CHAPTER 1
The Beginning
The impact. A deafening pandemonium of smashing metal and shattering glass. Swirling dust. Then silence. Within seconds, our life as a family changed forever. The day: Sunday morning, June 29, 1958.
In 1954 my husband, Charles, one-year-old Sherida (Sheri), and I moved to Hettinger, a small town in southwestern North Dakota. Charles had gotten his degree in veterinary medicine from Colorado State University, and he was anxious to establish his practice. In the beginning, he set up his medical facilities in our garage. Later he moved to a downtown location and eventually built one of the first large-animal veterinary clinics in North Dakota.
Two years later our daughter Korliss Kay (K-K) was born. We had purchased our first home for $15,000. We had big dreams, and we were definitely on our way to becoming that all-American family.
On that Sunday morning, my husband, our two young daughters, and I decided to visit my father, who lived in the small town of Richardton, North Dakota, seventy-five miles from our home. We planned to leave early so we could attend services with him in the little church where I was baptized and confirmed. While I dressed Sherida in her summer playsuit, she bounced up and down, as did her thick, sand-colored braids.
"Hurry, Mommy, Grandpa will be waiting for us," she said as her large blue eyes, fringed with fur-like ebony lashes, danced with excitement. Sheri's satin-smooth skin, tanned by spring's sun and wind, was the color of toast. She had plump, pink cheeks I loved to kiss and gently pinch. Always inquisitive, her daily "How come?" questions were endless. A determined, beautiful, intelligent, and energetic five-year-old — that was our Sherida.
Two-year-old Korliss Kay, fine-featured with olive skin, dark hair, and huge brown eyes also jumped up and down with excitement as she imitated Sherida. We were going for a ride, and that was enough for her. "Be happy," she said.
When I walked our daughters to the car that morning, I was aware of the sun, shining through the leaves of the trees in our backyard, casting lacelike patterns on the lawn. The morning air was filled with scents of a newborn spring day. We were all in a good mood as we drove along North Dakota Highway 8, listening to soft music on the radio of our 1958 Mercury Club Coupe. I was looking forward to a special day with my young family and my father.
"I'm one lucky woman," I said to Charles.
My husband looked at me and grinned. "You bet your life you are," he said in his usual joking manner. "You're married to me!"
We had driven approximately forty-five miles, passing only an occasional car. Sunday morning traffic in rural North Dakota is almost nil. Then we saw it — the other car — coming over the rise in our lane of the highway, speeding directly toward us. There wasn't time to think, to pray, or to cry out. Charles turned to avoid a head-on collision, but we were hit broadside, our car making a total about-face. It happened within seconds. This was inconceivable. Accidents happened to other people. We were frozen momentarily, and when I looked at Charles, I saw my own hysterical disbelief reflected in his eyes.
"Are you able to move?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I answered shakily. "I can move."
Korliss Kay had been standing on the seat between Charles and me. In 1958, there was no seatbelt law. At the time of the impact, I had clutched her to me. Both of us were partially under the dashboard, but I was grateful she had not gone through the windshield. Though she was crying, she had only a few cuts and bruises.
Simultaneously, we turned around shouting, "Sherida!" No answer. She lay on the back seat with her head turned toward the side of the car that had received the full impact. One small trickle of blood made its way from her nostril to her upper lip, but there were no visible cuts or bruises. On the seat next to her lay the book she had been looking at, opened to page five. She looked as if she were asleep.
Charles, realizing Sherida was not breathing, rushed around the side of the car and gently carried her to a nearby ditch where he began to administer artificial respiration.
My robotic movements were rigid and mechanical as I led Korliss Kay away from the demolished car and the settling dust swirls. The whole scene — our daughter lying in the ditch with her father bending over her, pale and shaky, and both Korliss and me crying — seemed surreal. Like a hypnotized sleepwalker, I felt I would awaken soon from my daytime nightmare.
Dreamlike, I watched the driver of the other car walking unsteadily toward us carrying a can of beer in his right hand. He was bleeding from his mouth and I could see his front teeth were missing. Obviously, he had been drinking.
But now I awakened, the thunder in my heart whipped inside me. I stood looking at him for a few seconds, and then I made an eerie sound. My pain and fear came from deep, deep inside of me and finally erupted into a piercing scream. Seemingly, it came from a far distance and from another person. I ran toward the man, scratching and clawing him until Charles yelled at me to stop. My outburst ended in gasping sobs.
By this time, Charles had gotten Sherida to breathe. Almost immediately, the convulsions started. Her rigid little body quivered with intermittent spasms.
Since the accident occurred near a farm, the family who lived there came to our assistance, offering to call medical help immediately. Dr. Hankins from Mott arrived shortly, though it seemed like an eternity. After he examined Sherida, he said gravely, "This child is in serious condition."
We lifted her gently into a volunteer car and took her immediately to the hospital in Richardton. At the hospital, we paced the floor anxiously for at least an hour. The diagnosis indicated Sherida had multiple skull fractures. She was taken by ambulance at once to the Dickinson airport, twenty-five miles west of Richardton, and then flown to St. John's Hospital in Fargo, North Dakota — the only neurological center in our state.
Everything moved very quickly — perhaps too quickly. The pilot who flew Sherida to Fargo visited us at the hospital later and informed us that because time was so essential, the hurried nurse had forgotten to bring ice or oxygen. Sherida's temperature soared during the flight. Several times she stopped breathing. Not having ice or oxygen during crucial hours may have contributed to her already-apparent, extensive brain damage. Later, Charles wondered if flying the plane at a higher altitude would have lowered Sherida's temperature. We will never know.
Charles's parents, who lived in Dickinson, loaned us their car to make the three-hundred-mile trip to Fargo since there was no room to go with Sherida on the plane. They took Korliss to their home, and I did not see her again for one long month. What anxiety this two-year-old child...
