Carol Miller - Every Moment of a Fall: A Memoir of Recovery Through EMDR Therapy

Copyright 2016 by Carol E. Miller

First Hardcover Edition

Printed in the United States

Cover Art and Design: Brooke Johnson

Author Photo: Andy Weisskoff

For permissions and copyright information, contact the publisher, Schaffner Press, POB 41567, Tucson, Az 85717 (Attn: Permissions)

No part of this book may be excerpted or reprinted without the publishers written consent, except in brief excerpts, and for review purposes only.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Miller, Carol E., 1963

Title: Every moment of a fall : a memoir of recovery through EMDR therapy / Carol E. Miller.

Description: First hardcover edition. | Tucson, AZ : Schaffner Press, Inc., 2016.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016010634 (print) | LCCN 2016011828 (ebook) | ISBN 9781943156047 (hardback) | ISBN 9781943156054 (PDF) | ISBN 9781943156061 (Epub) | ISBN 9781943156078 ( Mobipocket)

Subjects: LCSH: Miller, Carol E., 1963- | Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. | Desensitization (Psychotherapy) | Psychotherapy. | Aircraft accidents--Psychological aspects. | Airplane crash survival--Psychological aspects. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | PSYCHOLOGY / Psychotherapy / General.

Classification: LCC RC489.E98 M55 2016 (print) | LCC RC489.E98 (ebook) | DDC 616.85/210651--dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016010634

For Andy,
every word

Authors Note

In writing this book, Ive drawn largely on personal journals and correspondence as well as recordings of my EMDR therapist reading from her notes. This work is in no way intended to present a clinical overview of the full EMDR protocol. I have reconstructed my therapy experience from the point of view of a patient and storyteller, compressing, combining or reordering some sessions while leaving out others. At times Ive approximated or guessed at what patient and therapist said to one another. And I have changed or omitted names when it seemed appropriate.

The Puritans, to keep the remembrance of their unity one with another named their forest settlement Concord.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Heaven is not like flying or swimming,

But has something to do with blackness and a strong glare.

Elizabeth Bishop

MOVE YOUR LEGS . CAROL , move your legs.

Ripples on a dark pool. A voice calling from the mouth of a cave. I see your feet, it insists. Now move your legs.

I swim toward the command in slow motion. My head plods to turn the words into some kind of action. At last it connects. I kick my legs.

OK. Now get out. Its Dads voice, barking. Get out!

My arm. Its wrenched behind me. I reach for my shoulder. Something hard is in the way. Something heavy, pressing. My arm is gone, underneath the pressing. It wont pull free.

Carol, get out. Now! Get out!

Daddy, I cant!

Light shining in my eyes. A shock of white hair behind it. A voice with a thick Boston accent asking questions. Whats my name? How old am I? What day is this? I paddle toward it with stronger strokes.

Am I in a car? I ask.

Youre in a plane, the voice answers. Theres been an accident.

How long have I been lying outside in the dark? A fistful of wet dirt. The stink of gasoline. Soaking my hair and clothes. Its on my skin. I taste it when I close my lips to swallow. Im in a plane?

My mind breaks the surface, gasping. Theres been an accident!

A hatless man in uniform is pointing a flashlight at me. Its Sunday. We were flying home from Maine. There are dry leaves everywhere, rasping under the heels of my boots. My name is Carol. Im sixteen.

My arm! I wail. I cant get out.

Muffled bellowing of orders. The man crawls backwards out of the plane to talk with someone. He brings back more questions. Can I feel my fingers? Can I move my trapped hand? What is it touching? Can I reach any part of that arm with my free hand? And then, while we mark time, what grade am I in at the high school? What subjects do I like? Does Mrs. Graham still teach social studies? When he runs out of things to ask, he takes my free hand and assures me it will be all right. Theyre going to get me out.

Deep needles of pain gouge up and down my arm as the pressure suddenly releases. Blood lunges for my fingertips. Somebody somewhere grabs my numb hand and holds on with a too-tight grip. I tell my hatless man I can feel someone squeezing my hand, and he shouts to the ones outside. A spontaneous cheer erupts. My man tells me they have used the Jaws of Life to pry the crumpled nose of the plane apart. I dont know what the Jaws of Life is. I imagine the giant, skeletal head of a Tyrannosaurus Rex spitting me out of its mouth.

Weve got a stretcher, he says. Were going to lift you. Nice and easy.

I protest. I can crawl out by myself. Im too much for them to carry. He looks me full in the face and promises me one last time that everything will be all right.

They haul me feet first into the blaze of light trained on the crash site. The crowd sends up a collective gasp. The spotlight of a TV camera flashes on, over the shoulders of the paramedics. They load me fast into the waiting ambulance, like sliding me into a padded envelope. Everything goes silent. I sense that I should honor the hush, but Im bursting to tell someone. This is my first time in an ambulance. My voice registers too loud in the bright quiet. The attendant smiles and nods.

The ride is fast and smooth. We are speeding along roads I know, but I cant picture the route.

IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM I am transferred again, from stretcher to gurney. A swarm of people in scrubs cuts me out of my clothes. Theres a flurry of talk, but no one speaks to me. I feel a strong tug and my feet release both boots at once. The metal edge of a scissor runs up the inside of my thigh. I tense, remembering that I have my period. I should say something. I close my eyes and wait for them to discover the maxi pad in my underpants. There is a pause, then the cutting continues around it. Only the pad is left, anchored to nothing. They pull back my eyelids to shine light in my pupils. They dab blood from my hairline, tug stitches through the skin of my forehead. Someone covers my naked torso with a paper hospital gown. I count the seven, eight, nine times a nurse tries to insert an IV needle before giving up and calling a doctor. He waves her aside and spanks my arm to raise a vein.

Now another doctor is beside the first. I know he is a doctor because he wears a lab coat over his scrubs and addresses me directly. The pastor of our church slips into the room. All three men take a step closer and hunch their shoulders toward me at once. The second doctor delivers a brisk rundown of the casualties, best scenario to worst. He tells me Dad has been stabilized and is currently in surgery, but he should be fine. He tells me Mom is in Intensive Care, having hemorrhaged excessively. Its touch and go for her. He tells me Nancy didnt make it. He asks if I understand what hes said. I nod my head. The pastor brings his face very close to mine, mouthing how sorry he is, how very sorry. I realize Im cold. I spot a blanket on a far chair. A nurse comes in just at that moment and asks if I want her to cover me. I nod, dumb with gratitude. The room empties. Im alone under the white light.

Rolling down a corridor on my back, one orderly at my head, one steering my feet. Two sets of wheels bump over the threshold of an elevator. The bright hum as we rise, then two sets of wheels bump out. There are colored construction paper footprints taped to the ceiling. I track them to the nurses station.