- Geralyn Ritter survived the
Amtrak train crash in 2015 that killed eight and injured over 200. - Her family was told she wouldn't make it, but after 31 surgeries, she has rebuilt her life.
This as-told-to
The morning was completely ordinary. That is what always haunts me — how a totally ordinary Tuesday and a business trip that I had taken more than 100 times ended in catastrophe.
I live in New Jersey and took an early train that morning to Washington, DC, for a work meeting. On the train home, I stopped in Philadelphia to speak on a panel for a women's alumni group for my alma mater, Duke University. After the event, I dashed to the Philadelphia station to continue my journey home. I just made the train, took my seat in the business-class car, and texted my husband: "Leaving Philly. Home soon."
Only, I wasn't.
My husband and three sons — ages 8, 12, and 15 — spent the night searching hospitals to find me until they were finally notified about a "Jane Doe" who was flown via helicopter to Penn Presbyterian, Philadelphia's newest Level I trauma center.
I was in the Amtrak accident
In the moments before the accident, I had stood up to get something to read out of my briefcase on the luggage rack above my head. As I stood, I noticed that the train seemed to be going much faster than usual right out of Philadelphia. I was momentarily pleased that I might get home ahead of schedule.
Then the rocking started.
I held on to the luggage rack to keep my balance and was annoyed that I couldn't let go to get what I wanted out of my bag. Suddenly, I felt myself tipping forward, still holding on to the luggage rack above my head with both hands. I remember clearly thinking it wasn't possible that the train was tipping — trains don't tip. In an instant, I realized we were indeed tipping over. The sound of my own scream is the last thing I remember.
I woke up on Friday in the hospital. I was on a ventilator and unable to speak, in a cervical collar and unable to move my head, and immobilized with my left leg in traction. I remember opening my eyes and seeing my youngest brother. It was like I was in a dream. I had been having vivid dreams of memories from my childhood, interspersed with dreams of being under harsh lights with masked doctors hovering over me, being rolled down a hallway.
I tried to speak with my brother, but he told me that instead, I should blink once for "yes" if I understood him and twice for "no." He asked me whether I wanted to know what happened. I blinked once. He proceeded to start to describe my injuries, but I think I fell back asleep or passed out before he finished. I was in and out of consciousness for several days.
My family was told I was not going to make it
Initially, I was not expected to live. The list is long, but I can divide my injuries into two categories — damage to my internal organs and orthopedic injuries to my bones.
I was apparently thrown from the train with such force that my abdominal organs burst through my diaphragm, the thick leathery muscle that separates the lungs from the abdominal cavity. My stomach was above my heart, my colon was under my armpit, my spleen was destroyed and bleeding uncontrollably, my intestines were perforated and lacerated, my bladder was ruptured, and my lungs collapsed. I had six surgeries in the first two weeks, some of them marathon sessions where multiple procedures were done back-to-back.
I was in overwhelming pain
Returning home was a welcome change from the in-patient rehabilitation hospital where I was transferred after being discharged from the intensive-care unit and regular hospital. Given the severity of my injuries, and that my chest was crushed but needed to move constantly for me to breathe, my pain was overwhelming.
I was on medically prescribed high doses of fentanyl and OxyContin for many months.
When my doctors decided it was time to start the weaning process, I suffered terrible side effects. My pain level increased as a result of my not-yet-healed injuries, and I suffered the typical withdrawal symptoms of chills, nausea, shakiness, and inability to focus.
At home, I felt more comfortable and more in control of my surroundings, and I welcomed the time with my boys. At the same time, I wrestled with the fact that nothing was the same.
It would be a full year until I could climb the stairs and sleep again in our primary bedroom. I was in a wheelchair and not strong enough to even roll up the newly installed ramp to our front door. I couldn't get out of bed by myself, make food for myself, or use the restroom by myself. This is when I crashed and the gratitude for my survival turned into grief for the life I had lost.
I've had a total of 31 surgeries, some planned and some later related the accident. I joke that I am like an old car that needs regular maintenance. My next surgery is next month.
I returned to work part time about two years after the accident, and I'm an active mom. I wouldn't say I have recovered. I will never be grateful for the accident. I am grateful, however, for the gift of my survival.
My goal is to live and work with purpose. I have promised myself and God that the instant I am not doing that, I will change course. I have no time for things that do not matter.
Geralyn Ritter is the author of "Bone by Bone: A Memoir of Trauma and Healing."