Moment of Impact, Part II

My case worker at MGH wanted to send me to Spaulding Rehab to continue my physical & occupational therapy. However, my mother fought on my behalf for me to go to one outside of Boston, closer to home and easier for me to have frequent visitors.  

They decided to send me to HealthSouth (currently New England Rehab) on the Woburn/Winchester line.  Having previously worked at the 99 Restaurant nearby, I knew exactly where I was headed.  The EMTs that were in charge of transferring me to the rehab facility were a great pair of people.  They made me as comfortable as possible, which was difficult considering all I could move without serious issue was my right arm and my head.  

We got to talking on the ride and I had mentioned, in passing, that I had worked at the 99 Restaurant down the road from the rehab facility for a few years and had just recently been transferred to another location due to a promotion.  

I didn’t think anything of it when the ambulance started to slow down.  One of the EMTs had gotten out and a few minutes passed by.  I had never been in this situation before, so I assumed that she was just prepping to get me into the rehab facility.  

When she opened the doors in the back of the ambulance, I could barely lift my head. Remembering what I saw is making my eyes water as I type this.  We were in the parking lot of the Four Corners 99 Restaurant, my old work.  There was a line of people waiting to see me. Line cooks, servers, bartenders, prep cooks, dishwashers, managers & even some regular guests that I knew, had one by one been allowed into the ambulance with me. Some laughed with me, some cried with me, some did both at the same time.  They all expressed their well wishes for a speedy recovery, gratefulness that I had made it thru & support on anything that I would need going forward.  I used to joke with my fellow restaurant workers that I’ve been involved in some long ticket times in a restaurant, but that one took the cake.

I wish I remembered the names of those EMTs, I would love to be able to thank them to this day for that.  

Don't miss out on Moment of Impact, Part I

Paul Dube

Host of The Sports Den & Chef at Smokey Bones.

Defiant by will.  A true life miracle by every other standard.  

Moment of Impact, Part 1

Did you ever think that running into someone from your past would start out like “Wow, I heard you died”?  

Thankfully, I haven’t heard that in years, but before MySpace, Facebook & Twitter, word of mouth was really the only thing people had to go on.  From the time I started writing this, it’s been 13 years, 9 months, 1 week & 1 day since that almost became a reality. Approximately 7.2 million seconds ago, something happened to me that has literally effected every day since, and will continue to until my last breath.  Some of you may know the story, others may know parts of it.  I’ve always wanted to get this “on paper” so to speak.  Not really sure why, but now that I have the opportunity to do so, here goes nothing.

It was Friday, February 9th, 2001, I was working as an hourly supervisor in the kitchen at the 99 Restaurant in Danvers, MA.  We lived in Woburn at the time & my parents were up at a friend’s house in Maine for the weekend, so Cyndi & I were going to enjoy an empty house like any normal 22 yr old couple would…  I left work around 10 or so, heading 128 southbound.  The last thing I remember to this day was driving, nothing special, listening to music as I always do.  

The accident was the result of a drunk driver.  The man was driving south on 128, hit one of the ramp signs & spun out, facing north.  He was so loaded (2.5x the legal limit in MA) that he started to drive the wrong way on 128.  I was driving a 2001 Plymouth Neon and he hit the front quarter panel on my side, sending me across all four lanes. Apparently there was a nurse a few cars behind us & she pulled over to keep me with it until help arrived.  I was med-flighted to MGH and had to have 128 shut down to allow this to occur.  Some people I know were actually stuck in that traffic that night, as weird as that sounds.

Next thing I remember after that was waking up to a nurse (or doctor) standing over me.  The lights pierced my eyes, like when you wake up and the sun shines on you for the first time.  The next few hours/days is, between going thru withdrawals from some heavy pain meds & numerous panic attacks, a blur.  I remember hearing that I was in a really bad car accident.  Bad enough that I was lucky to be alive.  Bad enough that I was in a medically induced coma for around 3 weeks.  Bad enough that I have zero recollection of any of it… still.  I only know what was told to me by the staff at MGH, my family & my lawyer

I broke my left elbow, needed a plate to keep that together, which I had removed the following year. The lower part of right leg was shattered & the upper part of my left leg had a break in it as well.  Both needed metal rods to heal.  I lost my spleen & needed a graph on my descending aorta.  I was told the severity of my injuries & how the chances of a full recovery were slim.  Docs told me that I may need assistance walking for a long time, cold and damp weather would cause pain & that my cooking career had more than likely come to an end due to the stress on a chef’s legs.  

I had a great support system, my family & Cyndi rarely left my side, and my 2 best friends visited often, bringing things to make my stay better. I was in such a mental funk, depression maybe, who knows. When I was alone, I wanted company. When I had company, I didn’t want to have visitors.  I’d never been so helpless in my life & it’s a horrible feeling.  I remember feeling pity for myself for a few days, asking why this had happened to me, what had I done to deserve all that had gone on.  I can’t pinpoint when that pity faded, but I started to feel lucky to be alive.  I knew the road was going to be a long one, but I couldn’t let some doctor tell a stubborn kid from Somerville that I wasn’t going to be able to do something.  Anyone that really knows me understands that I’ve never done well with people telling me that I can’t do something.  Call it being defiant if you will, it’s gotten better with age & maturity, but to this day, I still credit that defiance for being a catalyst for me to start the road to recovery

I was to be sent to a rehab hospital to stay there until I was well enough to go home, however, how efficient that “well” was going to be was up in the air.  Little did I know, that ride from MGH to the rehab was going to show me the biggest act of kindness by a group of people that I had ever seen…

(To be continued)

Paul Dube

Host of The Sports Den & Chef at Smokey Bones.

Defiant by will.  A true life miracle by every other standard.  

Be Someone

My family doesn't act like a family. 

I hate my parents. They're weak. One is dead in the ground, the other is dead in spirit. 

My brother doesn't face life at all. He doesn't get life on himself. He's going to die full of regret. Because this life is messy, and I've made a lot messes. But at least I got dirty. At least I got in the trenches with the other filthy boys and said "fuck it, lets go over the top and see whats on the other side." 

My father never taught me anything. How to shave, throw a punch, how to be a man, how the fuck football works, how to handle money, how to treat women, nothing. Because he's a loser that never had a dream or a passion in this life. How ironic he had a son that has literally devoured this "mortal coil". 

I play a mean fuckin' guitar, I could write you a song that could make you want to overthrow governments or weep with sadness. I can hit them drums too, boy. From the first time I sat down, I could lay a beat like I was going to war. And singing? I'll sing you some shit any old time you're feeling like you need a song to lift you up, or make you feel like you're alive. And when we're done spitting that fire from our vocal chords I can wrap with you all night about the evolutionary process that leads us to be able to sing in the first place. And when the beer and drugs are gone, fuck it, I'll stay up and wax poetic about anything you got, Mac...politics, art, film, girls, technology. 

I shit code for breakfast. I can hack your computer faster than you can read this story. I can learn and adapt to new complex systems in no time. I'm learning to draw and I can speak some Japanese. 

My photography portfolio is full of some of the most beautiful women and life scenes you'd ever lay eyes on. I see art and math everywhere I look. I've gotten lost in the streets of Amsterdam, ran from Yakuza in Japan, met Mick Jones in a London McDonalds of all places, shared a mic with Joe Strummer, slept in the Commons in Boston, listened to Nebraska by Springsteen while riding through Nebraska at night and pissed in the Pacific Ocean. I've seen the bullet holes in Berlin, woken up in a gutter in the streets of Mexico, hopped trains, ran around this country with a pack of crazy strippers, been in a full blown riot in NYC, held someone as they died in my arms, saved someone's life, fought jocks behind The Ratskeller, eaten the finest food and tried every drug known to man. I've been stabbed, robbed, and seen every ghetto in this country. I owned an all-ages club, shared the stage with many of my heroes, and I'm still here standing. But I'm not saying all this to be a braggart. I'm saying it because you're not your father's son. 

We are a species that have evolved the ability to both write poetry and build rocket ships. I may have gotten myself into some real trouble along the way with some things, but it's only because I want to try everything this life has to offer. 

The only thing my old man has done is wear a groove into a seat cushion. My mother put herself in the ground. My brother doesn't talk to me. That's not family. If your brother, your blood, was to accidentally kill someone, you help him move the body and ask questions later. 

You eat this life and this life eats you. Get a fucking motorcycle, see the world, fall in love, fall in bed, get in a fight, get some battle scars, learn you're not made of glass, read books, talk to bums and royalty alike, say yes 90% of the time, pawn your useless shit, be a man, be a woman, be a fucking god. Because God doesn't exist. It's just you. 

Create. Destroy. Shoot the moon. Invent something. Get into adventures. Get into scary situations that are hard to get out of. 

Be water. Be fire. Just be something. We've got enough accountants.

Paul Russo