Say I Won't: A Cowboy's True Story of Defiance in the Face of Death and the Present-Day Miracle that Kindled a Fire of Faith

By Karen Fishel

Eight seconds... The time that separates the winners from the losers. Sixteen-year-old Wesley had his heart set on an eight-second ride that February morning. As he lowered himself onto the bull inside the chute, his heart raced with anticipation and excitement. His head nodded. The chute opened. Cowboy and bull released into the stage of competition. Tragedy struck. His lifeless and broken body laid face down on the dirt floor of the arena. Trampled by the 1900-pound bull he sought to conquer. The once cheering crowd silenced, frozen with fear. But where the heartbeat stops, God's plan takes over. What could possibly be God's plan for this young cowboy? For the audience? For the nation? Embark on this journey and experience a modern miracle that defied all odds, baffled medical professionals, and transformed lives around the world. As every person would say, "That cowboy can't," that cowboy responded, "Say I Won't." It all started with one heartbeat of an eight-second ride...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645593867

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Foreword

Chapter 1: Passion

Chapter 2: Oh Boy

Chapter 3: Toddler Trouble

Chapter 4: A Bull Rider is Born

Chapter 5: The Early sibling Years

Chapter 6: Just a Test

Chapter 7: February 4

Chapter 8: The Day

Chapter 9: We Wait

Chapter 10: Sunday, February 5

Chapter 11: Monday, February 6

Chapter 12: Monday, February 6

Chapter 13: Tuesday, February 7

Chapter 14: Wednesday, February 8

Chapter 15: Thursday, February 9

Chapter 16: Crossing Paths

Chapter 17: Friday, February 10

Chapter 18: Saturday, February 11

Chapter 19: Sunday, February 12

Chapter 20: Monday, February 13

Chapter 21: Tuesday, February 14

Chapter 22: Wednesday, February 15

Chapter 23: Friday, February 17

Chapter 24: Thursday, February 23

Chapter 25: Friday, February 24

Chapter 26: Saturday, February 25

Chapter 27: Sunday, February 26

Chapter 28: Sunday, March 5

Chapter 29: March 10

Chapter 30: Collateral Beauty

Chapter 31: Angels among Us

Chapter 32: Angie's Story

Chapter 33: Kim's Story

Chapter 34: Tracy's Story

About the Author

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Say I Won't

A Cowboy's True Story of Defiance in the Face of Death and the Present-Day Miracle that Kindled a Fire of Faith

Karen Fishel

ISBN 978-1-64559-384-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64559-385-0 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-64559-386-7 (Digital)

Copyright © 2019 Karen Fishel

All rights reserved

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books, Inc.

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

I dedicate this labor of love to my son Wesley. His never ending strength to fight and overcome death against all adversities and barriers will forever inspire me. While his story defies medical odds, it has affirmed that nothing is impossible with God who strengthens us. I pray his story brings hope and inspiration to every hand in which the story lands.

From the first seven Arena Angels who began CPR until first responders arrived, every individual at Wake Forest Baptist Health who served a role in saving and caring for Wesley and to every soul in our community of prayer who lifted him and our family in prayers without ceasing during this journey, we are forever grateful and thankful.

But if I were you, I would appeal to God. He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed and miracles that cannot be counted (Job 5:8–9).

Foreword

Trauma is the leading cause of mortality for people under the age of forty-five; however, death does not measure the entire toll of injury. For many survivors, disability and scars (both visible and invisible) remain long after the initial hospitalization. Families also are impacted by trauma with the emotional turmoil of losing a loved one, watching survivors struggle with recovery, and lasting changes in dynamics that occur at home after injury. Lastly, the financial impact of injury, when considering not only medical expenses but lost wages and productivity, is immense. The impact of trauma is profound, and true recovery after major injury is difficult to achieve

The United States has the most advanced trauma system in the world and is based on the premise of rapid transport of injured patients to the trauma centers capable of caring for them. As members of this trauma system, we have seen severely injured people on a daily basis and have dedicated our lives in helping them and their families, who are in great pain. Trauma is a team sport. Our trauma team is not limited to only physicians, but also includes paramedics, advanced practice providers, nurses, pharmacists, therapists, social workers, and many, many others. The cohesiveness of that team was the greatest factor contributing to Wesley's outcome. From the requirement of a surgical airway in the emergency department, cardiac arrest, emergency splenectomy cannulation for ECMO to ultimate discharge, our team excelled. We tend to remember the patients who are not as fortunate as Wesley and look for opportunities to improve; however, it is success stories such as his that keep us going on a day-to-day basis. We feel fortunate that we were in the position to care for Wesley and are very thankful that he has made such a wonderful recovery.

—J. Jason Hoth, MD, PhD

Professor of Surgery

Department of General Surgery

Director, Trauma Center

Director, Acute Care Surgery Service Line

Wake Forest University Medical Center

—J. E. Tripp Winslow, MD, MPH

Medical Director, NC Office of EMS

Chief EMS Division

Associate Professor

Department of Emergency Medicine

Wake Forest Health Sciences

Chapter 1

Passion

It was an unseasonably mild February morning in the Piedmont region of North Carolina. February 4, 2017 to be exact. A Saturday. The skies were a light wintry blue yet crisp and bright. There was a slight chill in the air yet not unbearable as are many mornings in February. In North Carolina, forecasting our weather poses a unique challenge for most meteorologists. Particularly in winter, we may have 75 degrees one day and snow the next.

While most families anticipated the arrival of Saturday all week to experience the week-long awaited joy of ignoring the morning alarm and sleeping late, then perhaps lounging around the house in their pajamas most of the day, our family did not fit this description. Saturday was another work day. Not our public work, but our farm work. In fact, Saturday was the one day a week in which we labored more than the five we spent at our public jobs. Public jobs. Those were the ones we receive monetary compensation. Our farm jobs provided us little in monetary compensation but paid dividends in the lifestyle we can experience. We resided on a forty-three-acre farm with cattle, horses, and a few goats, though I know not yet what purpose the goats serve. Owning even a small farm, as ours is considered, requires constant maintenance and never-ending manual work. Until livestock are genetically engineered to prepare their own meals, they must be fed by humans twice per day. The fences that keep them secured to their assigned area of the farm must be checked regularly for any damage from trees or other unexpected compromise to the containment of the livestock. In the fall season, our fence repairs often result from the deer who try to leap over the top wire and manage to pull out a staple that secures the wire to a post. There is always a task that needs to have attention on a farm.

My husband and I did sleep late this Saturday morning. We slept until 6:30 a.m. That's an entire hour and a half later than a normal weekday. No different than every other day, our livestock had not prepared their own breakfast, so my husband Neil gathered his coat and boots and made his way to the barn. Meanwhile, I began preparing breakfast for the humans of the home. I cook breakfast regularly on Saturday and Sunday mornings as they are the only mornings we are together as a family. The menu this morning was sausage, scrambled eggs, and toast. While cooking, I took frequent breaks to sprint up the stairs to my sixteen-year-old son Wesley's bedroom to attempt to awaken him. I stood at the threshold of his door and yelled his name.

Wesley… You need to get up! An audible moan emerged from under the thick comforter. I could see the top of his head and his disheveled sandy blond hair. That hair. That hair that has needed to be cut for over three weeks. My constant pleas for a trip to the barber clearly had gone unanswered. Every time I would see those messy locks hang with no direction from under his hat, my eyes would roll out loud at him. Once again, I yelled to him to get up and come eat breakfast. I reminded him he was going to be late for the rodeo. In response, another grunt that I interpreted as Yes, Mom. As soon as you leave, I will leap from my bed and descend to the kitchen in an expeditious manner. I will be showered and neatly dressed. A mom can dream, right?

Today was the North Carolina high school rodeo multi-state competition, and he was competing in his event, bull riding. Wesley had been riding bulls competitively since the age of eight. Why you ask do I, his mother, allow my child to strap himself to the back of a 1500-pound wild farm animal? One word. Passion. Not my passion mind you. Bull riding was Wesley's passion. Some kids have a passion for baseball, some for football, my son had a sincere passion for the sport of bull riding. Oh yes, we tried the less extreme sports such as baseball, but bull riding was his dream sport. And it is a sport. Both the bull and the cowboy are highly trained and conditioned athletes. The cowboys have a workout regimen to build their core and leg strength, so they can rely on their strength to counteract the quick and strong movements of the bull. Many of us would be happy to die and return as a PBR bull. They are fed special diets, exercised daily and pampered more than many of our house pets. The physical condition of both athletes must be at their peak to be competitive in this highly dangerous sport.

Don't misunderstand me; he has never ridden a bull when my stomach wasn't in knots and I nearly vomited my most recent meal. I would be so nervous in the time leading up to his ride, my limbs would literally tremble. Did I support this passion? Of course. Did it scare me to my bones? Absolutely! My husband and I have three amazing and talented children. All with their individual interests and passions. One is a pilot and one was a competitive dancer for most of her life. While the most likely injury of the dancer is a sprain or perhaps a limiting ankle injury, the exposure to a level of risk still exists. As parents, we play the balancing act of supporting and encouraging their individual passions against continuously praying for their safety. Full disclosure, the piloting always scared us a bit more than the bull riding. But, as parents, we would be doing them an injustice if we didn't support these passions.

But back to February 4, each of us had a full day planned. Neil had planned to attend Wesley's competition at the high school rodeo. In order to do so, chores had to be completed. He was working diligently this morning to be by Wesley's side to pull the rope as was his primary responsibility as a bull-riding dad. Today was the first meeting of the planning committee for my thirty-year high school reunion, and I was a proud member of that committee. We were to meet at two and begin the task of designing what would be the high school reunion to make other reunion planners salivate. But first, I was spending the morning with my mom. My dad had been diagnosed December 16, 2016, with stage 4 lung cancer, and on Saturdays, my sister and I took turns driving Mom to conduct errands while the other sister sat with Dad and kept him company. Our nineteen-year-old daughter Melanie was returning later in the day from Nashville. She was a Freshman in college and had been attending a Cattleman's Convention that week in Nashville. Eventually all of us, including our twenty-three-year-old daughter Clara would meet in the evening in the small town of King to watch Wesley ride in another competition.

I had exhausted myself in my attempts to motivate Wesley to leave the comforts of his bed, get dressed, eat breakfast, and dash out the door before he was late for registration. The rules for high school rodeo competitors were very strict. Not only did they have a dress code, they were also expected to be timely in their arrival as well as attend the mandatory competitor meeting. Finally I heard him. Heavy feet of a lean 160-pound young man moving quickly across his bedroom floor which is directly above the kitchen. I heard him bumping against the walls as he walked toward the stairs. Then I heard him loudly descending the steps. As he landed at the bottom, he was carrying his oversized rodeo gear bag over one shoulder—his new blue dress shirt on a wire hanger was hanging from his right hand, his ball cap and his cowboy hat stacked on his head.

I advised him he needed to eat breakfast to which he replied, I don't have time. Rather than deal with an argument, I compromised and prepared him a sausage, egg, and toast sandwich to go, neatly placed in a Rubbermaid container. In my heart, I knew he wasn't going to eat it since McDonald's was on his way. I knew my cooking would often be trumped by the value meal under the golden arches. As he proceeded out the door, I said, Text me when you get to the arena. Text me before you ride. Text me after you ride. I will see you tonight at King. I love you. I think I received a halfhearted courtesy grunt that may have resembled a you too. And he was gone. Suddenly the house was unusually quiet. Only the sound of my classic country music on satellite radio played in the background. The morning rush was over, and I could now begin my day. Just another Saturday. Just another day of some light house cleaning and running errands with my mom. Was it really just another Saturday? Within five hours, it would be a Saturday that began a life transformation for not only my family—not just a community, but a transformation of souls across this nation.

I spent the next couple of hours cleaning my house, beginning with the breakfast dishes. I moved then to some light dusting, floor cleaning and then upstairs to begin a load of laundry while I began to get myself prepared to leave for the morning errands with Mom. I left my house around 11:00 a.m. Since Dad's diagnosis, Mom wasn't able nor willing to leave the house often. My parents had been married sixty-four years and truly lived their vows. In sickness and in health, 'til death do us part. Mom would exhaust herself caring for dad, but she did so out of love. In this final chapter of dad's life, she committed herself even more to do anything within her abilities, and some things slightly outside of her physical abilities to care for him. Under some duress, I convinced her to go to an early lunch before we shopped. We chose a local establishment near the Target for lunch. We ate a nice lunch consisting of grilled cheese and tomato bisque soup. This is one of our favorite meals at this local diner. I could see the weight of her world on her face. Though in her eighties, before dad's illness, mom was still very young. However, his illness was beginning to show its wear on her. Her eyes were often sad, and her smile had left. She felt guilty for leaving dad, but she also needed some respite for herself. We enjoyed each other's company and the now rare opportunity to relax and not discuss the ugly disease cancer or treatments. We didn't discuss prognosis or end of life. We discussed life outside of impending death. Once we finished our lunch, we decided to make a trip to Target before our grocery store trip. I had a list of items I needed, and Mom was relaxing and beginning to enjoy her time outside of the home on this beautiful, oddly warm winter morning. At approximately 12:50 p.m., we walked into Target. It was a typical Saturday at Target. Busy. Shoppers were bustling about and hurrying to gather their items. Likewise, I was eager to cross through the items on my own list.

At 1:11 p.m., my cell phone began to ring. I could see the profile photo and the name. It was Clara, our oldest. In a very calm tone, she said, Mom, where are you?

I replied, I am at Target with Nana.

She countered, When will you be finished?

Now I'm getting annoyed. Isn't the obvious answer I will finish when the items on my list are all crossed through? But I avoided sarcasm and simply said, Clara, I will be finished when I'm finished. What do you need? I had assumed she was wanting to meet for lunch or needed me to perhaps bring her some lunch.

Mom, you need to leave the store now and we have to go the hospital.

I paused.

Why?

Her voice becoming more authoritative, Clara said, Mom, Wesley is hurt, bad. You must leave immediately. I will meet you at Nana's house and drive us.

I asked, How bad and why wouldn't I drive?

Her voice was stoic, yet I could sense an underlying tone of fear.

Bad. Mom, are you leaving right now? I will meet you at Nana's house.

Mom and I quickly left Target. I admit I was slightly annoyed now because my day had been disrupted and feeling at this moment in my life that nothing seems to be going my way. I really had no concept of how bad this bad was. Was it another concussion? It had been a year since our last concussion. Broken arm? We've never had a broken bone. I began to grumble to myself. Why can't I have one day to go as planned. Suddenly this was all about me. Just as quickly, it became nothing about me. I called Neil, who I didn't realize at that time intentionally didn't call me to tell me the news. At the second, he answered the phone, I knew that bad meant this is beyond bad. Neil was crying. Neil doesn't cry. Not just crying, he was gasping for air crying. I would even say bawling. He couldn't form a sentence. I inquired as to the extent of the injury. He couldn't answer me. I heard a siren. Is that just an ambulance passing by?

So, I ask, Are you in an ambulance?

He replied, Yes, please get to the hospital.

But what's going on? I asked.

In a crackling voice, he said, Just hurry.

And I did. I drove the twenty-one miles in less than ten minutes. My head began to spin, and I was lost as to what I do next. Whom do I call?

Per the EMS report, the call to 911 was received at 1:00 p.m. The Paramedics arrived at my son's side at 1:17 p.m. According to photos and videos from the event, Wesley was on his bull and beginning his ride at 12:50 p.m. The ride lasted approximately four seconds. Wesley lost his balance and fell to the left side of the bull, landing on the arena floor. Unable to roll out from under the bull quickly enough as it was still in its bucking motion, Wesley's destiny was a second from changing. The bull's hind hooves came down with tremendous force onto Wesley, crushing his chest and abdomen, leaving him lifeless and face down on the dirt floor.

Our miracle-filled journey began the moment my son landed on the dirt in that arena. You see, God places people in locations intentionally. Nothing is coincidental in this life. Every second from our birth to our death was already planned by God. Albert Einstein once said, "A coincidence