Reston Woman's Message To Class Of 2020: Make Memories

By Jennifer Werner

You think this is the worst year ever. There was no last basketball game or choir concert where you hugged and cried and gave all your love to friends. You’re going to be OK. Everyone says so. You’re not alone. The whole world knows what’s happening to your last year in high school and we’re so sorry and sad. This isn’t what you expected or planned. Except, I know you’re going to be OK. I know what it’s like to have your senior year completely devastated because on Feb. 13, 1996, I was a senior in high school, the day my life changed.

On the morning of Feb. 13, 1996, I was wearing a short-sleeved, pink-collared shirt and white jeans. It was a beautiful day in Bunnell, Florida. My high school and the administration building were loners on one side of State Route 100. My schedule consisted of a 90-minute class and then driving off campus to a dual enrollment course at Daytona Beach Community College. My car was the only one leaving campus and the security guard sat in his box at the front of our school. A delivery truck had its turn signal on and was slowing down in the turning lane getting ready to turn right. I pulled out of the parking lot. The delivery truck didn’t turn.

I woke up in the hospital. My mom and dad were by my side. My boyfriend was in the room. My brother from Virginia was there. He told me I was having a bad hair day. I heard someone say my other brother was taking the first flight from Japan. He was in the Navy stationed in Okinawa.

“What happened?”

I’d been in a car accident and was in the hospital. My dad told me the story of how a truck hit me and I was given a tracheotomy. A tracheotomy is a hole in your throat so you can breathe in case the access to your windpipe through your mouth is blocked. I was flown to Jacksonville. I asked what happened multiple times and was told over and over, but the morphine and my trauma resisted the information.

“What happened?”

My boyfriend told me the story again. Next to me on my hospital bed, he tucked in a pastel yellow teddy bear. I thought it odd that people were missing school and work to sit with me. I fell asleep and dreamt of football even though my dad was the only one who watched it at our house. Before my accident, I’d been accepted to Florida State. Someone rolled me around the stadium. It was glorious not having to walk around that humongous arena. I was on a ride hearing people cheer and give technical descriptions like plays on the football field. Then there were lights. The lights shone brightly yet my eyes were closed. Everything went dark and quiet. I heard pitter patters of footsteps as if someone had left her seat for the concession stand at a good game. Then it’s night time in my hospital room. My mom was asleep on a folded down hospital chair with a woven blanket barely covering her. Nurses rummaged through papers outside my room. A cart wheeled in and my temperature and blood pressure were taken. Days go by in this routine.

“Do you want to try eating?”

Food sounded better than sleeping in my own bed. I drank an x-ray drink. It’s called a barium swallow, but I planned on learning how to become a teacher in college, not a medical professional, so I had no idea what the doctors meant. The barium swallow checked my gastrointestinal tract to make sure I could swallow without complications. It was disgusting. But, I had chocolate pudding after that x-ray came back clean. I wanted to go home.

Mom asked if I wanted to see myself. I played field hockey, tennis, swam, and played on a co-ed (three girls and the rest guys) lacrosse team. I took care of myself. In the mirror, my face was covered in bandages. My nose was even covered. It was all white gauze with blood stains, scattered, dried and fresh. No one had told me it was this bad. The truck t-boned me. We moved hundreds of feet into the woods across from the high school. My high school security guard held me as I moved around with blood dripping not knowing if I could breathe. Bones broke. My jaw broke in four places. My right collar bone broke. My nose broke. Both of my eye orbits broke. One eye was pushed back. All I saw in my mom’s compact mirror was gauze, eyes, and lips.

Seniors of 2020, you’re going to make memories like nobody else. When I left the hospital, I had doctor appointments and surgeries and didn’t return to high school. A neighbor lended me movies. My best friend came over to get dressed for prom even though I felt deformed. I missed the senior trip to Cancun. I missed hugs in hallways and teachers telling the class to focus because there’s a test on this information. Instead, my physical therapist massaged my upper lip to reform it. She found an overlooked piece of glass that would be taken out in my next surgery. I missed friends and teammates.

Six months after my accident, I started at Florida State University. I’ve learned, tried, and sometimes succeeded at adjusting to my environment. I’m a mom. Adjusting is inevitable. I’m a military spouse. Adjusting is the only way when the government makes your decisions. Seniors, you can adjust. You’re on stage with the world. You’re the only senior class of 2020 so shine like no one has ever done. You’re not just making memories, but history. You’re making the first-of-this-world’s senior high school memories during the coronavirus pandemic.

How will you preserve your legendary senior year?

Jennifer Werner is a Reston resident who wanted to share her story of giving hope to not just seniors in high school, but every reader