We know how fortunate we are at SunBridge Care and Rehabilitation for Gardendale (Ala.). We get the best referrals and usually keep a waiting list.
      In August 2002, I was at my desk reading. I felt tears in my eyes as I read the referral: “twenty-one year old female . . . struck by an automobile . . . unresponsive at the scene . . . prognosis -- poor.”
      As a mother, all I could think about were her parents and how they must be feeling. The list of injuries was terrible; Kimberly Hammonds had sustained massive facial trauma and multiple broken bones. The more I read, the more horrifying the story was.
      I put the referral aside. I tried to convince myself that we could not meet her needs. We had no vacant beds. We had never had anyone this young in the facility.
      But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I could not stop thinking of Kimberly. For what seemed like hours, I argued with myself. Could we meet her needs? Is there anything we can do for a 21-year-old at a nursing home? Is she ever going to get any better anyway? She is not the typical patient we normally admit. Eventually, I realized that I had changed the focus of my thoughts from listing all the reasons why we could not admit her to what we could do to help her and her family.
      The next morning, I contacted the hospital discharge planner. “We have never had a trach patient or anyone this young before,” I told her. “But we want a chance to help her.”
      Obviously grateful, she filled me in on Kim’s story. The hospital had done everything they could, but Kimberly wasn’t responding. In fact, she had still not regained consciousness. With each day, her chances of recovery grew slimmer. The hospital had tried to get her into other rehab facilities, but none was willing to accept her with her limited insurance coverage. Other long-term care facilities had refused to admit her because of her age, the extent of her injuries, and the complexity of her care. The discharge planner had heard all the same excuses I had used to try to convince myself that we could not admit Kim, either.
      The discharge planner painted a vivid picture of Kim and her family. Kim was vibrant and full of life. She had planned to start college in the fall. Her devoted father had spent every waking moment with Kim since the accident. Her mother Kathy, a schoolteacher, had tried to keep life as normal as possible for their younger child. Kim’s boyfriend, Reeves, who had witnessed the accident, had spent most nights at Kim’s bedside.
      We agreed to hold a vacant private room for Kim and began to prepare for her arrival. Nurses received additional training on tracheostomy care. The maintenance department painted the room and put up a new border. Staff members brought in new curtains and a new comforter. Other employees contributed stuffed animals.
      Meanwhile, Kim’s story had been featured on the evening news. The hospital had received several phone calls from other facilities that wanted to admit Kim now that some publicity might be involved. “I am going to encourage the family to continue with the plan for Kim to go to SunBridge,” the discharge planner concluded. “You were the only ones willing to accept her before her story aired.”
      Finally, on Sept. 12, 2002, Kim was ready for discharge. Soon after her arrival, staff members took turns introducing themselves. Standing at her bedside, I could hardly speak. She was practically lifeless, with so many devices attached to her tiny body. “Lord, please help us to help her,” I prayed.
      Kim received intensive therapy for the next 90 days, but there was no improvement. We had all begun to accept that she might not get any better. Then one day, a nurse stopped me in the hall with the news we had been praying for. The comatose young girl had awakened and was tracking with her eyes.
      Finally, Kim was awake, smiling, nodding to answer questions, and using her call light. She continued to make remarkable progress, including standing and spelling words with a communication board.
      At the end of February, we learned that Kim would be leaving us. She had been accepted at a very selective local rehabilitation facility. The transfer is a miracle in itself: the facility admits only patients with excellent rehab potential.
      I went to congratulate Kim. I wanted to smile and let her know how happy I was for her, but it was hard. In a way, I did not want to see her leave. But as her dad talked about how excited they were, I knew I had gotten the answer to my prayer. “Kim is doing great with her new communication board,” he told us. “She is mouthing words well. We just have to work on getting the sound out. Kim, say something to them.”
      I silently prayed one more little prayer: “Lord, let us understand what she is going to say. We sure don’t want to disappoint her now.” I got the answer to that prayer, too. It wasn’t hard to understand when she said, “I love you.”
      A visitor might feel sorry for Kim, who has so much work ahead of her. But for us here at SunBridge, Kim is the reason we smile. She is our reminder to be grateful for the little miracles we see here everyday.