, I saw the blue car in front of me had stopped. The driver of this car stopped because he saw that a truck was backing out of his parking space. The driver of the blue car thought he might get hit, so he put his car in reverse. When I saw that I was going to be hit, my first impulse was to put my car into reverse. I then realized I wouldn’t have enough time to look to see if someone was behind me. I put my right hand on the steering wheel and extended my arm straight. It seemed like I was honking for minutes although it was only two or three seconds. Still, to this day, it makes my skin crawl to try and place my right hand on the steering wheel while I’m at a complete stop.

I got out of my car to look to see if there was any damage. The man got out of his car and said, Oh, gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t even look. I saw the truck back up, and I was trying to avoid being hit. I’m sorry. He looked to see if there was any damage to both our cars. He said, Thank God for these bumper pads.

I agreed and said, Everything seems to be okay.

I wasn’t hurt. I didn’t feel it was necessary to get his name. I looked at his license as he drove away. I knew there wouldn’t be a problem, but I had his license plate number. The license read JHN 145. I remembered it by saying my cousin’s name, Janet Harrington. I then attached the word north as Janet lives north of me, in Wisconsin. The 145 is the time my kids at school go out for recess, 1:45 p.m. So I kept in mind Janet Harrington North 1:45.

It was about thirty to forty-five minutes later that my shoulder and elbow started to hurt. It felt as if I had shoveled snow and developed a sore muscle; it wasn’t any big deal. I iced it off and on all night.

The day after I was hit, three of my coworkers, Rachel, Emily, and Susan, all asked if I had had my arm x-rayed. I knew it was worse than last night, but I also knew it would pass.

I explained, It’s nothing. It feels like I shoveled too much snow. In fact, I didn’t even get the guy’s name. There wasn’t any damage to the car. It’s going to pass in time.

I was very careful with my arm for the next three days. It seemed to be getting worse, but I still didn’t think anything of it. After all, the guy was going less than five miles per hour. I knew it couldn’t be serious.

Sunday, the eighth, I did go to the hospital to have my shoulder and elbow x-rayed as the pain had increased. The x-rays were negative. I was told that I sprained my shoulder. I had Motrin 400 at home, which Dr. Marino, my own physician, had given me for cramps. Well, at least I knew what it was.

The next day, I did call my own doctor, Dr. Marino, for an appointment. Sheri, his receptionist, said, You can get in to see him on Monday, the sixteenth, at 1:00 p.m.

The pain still continued to be there for the next five days. I was taking Motrin three to four times a day. I was still very careful with my hand. I had two of my second graders record what I told them to write in my plan book for their lessons for the following week. The same two students recorded their classmates’ grades in my grade book since the blocks of space given in these books were too small for me to write in using my left hand.

Friday, the thirteenth of May, my entire arm and hand were nonfunctional. My hand was very swollen. There weren’t any wrinkles to be seen anywhere. The color of my hand was a combination of blue, purple, cream, and gray. It had a glazed-waxy shine. My shoulder felt as if it were on fire. I immediately put an ice bag on it, but it didn’t seem to do any good. The pressure of the ice placed on my hand made me vomit, or maybe it was the pain.

The pain was so excruciating I thought I was going to die. In fact, I wish I had. I remember walking so slowly in the classroom and down the hall as if I had a bomb attached to me.

Emily, my friend, is a woman of faith. She approached me in the hall at the end of the day. She asked, Fran, what’s wrong? Your face is gray. You know the color gray. What’s wrong?

I softly said, Em, my hand. Something is wrong with my hand. I’m going to have to go back to the hospital. I have an appointment with Dr. Marino on Monday, but I’m not going to be able to wait. Something is wrong.

Emily said, Go, Fran, now and get to a doctor. I’ll check your mailbox. Just go now.

I returned to the hospital where I saw the same emergency doctor. The first thing he said to me was, Suppose you tell me why you didn’t go to see Dr. Marino if it got so bad?

I explained, I was here on Sunday the eighth of May. I called Dr. Marino’s office on Monday, the ninth. I can’t get in to see him until this Monday, the sixteenth. The hand is a lot worse. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It has been nonfunctional, and I’ve been in excruciating pain today.

He replied, I remember you, and it wasn’t like this on Sunday.

I said, I have been very careful with it. I haven’t put any kind of strain on it. When I have to write, I’m writing with my left hand, and I’m right-handed.

He gave me a splint to wrap around my wrist and part of my arm. He also gave me a prescription for Darvocet 100. I stopped taking the Motrin 400 when I got this new prescription. He told me, It will last approximately six more weeks.

I went to see my own physician Dr. Marino on the sixteenth. He agreed with the emergency doctor that I had a sprain and that it would probably last six weeks. I was given Naprosyn, Tranxene, Darvocet, and Halcion to be taken two to four times a day. I remember so clearly the pills didn’t even put a dent in the pain. I continued to take them, hoping perhaps this time the hand and arm would show some relief.

It was so hard to believe that this was a sprain. I never had one, so I couldn’t compare it to anything and to think I had six more weeks of this excruciating pain. There are all types of death sentences, and this to me was mine.

I left Dr. Marino’s office scared. I don’t ever remember being so frightened. I had a totally nonfunctional hand. I didn’t understand why it wasn’t getting better. I wasn’t using it. I was being so careful.

After I left Dr. Marino’s office about 1:30 p.m., I went to church and lit a candle. I prayed the rosary and St. Anne’s novena. Then I told Jesus, Mary, and St. Anne, "If you get me out of this one, I’ll write a short story, sell it, and give the money away. I’m scared. Please guide me. Make sure I make all the right calls. St. Anne, you have never failed me. Please don’t start now. Okay? Amen."

I would have given anything for my hand to be pain free. I was scared. I just wanted to get through the next six weeks.

I remember that Monday afternoon as I prayed. There was only one other person in the church with me. He was an elderly man, approximately seventy-five to eighty years old. He was crying and praying the rosary. I remember where I sat. I had to sit because I couldn’t kneel. It was far too much pressure on my right forearm. I remember praying for the elderly man too.

I thought writing a short story for a magazine would be good. The story would be written from an insurance angle. When I think back to that day, I never once thought I would have developed such medical problems. Who would have ever thought I would have been hurt so badly by a car going only five miles an hour, if not less? This has had to happen to others. How many people get hit like I did every day? How many people don’t exchange names? I’m a perfectionist and should have known better. Well, now I do.

My insurance company was picking up the medical bills. I was so angry as I knew the bills should have been picked up by the person who hit me. I don’t ever remember being so upset with myself.

I left church knowing I had six more weeks of this sprain. My entire life had always been extremely structured. Everything was usually cut and dried. The doctor in emergency and Dr. Marino both told me it was a sprain and that it would last six weeks. I couldn’t wait for the next six weeks to be over.

My dad was friends with a state policeman so I gave the driver’s license plate to my dad. My dad’s friend gave my dad the name and address of the person who hit me in order to try and find him. His name was Daniel Wellington and he lived in a nearby town, however his name was not in the telephone book.

I called my insurance agent, Jeff Karr, and explained the situation to him. He told me to go fill out a police report at the station downtown.

I told Jeff, I have his name and address, would you contact him and take care of this for me?

Jeff responded, You have his name and address. Just drop him a line.

I questioned, Don’t you think you should write him? I think it would look better if the letter came from my insurance company.

He said, There shouldn’t be any problem. If he gives you any static, just send us the bills, and we’ll take care of it for you.

When I hung up from the conversation with Jeff, I went downtown to fill out a police report. I felt so stupid. It was nearly two weeks later. At this time, I had no idea there was such a thing as a late police report. I always thought things like that had to be filled out by an officer at the scene. The report was filled out on the seventeenth of May.

I was unable to write as my arm was in a splint that the hospital had given to me. The woman behind the counter filled it out for me as I spoke.

I told her the man was about five feet ten with a medium build. He had light brown hair, which was thinned at the top. He had a wide smile. And when he smiled, there was a lot of gum showing at the top of his teeth. His short-sleeved shirt was a pale yellow. He also had sunglasses. I remember thinking how strange. Why would he need sunglasses while driving a car with the dark windows all around?

I had my mom write a letter to Daniel Wellington and she signed my name. I wanted to know the name of his insurance company. I sent it certified mail as I wanted him to sign for it. He wasn’t home when the mail carrier tried to deliver it. He also didn’t pick it up at the post office. It was eventually returned to me.

I started to lose weight. The next week I had dropped sixteen pounds. The pain was so intense that I couldn’t keep my food down. My weight loss was also due to nerves.

It’s amazing what I could do with my one hand. At first, it took me forty minutes to dress each morning. I took one small movement and then rested to catch my breath. This was repeated again and again. Putting on my bra was the hardest, in the beginning, it took twenty minutes. I held the bra with my left arm against my waist. I bent over so my painful limp right arm and hand would automatically go forward. Then with my left hand, I moved the bra to the right side of my waist. I then stood straight so my right arm would be against my bra. The hook and eyes of the bra were now in the front, by my navel. The hardest part was getting those hook and eyes attached using my left hand and only my left hand. I couldn’t wear a bra that snapped in front, as I couldn’t lift my right arm to the hook and eye. My blouse would dangle to the floor as I placed my right arm in the sleeve. Within ten days, I could put my bra on in less than a minute.

I tried to use my mouth and left hand to reach the right foot of my pantyhose. It was impossible for me to do this. I can remember thinking this would have been a good stunt for that game show that was on in the late fifties, Beat the Clock, had there been pantyhose in those days.

I wore jeans and tennis shoes to work. Shoes that my neighbor Katie and her daughter Lorraine tied daily for weeks to come. As a teacher, it wasn’t what I wore, but it would have to do. I had enough to do with what I was wearing.

I held off on going to the bathroom for at least an extra hour, as pulling up my jeans with one hand