by Chris Norton
I felt even worse when my coach explained that they kept extra jerseys at school or that my parents could have gone home and gotten it, eliminating the need to speed. In my panic, I’d made a poor choice. Not only did I lose my school permit and my driver’s license until I was seventeen, but I learned a valuable lesson that day. I became much more responsible. Instead of forgetting things at home like my football gloves or basketball shoes and expecting my family to bail me out, I began packing my bag the night before with everything I needed.
After that rocky start, I ended my sophomore year as the team’s leading scorer, and despite our barely winning record, I received an All Conference honorable mention. My junior year, I averaged sixteen points per game, was chosen first team All Conference, led the conference in steals, and came in second in assists and points scored. Senior year, I was unanimously voted first team All Conference, with a second place finish in points scored in the conference and first in steals and assists. We had a really good team, but lost the district championship game.
Basketball was always my favorite sport, except during football season. While I loved basketball, I also found it frustrating. I could never just show up and play consistently, so I put in a ton of time perfecting my shot. If I slacked off even a little, my shooting suffered. Despite working hard all year long, my shots were really streaky. I put in ten times the work, but was never ten times the player. Looking back, I know I maxed out my ability, and for that I was really proud. By my junior year, I knew I’d never play division one ball. Stuck at five foot eleven and a decent athlete at best, I could enter college and play football, whereas basketball would take a couple of years to see the court, so I decided to try and play football in college and play basketball on the side just for fun.
There was a ton of pressure to run track in high school because most of the track coaches were football coaches. I knew running was good for me, so I always did it, but by the end of junior high I was tired of running track. My friends were growing taller and running faster than me, so I tried hurdles and fell in love with the event. I didn’t have to be the fastest guy on the hurdle team; flexibility and technique were my keys to success. We went to state two out of my four years at Bondurant, and we won districts—a first in school history—my senior year. I even qualified for state in the distance medley.
Football was the biggest sport during high school, and all my friends were involved, either on the field or in the stands. As a freshman, I caught a lot of passes as a wide receiver, played corner and linebacker, was voted offensive MVP, and even played some junior varsity. My freshman coaches started calling me “The X Factor” because I would make a big play for the team whenever our butt was on the line. I started on varsity my sophomore year as a cornerback and wide receiver. I was nervous, but also excited to help the team succeed. We went five and five, and I was selected first team All District that year as a corner.
By junior year, our team was really starting to gel. I had a great season as a corner and was voted hardest hitter. We placed third in our district, making it to the playoffs for the first time in school history, and I made second team All District. As a senior, I moved to safety for our “season of firsts.” We won the district championship for the first time ever, won the first post-season game in school history, and were close to making it to the final eight when we lost. I was again voted hardest hitter and selected first team All District.
My senior year homecoming game, we played our rival school, Collins-Maxwell Baxter (CMB). Tied for third in the state, the winner would most likely be crowned district champs. We scored with a minute left in the game to take the lead, but CMB marched the ball down to our twenty-yard line. With only seconds left on the clock, I intercepted CMB’s pass in the back of the end zone and ran the ball back twenty yards until time expired. I slid into the grass, ending the game. The thrill of the interception, the joy of watching my teammates run onto the field in my direction, and the sound of the fans walloping cheers exploding into the night helped create an unforgettable memory.
* * *
“He played with such intensity and focus that I knew that I wanted this guy to be part of our football program.”
~ Dan Marlow, Former Defensive Coordinator for Luther College Football
* * *
Our football games drew the whole community; people filled the bleachers to capacity and stood along the fence, watching intently. As a player, the atmosphere was intense, loud, and indescribably fun. Even college ball didn’t compare to the feeling of making big plays in front of sellout, hometown crowds.
I loved every part of the game, from training to practice to game time. I had the physical strength, athletic prowess, and mental fortitude to succeed, and I wasn’t afraid of anyone. When I put on a football helmet and pads, something clicked inside of me, ratcheting my intensity into a whole different gear. I loved that I could be mean and rough people up during a game without getting in trouble.
I dreamt of playing college football for the University of Iowa; I had the toughness and tenacity to play there, but no matter how hard I worked, I lacked the strength, height, and speed. The division three programs that recruited me pretty much guaranteed I’d play right away on special teams, and they said I’d have the chance to compete for the safety position. With my competitive nature, I thrilled at the chance to make a difference as a freshman and be an impact player like I was in high school.
I’d always been athletic, but as a sports technician, my dad really gave me an edge. His whole side of the family was really involved in sports, and he’d been around sports all his life. I grew up listening to stories about my grandfather as a coach and athlete, and my uncle as a division one basketball star and professional baseball player. I also considered myself a student of sports, watching games on TV and in person, and really studying techniques of the best players.
With my ambitions in mind, I prepared for the future by doing what I could each and every day. The football season started in the spring with track and weight lifting. I had to think of football as a yearlong sport. The same was true with basketball. I couldn’t sleep at night if I felt I hadn’t worked hard enough during the day or put in the extra time to work on ball handling, shooting, or lifting. I’d get really upset with myself and then commit to working harder and doing more because I didn’t want to feel edgy at night. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t push myself kept me motivated.
There were times I felt annoyed when my dad pushed me to work harder. It felt as if he was saying I wasn’t good enough, but in fact he was being a good coach and trainer. I had to get over myself and view him as my coach and not my father. He saw more in me than I could, and he expected more out of me than I thought I could give. He understood that sometimes even highly motivated athletes needed pushing in order to make the leap from a good player to a great player.
My dad made me into a great player. He helped me become a better athlete, a better student, and a better person. I was lucky to have him because sometimes, as self-motivated as I was, I still needed someone to push me further and to believe in me more than I believed in myself.
Now, injured, I needed him more than ever.
* * *
I am not going to pull punches. We are in a battle. We are in a battle for Chris to regain function of his arms and legs. Through our faith, support of family and friends, skilled medical staff, and the determination of our son, he will walk again. We believe this.
~Terry Norton, CaringBridge, October 18, 2010
* * *
I KNEW Chris’s injury was severe even before the EMTs said they were taking him to Winneshiek Hospital. Deb and I just looked at each other in stunned silence because we didn’t know the town of Decorah, and we had no idea how to get to the hospital. It seemed easier to focus on the logistics than on our son being driven away in an ambulance.
We stumbled toward the car while the other players’ parents tried to tell us how to get to the hospital, but my mind
wouldn’t focus. Everyone was staring at us. We felt like we were under a microscope as we got into the SUV while people packed our stuff and told us not to worry about anything we left behind. My mom, Alex, Deb, and I were in the car trying not to freak out and let our imaginations run wild.
We arrived at the hospital in Decorah, and a nurse led us back to where Chris lay on a stretcher, his uniform in tatters and his neck in a collar. We attempted to pump him up with meaningless phrases like we’re here, and everything’s going to be okay, even though we didn’t have a clue if that was true.
We were asked if we wanted Chris to go to Mayo in Rochester, Minnesota, or to La Crosse, another Mayo hospital in Wisconsin. We’d never been to either and didn’t know what to do. Winneshiek had called the neurological team at Mayo in Rochester as soon as they heard from the EMTs that they had a severe neck injury patient en route. Mayo instructed them to start a steroid drip to reduce the swelling and said he’d need surgery as soon as possible. Mayo didn’t have any helicopters available, so they called La Crosse, and one was en route even before we got there. Distance wise, Mayo and La Crosse were about the same, and the doctors at Winneshiek told us that the main facilities for Mayo were in Rochester. Armed with that information and little else, we chose Rochester.
The doctors and nurses at Winneshiek continued with sensation tests to see what feeling Chris had below the injury site, and prepared him for transport. He needed to get into surgery as soon as possible. They started a steroid drip and continued testing to make sure his breathing and vitals were okay.
With his head in a collar, tubes running into him for the IV steroid drip, and his uniform shredded, Chris opened his eyes and asked who won the Iowa-Michigan game.
Like his dad, Chris was a die-hard Hawkeye fan, and his seemingly routine question and our discussion of the game eased the tension as we waited for the helicopter to arrive.
Then he looked at me with tears in his eyes. “Will I ever walk again?”
With a slab of granite sitting squarely on my chest, I muttered something inane like, “You’re in good hands,” or “Let the doctors do their job.”
I had to hold myself together, not only for my son, but also for the rest of the family who kept watching me for signs of a crack. If I lost faith, the whole family would take a turn down a very dark road. I wasn’t willing to go that route, even though every cell of my body screamed to let my worst fears take over.
Chris kept closing his eyes.
“You don’t have to sleep,” Alex said.
His eyelids fluttered open before closing once again. “I don’t want to know what’s going on.”
The defeated sound of his voice nearly crumbled my resolve. I never thought anything could happen to my kids, or me, or my family. The idea of a spinal cord injury never crossed my mind. I’d always imagined a career-ending football injury as something like a badly torn ACL or a broken bone, but a spinal cord injury never even blipped on my radar.
If Chris had suffered a career-ending torn ACL, I’d have thought that was a big deal. Or if Chris had broken his leg, I could hear myself say, “Oh my gosh, he’s only a freshman and he broke his leg! He’s going to miss half the season.” My perspective had suddenly changed.
Deb was kind of shutting down at that point. Her eyes were glazed with shock and glittered with unshed tears. The whole experience—from the ambulance, to the frantic drive to the hospital, to the antiseptic smell of the facility—was very upsetting. I could tell she tried not to think about what happened, and she tried not to focus on what it might mean for our son’s future. We attempted to encourage each other with a touch here or a reassuring nod there, but to be honest, we were both faking it for each other and for Chris. We teetered on the edge of something ugly, and we knew if one of us fell down the dark pit of despair, the other would surely follow. We tried to stay positive, but the sight of Chris on the table, hooked up to machines with his uniform cut off was almost too much to bear.
It was a relief to have Alex there. In the midst of her nursing program, she was concerned about her brother, but her rational, even-keel approach to the situation helped to steady us all. My mom was probably one of the strongest Christian women I’d ever known. She’d experienced a ton of adversity in her life, and yet was always full of joy. Her presence was another steadying force, a rock to lean on when things seemed so bleak.
They wouldn’t let any of us ride in the helicopter. There was just room for Chris, the pilot, and the EMTs. After Chris was loaded onto the chopper and we watched it rise into the air, I attempted to drive to Mayo. Word of Chris’s injury had spread. The game had been podcast over the computer, and some Bondurant parents had seen it and knew what had happened. Once people knew that Chris was injured and had been taken by ambulance to the hospital, people began calling each other, and our phones started blowing up.
* * *
“The news of Chris’s injury is one of those moments that people from Bondurant and Central Iowa will never forget.”
~ Chad Carlson, Principal and Former Boys’ Basketball Coach, Bondurant-Farrar Community Schools
* * *
Katie hadn’t come to the game with us; she was at a birthday party, and we couldn’t get hold of her. We also had dogs and a cat at home, and we weren’t going to be there to care for any of them after the game. I was scared and concerned, and in between incoming calls, I contacted individuals with the news. I told them Chris had a severe neck injury, that we were on our way to Rochester for surgery, and that we needed their prayers. That was all we knew at the time. Spreading the word and asking for prayers was my way of doing something.
Chris’s fate was in God’s hands and that of his doctors. But I knew the power of prayer, I believed in the power of prayer, and I set to work. I was upset, on the verge of tears, and I couldn’t drive. The more I talked about Chris’s injury and expressed the uncertainty of our plans, the less I was able to concentrate on our route.
I finally pulled over. It was best for Alex to drive the car so Deb and I could notify people and deal with the phone calls. We frantically tried to track Katie down because she wasn’t answering her phone, and we were worried about how she was going to find out about her brother. Was she going to hear about his injury from someone else and feel scared to death? Her whole family was headed to Rochester, Minnesota, and she was in Bondurant. She was going to feel isolated, and she’d want to be with us. Deb got a hold of our minister, and he and one of our really close friends, Tina Hargis, went to the birthday party and got Katie. They arrived at the hospital hours later.
The drive seemed to take forever. I just kept wondering if it was real and hoping when we got to Mayo the doctors would tell us his injury wasn’t as bad as they thought. I kept imagining the doctor telling us he’d regained movement on the helicopter ride and that he’d be released very soon. We were still in that dreamy shock-like state.
We’d never set foot in Rochester and didn’t realize there were three Mayo hospitals. Winneshiek had given us directions, but when we got to Rochester, the highway signs confused us. Our instructions would have led to the hospital, but we saw a Mayo exit and panicked. We followed the signs and ended up driving around downtown, stressed and taking it out on each other. We finally found St. Mary’s Hospital, pulled into the parking area, and tried to find the emergency entrance. A tall man with a bright blue Luther sweatshirt waved through a window.
Was he waving at us? We went from the football field, to the hospital in Decorah, and directly on to Rochester. How in the world was someone from Luther waving at us and pointing to a door? We parked the SUV and hustled inside. The man with the Luther sweatshirt came up to us and introduced himself as Keith. He’d already inquired about Chris’s status, knew the room Chris was in, the floor he was on, and showed us how to find him. Deb and I stood in the lobby dumbfounded. Who was this guy, and how did he get here?
Keith, a Luther alumnus from Rochester, Minnesota, had recently lost his wife to cancer, and the
Luther/Central game was the first game he’d attended in three or four years. Keith had a feeling Chris was going to end up at Mayo, so he went straight to the hospital so he’d be available to help. We were simply stunned. He led us through the hospital maze to the right set of elevators and walked us to the neurological trauma ICU and directly to Chris. Meeting Keith was like encountering an angel.
* * *
“I saw them coming through the door. A man and woman wearing Luther apparel each with that look of a thousand years of burden on their face.”
~ Keith Northway, Luther College Alumni
* * *
We visited briefly with Chris, then the surgeon pulled the four of us—Deb, Alex, my mom, and me—into a small conference room where we all sat. The metallic taste of terror coated my throat and pooled in my belly. We were going to get answers to questions I’d been too afraid to ask.
The doctor looked at us with cool, expressionless eyes and told us our son suffered a severe spinal cord injury between the C3 and C4 vertebrae. Based on the field assessment, the X-rays, and his lack of sensation below the injury site, Chris most likely severed his spinal cord causing a complete injury. As the doctor droned on explaining the difference between a complete and incomplete injury in a monotone voice, as if explaining the difference between synthetic and regular motor oil, my mind seemed to freeze, rejecting the absorption of incoming data. Only broken bits of phrases played on a loop in my brain: broken neck, severed spinal cord, no recovery below the injury site.
Just when my brain began to reengage at the mention of an incomplete injury and the possibility of an un-severed cord and nerve damage from swelling around the injury site, I heard the one thing I never wanted to hear. When considering the extent of his injury, the doctor estimated Chris had less than a 3 percent chance of ever having movement below the neck.
