My Rediscovered Path

118 days of Hell, Trial and triumph

My Story: How I Got Here and Where I Plan to Go

 


I was born and raised in a small town in northwestern Pennsylvania, where I attended a private school. The Teachers and Nuns provided an outstanding education, though extracurricular activities were limited. When it came time to choose a high school, my parents gave me the option of attending either the public or private institution. Driven by my desire to join the track and field team and throw the shot put, I chose the public Oil City High School.

1985: A Surprising Turn Toward Art
In the summer of 1985, I visited the high school to register for classes. I clearly remember the guidance counselor strongly encouraging me to take an art class. I wasn’t interested, I didn’t consider myself an artist and thought it would be a waste of time. But she was persistent. Eventually, I agreed to enroll in a 3-D Art class, mostly just to end the conversation.
On the first day of school was exciting.  New place, people and experience.   I walked into the 3-D Art room and met the teacher, Mr. Rick Fletcher. While he was going over the usual first-day announcements, he said something that completely blew my mind:
“I don’t want to hear you say, ‘Mr. Fletcher!’ Just call me ‘Rick.’”
After, seemingly, a lifetime in a strict private school, this teenager was stunned. Up until that point, I didn’t even believe students were allowed to know teachers’ first names. The only names we ever heard were Miss, Mrs., ect. Calling a teacher by their first name felt unreal—I had stepped into a new world.
To my surprise, I found myself drawn to working with clay. Although we explored various media, the potter’s wheel felt instinctive—almost as if my hands already knew what to do. I had found something that resonated deeply.

Partway through my freshman year, I encountered a challenge that became a turning point. One day, arriving to class, eager to make pottery, all the electric wheels were in use, leaving only the old manual, kick wheel available. Reluctantly, I gave it a try. What began as a compromise quickly became a revelation. The physical rhythm and control it demanded accelerated my learning and deepened my understanding of the craft.

Encouraged by Rick and fueled by a growing passion, I continued taking advanced 3-D Art classes throughout high school. Rick granted me and several other students access to use the Art room during study hall(s).  With each passing year, my skills improved—and so did my confidence.
       
I continued taking advanced 3-D Art classes through my senior year, and with practice—and Rick’s encouragement—I began to develop my newfound talent with growing success.
Each year, a large university in northwestern Pennsylvania hosted a prestigious, toughly juried high school art show. Many schools participated, having your work chosen for a show, even once, was considered a significant achievement.  I was fortunate enough to have my work chosen during my 10th, 11th, and 12th grade years.
I remember the art show reception during my senior year. That day, I was introduced to one of the university’s Art professors.  He was warm, enthusiastic, and genuinely interested in my work. When I told him I was hoping to attend the school but wasn’t sure I’d be accepted, he looked me in the eye and said, 
“I’ll make sure you’re accepted.” 
I began to envision myself as a college teacher. After graduating from high school, I bought a used potter’s wheel and continued to hone my craft. I had planned to attend college and had even been awarded a private scholarship to help me get there.
But I desperately wanted a car of my own. I didn’t want to be stranded at a school an hour from home—I wanted my independence.
At the time, I didn’t understand the life-expanding experiences a university could offer.  I would have built a new life for myself there. But I had tunnel vision, focused only on the here and now.

My first job after high school was at a rental business, where I worked for six months. After a few months, I was able to purchase a reliable used car. Around that time, I met Rich, who offered me what seemed like an exciting career opportunity. I began a sales career, promoting and selling a home cleaning system.
Looking back, the company had a cult-like atmosphere, filled with high-pressure tactics and grand promises of success and personal transformation. I bought into the dream, convinced I was thriving. But over time, I became sarcastic, overconfident, and delusional about my future—feeling entitled to success without truly understanding what it meant to earn it.



The Test Drive
On the way home from a company business convention, my coworker and I made an unplanned stop at a Mitsubishi dealership—for a short look. We had barely stepped out of the car when a striking saleswoman approached and asked if I wanted to take a test drive.  We were not planning on a test drive, but of course, I said yes.
She handed me the keys to a turbocharged Mitsubishi sports car. The three of us climbed in, and I eased onto the highway, shifting smoothly through the manual transmission. The car was fast, responsive, and exhilarating.
Then, out of nowhere, a man on a loud Japanese motorcycle blew past us. It startled me—and lit a fire. I felt challenged. Instinctively, I quickly down shifted from fifth to third and floored it. The turbo kicked in, pinning us to our seats. I shifted into fourth, then fifth, as the speedometer surged to nearly 100 mph. The car was a rocket—and it still had more to give.
I backed off and took the next exit. Turning to the saleswoman, I said, “This car will either kill me or get me arrested. I am not buying it.”
But a seed was planted.
At the time, I drove a Chevy Celebrity—a boxy four-door I jokingly called my “Grandmother car.” It looked dull, but I still managed to rack up two speeding tickets in it.
One day, while it was in for an oil change, a mechanic at Sears warned me I’d soon need a full brake overhaul—costing nearly a thousand dollars.  But instead of maintaining my boring car, my overconfident, and delusional self, decided I needed something sharper.
The local Cadillac dealership had a sharp, nearly new Pontiac Grand Am—loaded with options. Driven by ego and image, I convinced myself I needed a car that reflected my perceived success. ” I didn’t have the credit to buy it outright, so I pressured my parents into co-signing the loan. I regret putting them in that position, but at the time, I believed I could afford anything. Soon after, I moved into my first apartment and dove headfirst into the bachelor lifestyle I thought I’d earned.
Riding the Wave
For several months, life felt unstoppable. Sales were booming, and my lifestyle reflected it. I had built an image of overconfidence—so much so that I could walk into bars with my older coworkers and get served without question. Eventually, I became a regular, buying alcohol on my own with ease.
At the bars, I attracted older women—none of whom, knew I was only 20. Along with Alcohol, Weed was always around, and while I usually avoided overindulging, it was part of the scene. I projected success and control, maintaining an image like a distinguished politician—it was all about appearances.
And for a while, it worked. I felt untouchable. I drove a sleek car, treated speed limits as suggestions, and tore through the back roads of Western Pennsylvania like one of the Duke boys. Somehow, I was never caught.
Life was spontaneous. Nothing was planned beyond a few days. I wasn’t building a future—I was just riding the wave.
College?
By this point, college was a distant memory. My relationship with my father had grown tense—strained by my impulsive lifestyle and lack of church attendance. I was living for the moment, and he saw right through it.
By the fall of 1990, my sales had plummeted, and money was tight. I started cutting corners—overcharging customers and selling to anyone I could convince, even those who couldn’t afford it. “We have easy financing!”.   But even with lowered standards, it wasn’t enough. My parents had to step in to cover my car payment. Trust had eroded. I wasn’t keeping my word. I wanted too much, too fast. My dilution continued.
Then came a turning point: I was offered a job in auto sales, starting December 7th. Ironically, it was at the very dealership that had sold me the car I couldn’t afford. I was moving on—from selling luxury vacuums to luxury cars. Life was offering a faster pace, a flashier image, and what I believed was a bigger opportunity.
My potter's wheel sat quiet and alone in my parents' basement; Art had completely fallen away from my new lifestyle. I was twenty years old and felt like I had the world on a string.
The Reckoning
My live-in-the-moment lifestyle and the thrill of a new job were suddenly overshadowed by a crushing realization. The weight of my choices—broken trust, financial strain, and fractured relationships—hit all at once. It wasn’t just a bad night; it was a reckoning. I had been chasing success, speed, and status, but I was running on empty—financially, emotionally, and spiritually.
Shortly after 11:00 PM on December 6th, 1990, I hit a “metaphorical wall”—and in that instant, everything changed. It marked the beginning of a transformation I never saw coming.
That “metaphorical wall” turned out to be a very large, very real, deeply rooted tree stump near Knox, Pennsylvania. I was driving home alone that winter night—sober, but reckless.
I hit the turn too fast. The car lost its grip on a long, sweeping left-to-right curve. The rear  of the car swung out to the left, skidding across the bend, rear tires scraping along the berm of the opposite lane. I fought the wheel as the car slid wide, the edge of the road blurring beneath me.
You could almost trace the panic of the vehicle—swerving, sliding, struggling for control. For a moment, it felt like I might regain it.
But it was too late.
Just as the tires began to bite back into the pavement, the car struck a yellow arrow sign, sheared off a utility pole, and whipped sideways to the right —slamming violently into the massive, deeply rooted tree stump.
I wasn’t wearing a seat belt. My body flew across the interior of the car—my head smashed through the right side of the windshield, then was instantly yanked back as my body continued its path out the passenger window. I landed over sixty feet away in a gravel lot—unconscious, broken, and alone.

Earth-Shaking Thud
Mr. and Mrs. Best were jolted awake by a loud crash. Looking outside, they saw a wrecked car and something lying motionless on the ground.  It was me. They called 911 and rushed over. Mrs. Best, a part-time EMT, stabilized me as best she could. I was unresponsive, my limbs twisted, and my breathing was very labored.
Paramedics arrived quickly and called for medevac. I was airlifted to a Pittsburgh hospital, where doctors diagnosed me with a severe closed head injury and deep lacerations on my head and face. I was in a coma and placed on a respirator.
Thanks to the fast response, I made it to the hospital before midnight. I owe my life to them.

Trooper at his Door
Shortly before 2:00 AM in Oil City, PA, a State Police Trooper knocked on my parents’ door. My father later said he had never been so frightened as when he saw that uniformed officer standing there in the middle of the night.
The trooper informed him of the accident and handed over the phone number of a hospital near Knox.
My father called immediately. The voice on the other end said, “He was airlifted to Pittsburgh. Call this number.”
He dialed the Pittsburgh hospital next. A nurse answered.
“His condition is very serious,” she said. “Get here as soon as you can.”
My father replied anxiously, “We’re two hours outside Pittsburgh.”
Her voice softened with concern: “Oh my. Leave now—but please, don’t drive fast.”
They left immediately, not even sure where the hospital was—just knowing they had to get there.

Driving to Pittsburgh
The two-hour drive to Pittsburgh was agonizing for my parents. They prayed, talked through the “what ifs,” and even made the heartbreaking decision that, if the worst happened, I’d want my organs donated.
My mom, a retired nurse, knew how serious “very serious” could be. But all they could do was drive and hope.
Angel
When they reached Pittsburgh around 4:00 AM, the city was deserted. No one would stop to help them find the hospital. Then, at a red light, a young man in a red sports car pulled up. My dad asked for help.
“Follow me,” the man said.
He led them through the quiet, empty streets of Pittsburgh, across a steel bridge, and directly to a wide-open area that appeared to be a reserved parking spot, for my parents,  at the hospital’s emergency entrance. The man stopped his car in the street near the space, making sure they saw it.
My father quickly pulled in and stepped out of the car,  eager to thank him.
But the man in the red sports car, with a California license plate,  simply wasn’t there.

Behind the Curtain
When my parents arrived at the hospital, they were told I had no skull fractures—an unexpected relief amid the chaos. But when the curtain was pulled back, they saw me wrapped in bandages, connected to tubes and machines, the steady sound of a respirator filling the room.
“We’re hoping his condition improves,” a representative said. “Only time will tell.”
A doctor added, “No internal injuries, but we need to remove the windshield glass from his face.” The surgery took nearly four hours.
After surgery, my parents never left my side. The hospital provided housing, and they took turns keeping vigil.
Two days later, a doctor gave a grim update: “He may never wake up.”
the next day --after a second look at my X-rays. he ordered a CT scan. That new scan -- revealed a fracture in my neck, 2nd vertebra. A break there is usually fatal. That scan may have saved my life, again.
Shortly after Christmas, my condition improved enough.  I was transferred to a large rehabilitation hospital.
 
My Awakening
I remained in an infant-like mental state until late February 1991. My first clear memory was waking up in the rehab hospital. The morning sunlight streamed in and illuminated a collection of handmade get-well cards from the children of Saint Bridget’s School. The colors sparkled like a kaleidoscope. Thank you.
At that time, I required 24-hour guarded care. I couldn’t move much, speak, or eat. For safety, I was strapped to the bed, wore safety mitts, and was fed through an NG tube.
My regular caregiver was thrilled that I was finally aware of my surroundings. After my IV stand Breakfast.  She wheeled me around the center—my first time out of the unit. We visited the indoor garden and even rolled outside into the cold, fresh air. I didn’t know it was February—or even what year it was.
Before that day, I had the communication skills of an infant. I believe my brain knew what it wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come out. I’m sure my subconscious was urging me to try harder, but the effort often came out as an incoherent scream. That day, I discovered that gestures and writing could help me communicate.
That Day was a Saturday, the usual visiting day.  my parents noticed a change immediately—I wasn’t screaming. They took me to the catholic Mass held in the centers chapel, and I sat through the entire service quietly.
Afterward, my dad suggested we play cards. I remembered how to play Rummy 500. He bought a deck, and we played. I held the cards. I made decisions. These were things I couldn’t do the day before.
My dad later said, “That was the day you really woke up.”


Am I Still in High School?


After the accident, I had major memory loss—most high school memories were gone. One day, while being wheeled through the rehab center, I saw a ceramics room. Something clicked. I knew I could work with clay and use a potter’s wheel.
Later that day with clay art still fresh on my mind.  my doctor explained my brain injuries using a diagram. He pointed to the frontal lobe and mentioned damage near the creativity center. I feared I’d lost my artistic ability.
I called my mom and asked if I was still in high school. She gently reminded me I’d graduated nearly two years earlier—and that my potter’s wheel was in the basement. I asked them to bring it.
By early March, I had made big strides: the halo brace was off, I was eating soft foods, and I could stand with help. My dad brought in the wheel—and a bucket of clay from my old art teacher, Rick.
When I touched the clay, my hands remembered. My first pot wasn’t perfect, but it was a pot. I was back. Before I left rehab, I made several pieces for the ceramics room staff.



Time Flies

I’m incredibly thankful. I only remember a few moments from the first 78 days of my 118-day hospital stay. In the days before I woke up, doctors feared I had plateaued in my recovery and might not progress any further. I was even scheduled to have a permanent feeding tube installed in my abdomen the next week.
But something changed that Saturday—I woke up aware.
I don’t know if it was my guardian angel, divine intervention, or something deep within me. But I realized I was there because of my own actions, and I knew I had to fight to get out.
I do not remember any therapy before that day.  I discovered, Monday through Friday I had a steady schedule of daily therapies. Physical, occupational, speech, cognition and other therapies.
In 40 days, I went from having the actions of a newborn child to becoming a young man with a future. My progress in therapy was steady—each day a small victory, each step hard-earned. Though I still struggle with speech from time to time, I’ve come a long way from where I began.

I wanted to remember; I had a tough physical therapist named Reba—a former naval officer who pushed me hard. I couldn’t stand her at the time, but looking back, she did me the most good. Thank you, Reba.
You Are Not Lucky
One evening, a sweet elderly, volunteer, visited my room. She would make her rounds and light up a room with her presence.  I told her, “I’m lucky to be here.” How she spoke to me really staggered me. She shook her finger and said firmly, “You are not lucky! You are here because GOD wants you here. He has a plan for you! Luck has nothing to do with it!”   Then she walked away. I never saw her again, but I’ll never forget her words.
Less than a week later, it was discharge day. My parents were there, bags packed. A nurse came in and said, “Ready to go home?” She reached for my wheelchair.
But I didn’t want it.
On April 4, 1991, at 2:30 PM, I carefully stood up from my bed—and walked out of that hospital.
After the Hospital
Leaving the hospital was just the beginning. I moved back in with my parents, and with their help, revived my pottery studio in their basement. That small space became my sanctuary—where the world made sense again.
My lifelong friend Mike, would drive me, nearly an hour away, to get supplies and helped me piece together lost memories. I’m forever grateful for his friendship.
In the summer1991, during an, in person, review for SSI disability, the doctor was stunned. He said, “According to your records, you should be in a wheelchair and have the mind of a child. Simply put, your recovery is a miracle.” I was denied SSI—and it was the best rejection I’ve ever received.


I kept creating Art. I was involved in outpatient therapies. By late summer I was permitted to drive again. I started a part-time job at the local mall, in August 1991. I started classes at a junior college in the fall of 1992.  I eventually earned an associate degree in business in 1995. I continued making pottery and showed my work when I could.
In 1996, I married and moved to Kentucky. I was a civilian employee at a U. S. Army post.  I also volunteered to teach pottery part-time at the Post craft center. I was confirmed in the Catholic Church. After a divorce in 2000, I moved to Pittsburgh and began a career in computer support. I created when I could, but Art was fading from my life.
In 2006, I remarried and moved to Ohio. We started a family, and life is good.

Opened Doors
Since I moved to Ohio, I believe God has opened doors inviting me back to the art world. Several Potters, nearby and faraway have helped me greatly. I have been able to obtain better equipment, supplies and knowledge.  I have joined local artist groups and have work in several galleries. I now see that without the 1990 accident, I may never have fully embraced my faith—or my art.
I have been fortunate enough to become a regular Artist at a few annual Art shows.  I have had some time on TV and in local Newspaper and Magazine interviews.  I have played part in grassroot efforts to create studio space.  I have helped artist and schools, from locations across the country, find plaster bats molds for their kick wheels.  Ensuring the Kick wheel is still used.  Thinking back… I went to the High School to throw the Shot Put.  I ended up having letterman level of success Throwing Clay.

 I may not be a college Teacher (YET) but I try to pay it forward…

Thank you for reading. God bless.
---Christopher Karg


We lost My friend Mike in 2014.  I will always treasure his time with us.  ‘

My son just graduated from High School (2025). He will be attending a university in Ohio to become a History teacher. I continue to create Pottery Art and have a growing on-line presence. 

My Rediscovered Path
My story.
How I got here and where I plan to go.​

I was born and raised in a small town in northwestern PA.  I attended a private school until the eighth grade. The nuns gave me an outstanding education but the extracurricular activities were limited. My parents gave me the choice of what High School to attend, public or private.  I choose to attend the public, Oil City High School. My choice was solely based on my desire to throw the shot put on the Track and Field team.

Prior to the school year beginning, fall of 1985, I signed up for classes.  I remember the Guidance Counselor insisted I take an art class. I didn't feel artistically inclined, why waste the time.  After some convincing, I agreed to take the 3-D Art class. 

Mr. Rick Fletcher was the teacher.  The first media introduced to class was clay.

I quickly discovered I had an aptitude for that earthy media. The addition of the Potter's wheel increased my enthusiasm for working with clay.  I continued with advancing classes of 3-D Art, through my senior year. [1] With practice and guidance from Mr. Fletcher, I developed the new found talent with some success.  

A university, located in Northwestern Pennsylvania, hosted a toughly juried, annual high school art show. Many High Schools participated. It was an honor to be shown once in your high school career. I was fortunate enough to have had work(s) shown during my 10th, 11th, and 12th grade years.

After high school graduation, I bought a used potter's wheel and continued my craft. I planned to attend college. I first wanted to work for a year before college.

I took a sales job and was doing well. A year later, I traded in my old car and purchased a year old Pontiac Grand Am. I moved into my first apartment and lived an adventurous bachelor's life.

College was forgotten by now. At the same time; the relationship between my Father and I was stressed. The combination of my wild lifestyle, immaturity and lack of church attendance was the reason.  A few months later, I accepted a new position and was transitioning on to luxury automobile sales. This career advancement was very promising. The world was offering me bigger and faster ways of living.

My potter's wheel sat quiet and alone in my parents' basement; Art had fallen away from my new lifestyle. I was twenty years old, it felt like I had the world on a string...

Shortly after 11:00 PM, December 6th, 1990. I hit a "Metaphorical Wall" and life forever changed.

That "Metaphorical Wall" was a very large tree stump near, the rural town of,  Knox Pennsylvania. I was driving home alone, that late winter night. I was not under the influence of drugs or alcohol.  My own foolishness was the true influence.  I was driving too fast for any road condition... 

My vehicle left the road. In one swift action, I flattened a roadside yellow arrow sign, mowed down a utility pole and slammed sidewards in to a large, deeply anchored stump. 

The vehicles' impact with that stump was brutal. I was not wearing a seat belt.   In a blink of an eye, my body flew across the interior of the car and slammed head first into the passenger side of the windshield. My head broke completely through the windshield and then was instantly ripped back in, as my body continued its path through the passenger door window. I was thrown more than 60 feet from the vehicle and stump. My body landed in a small gravel parking lot.  I laid there unconscious helpless. 

Earth-shaking thud

Mr. and Mrs. Best, who lived across the road, said they were awaken by an earth-shaking thud. Looking out their window, they could see a car in pieces and something lying on the ground across the road.  They called 911 and were quickly at my aid. They found me in a semi-fetal position with my feet and hands turned inward. Mrs. Best, a part-time EMT, did her best to stabilize me until an ambulance arrived

Mrs. Best described the event.  "When I knelt down to stabilize your head, you started to fight me. I was worried, you didn't move your legs. Your eyes were closed and your breathing was a garbeled mess." 

When helped arrived,  the paramedic quickly evaluated my condition and immediately summoned Air Med-Evac.​​

I was later told, the helicopter was off the ground before I was.  The wonderful  team of emergency responders had me in that Pittsburgh hospital receiving treatment before midnight. (Thank you!)

​

Once I arrived at the Pittsburgh hospital; the first diagnosed injuries were: a severe closed head injury accompanied by serious laceration of the head and face. I was in a deep coma; I needed a respirator to assist my breathing. ​

​Trooper at his door

Shortly before 2:00 AM, in Oil City, PA, a State Police Trooper knocked at my parent's door. My Father said he never was so frightened seeing that Trooper at his door. The officer informed my Father of the accident and gave him the phone number to the hospital near Knox.

He called that hospital and was told," He was air lifted to Pittsburgh, Call this number". My Father then called the Pittsburgh hospital. The nurse said, "His condition is very serious get here as soon as you can." My Father said anxiously, "We are two hours outside Pittsburgh." Her concerned response was," Oh my, leave now, but Please!! Don't Drive Fast!" They left for Pittsburgh, not knowing for sure where the hospital was located.

Driving to Pittsburgh

Two Hours in the car must have been absolute torture. I have never asked my parents for details of what they were going through on that long drive. They once told me, they prayed and talked about the 'what if's'. They came to a consensus; I would want my organs donated.

(Officially, I am an organ donor and I encourage everybody to become an organ donor and tell your family.) I can't image my Mother's position. She is a Registered Nurse (now retired). The only details of my condition were, I was bad and to get there ASAP.


Angel

Once my parents arrived to Pittsburgh, they were unable to find the hospital. During the week, Pittsburgh is like a ghost town at 4:00 am. Nobody would stop to help them. Neither a trash truck driver or a mail carrier would help. Both simply waived and kept on moving. Searching for the hospital, they drove throughout the downtown area. While sitting at a red light, a young man driving a red sports car pulled beside them. My Father signed to him. The man rolled down his window and asked, If they needed some help? My Father told him of the accident and they could not find the hospital. "Follow me, I will take you there" was the young man's calm response. As they closely followed his car, my parents noted he had California license plates. "That young man is a long way from home. I hope he knows where to go" Mother recalled saying. He led them across town, over a bridge and up the wide driveway to an open parking space in front of the hospital's emergency room entrance. My Father quickly pulled into the open space and exited the car. He wanted to thank that angel of a man, before hurrying inside. That young man, in a red sports car, with California license plates, simply wasn't there? ...

The Emergency Room

A hospital representative took my parents aside and informed them of my injuries and condition. The representative said they were very surprised the X-rays did not find any brakes in my skull, when considering the damage to my face and the seriousness of my head injuries.

Before the nurse pulled aside the curtain, a swish-swash sound was heard. When revealed to them. I was lying on my back, Most of my head and half of my body was covered with bandages. There was a tube in what seemed to be every orifice in my body. Several machines monitored my vital functions. The swish swash drone of the respirator seemed to overtake most other noises of the area.

"We're hoping his condition improves, right now we don't know. Only time will tell". The representative said.

The doctor then said to my parents, "He has no internal injuries. But we need to take him into surgery to remove the windshield from his face".   It took nearly four hours to completely remove the windshield glass from my head and face.

My parents stayed beside me and prayed. The hospital arranged off-site housing for them those first critical days as they took shifts beside my bed. Two days later a doctor gave my parents a bleak outlook of my condition. "He's in a deep coma. The longer he sleeps, the worse it is, he may never wake up" he callously said.

The next day, that same doctor and the radiologist were reviewing the x-rays taken of me when I first arrived. They were unsure of one x-ray so a CT-Scan was ordered. Their commitment to save lives was a Godsend. The CT-scan discovered a fracture in the second vertebra of my neck (C-2). A break in that vertebra is usually fatal.

All emergency personal did their jobs flawlessly. I had survived three days with that very serious break. (Thank you all!)

The doctors put me in a halo neck brace to treat my spinal injury. [2]  Five days past, I stabilized and was breathing, unassisted and was no longer in a "sleeping" coma. Two weeks after that, I was transferred to Rehabilitation Hospital, outside Pittsburgh. My Mother felt she could leave my beside and go home. 

The Rehabilitation Hospital

The head and spinal injuries were so serious the hospital staff directed family to apply for my SSI disability coverage. At that time, my actions were similar to those of a newborn child. I had no idea where I was. I could not speak, walk or stand. I had to be tube fed and was confined to a wheelchair.

Recovery from a severe head injury recovery is a long and slow process which takes many months or even years. [3]

My understanding is, some patients quickly move through the 8 stages or head injury, while others may plateau at a certain level and remain at that stage forever. During my recovery, I quickly went from stages 1 to 4. I was stuck in stage 4 for a very long time. The doctors were very doubtful I would pass that stage.

My Awaking

I, more-or-less, remained in a (mental) coma until late of February 1991. My earliest memories, post-accident, were from the rehabilitation-hospital.  I remember that moment like it was yesterday.

I recall opening my eyes and seeing the sun shining through the window on dozens of handmade (get-well) cards attached to the wall opposite the foot of my bed. The bright colors and sparkles, like a spiritual kaleidoscope, caught my attention. (My uncle was pastor of a church with a school. The kids made me those get well cards. Thank you Saint Bridget's school of Meadville, PA)

The radio played softly beside my bed. I don't remember what song was playing, but I wanted to change the station but was only able move my arms a few inches and was unable to reach the radio.

The hospital had me attached to me bed with nylon straps. I had on large mitten like gloves over my hands and nylon straps held me safely in place.  I had the tendency to roll out of bed. I am told; from the day of my accident I usually had a bedside caregiver 24 hour a day.

Miraculously, I was not frightened. I knew I was in a good place. A caregiver walked towards me and said, "Good Morning Chris. Did you sleep well?"

A nurse entered the room, "I have your breakfast", He said. The nurse first listened to my stomach with stethoscope. Then opened the large bottle, attached a tube and hung my breakfast high on the IV stand above my bed.  The head injury reduced my ability to swallow​. I was unable to take anything by mouth, no foods or fluids. I received all nourishment and most medications via tube that went through my nose to my stomach.  I am told that I was days away from a permanent G-tube placed in my abdomen.

At that time, I was unable to speak many words. I had to use a notepad for any communications a thumbs up or down could not explain.

The day continued a nurse and caregiver changed my various items, dressed me and transferred me to my wheelchair. A different caregiver then wheeled me around the center/ to my activities. It was a Saturday. My caregiver took me around the large center. We visited the indoor garden and then she snuck me outside for some fresh air on that cold, sunny day. I later learned that I had daily 'classes' of physical, speech/ pathology and occupational therapies, during the week. I do not remember any of these 'classes' before that point.

Later that day, my parents visited. They told me that day, was one of the first days my "screams" weren't heard from the front door of the unit when they entered.   I remember some screaming. I think it was when I was trying to speak. My subconscious was telling me to 'Try Harder!' My extra effort often sounded like an incoherent, sub-human scream.

They took me to Saturday mass at the hospital chapel. I am told, for the first time, since my accident, I did not start to scream during mass. I quietly took in the entire service.

After mass, My father suggested we play the cards. I remembered playing rummy 500, with Dad, when I was a kid. My Father purchased a deck of cards at the gift shop. I was wheeled up to the table near my units' entrance and played cards. By now, I realized I had a serious drooling problem. I carried a hand towel to help keep the mess to a minimal. With a carefully placed my towel we started to play rummy 500. 

After a while, I was actually playing; handling the cards and making key decisions ... A day earlier, those actions were not possible. My Father said, He would always remember that day 'as the day you, really, woke up'.

 

Am I still in High school?

My doctor tried explain to me what parts of the brain were damaged and why I had my physical difficulties and significant memory loss. I had lost large chunks of memory of the prior several years, including most of High School. Most things still were still very "fuzzy" in my head. I didn't understand what he was talking about.

One afternoon, one of my 24 hour caregivers wheeled me down the long corridor. It was like exploring a new world. This Center has bunch of special units including a big cafeteria/lunch room, swimming pool and a craft room. I noticed all the slip cast molds and a few shelves of greenware. (Ceramics) It occurred to me that I knew how to use the potter's wheel. Memories of 3-D Art Class came alive in my mind.

Later that day, my doctor took some more time to explain my injuries. He used a diagrammed picture of the brain, as a visual aid. He used terms like a bowl of jello and horrific bruising. He kept pointing to the frontal lobe and passing over the area marked creativity center of the brain. I remember thinking ...'Art Class and the wheel' I feared had lost the ability to create art and work on the potter's wheel. I kept going over in my head, what to do on the wheel, but was not sure. I called my parents. I first asked my mom if I was in high school. She assured me I had graduated almost two years earlier. She then told me I had a potter's wheel in the basement.  I asked if they would bring it to me in rehab. By the time the wheel arrived, in late March, I had made several significant accomplishments. The halo brace was unbolted from my head and was eating soft foods by mouth. I was still in a wheelchair, but I was able to stand unassisted and take a few assisted steps.

My Father brought in my potter's wheel. On the cart was another familiar sight. My old art teacher Rick gave me a bucket of clay. I held that gray clay. Almost subconsciously, remembered what to do. My first attempt at the potter's wheel was successful. It was not a great pot ... but it was a pot.

I was very thankful the basic skills remained. I left a bunch of pots for the people in the ceramics area by the time I was discharged. Each day I made great improvements in all my therapies. I still had some difficulty speaking but had made significant cogitative and physical improvements.

About that time, I had a falling out with a physical therapist named Reba. She was a tough former Naval officer. She worked me hard like a drill sergeant works a troublesome recruit. She had me do exercises over and over…  I could not stand her!

… Looking back she probably did me the most physical good; Thank you Reba and God Bless you!

You are not lucky!

The Rehabilitation center is large and has a staff of volunteers to match its size. One volunteer, I remember was a tiny elderly lady. She came around at various times and was very sweet to everybody. Her big smile lit up the room. One evening we began talking outside my room. During our conversation, I said to her, "I am lucky to be here" She looked at me and shook her crooked index finger at me and said in a very serious, seemingly angry, tone of voice. "You are not lucky!  You are here because GOD wants you here! He has a plan for you! Luck, has nothing, to do with it!"   I was dumbfounded and she walked away. I will always remember her, Thank you lady.

I do not remember seeing her after that … Less than a week later was my day of discharge. My parents were there. They had packed my things. I was sitting on my bed watching TV. The nurse entered my room and grabbed my wheelchair from its usually spot against the wall. She said, "Are you ready to go home? Move over here and I'll take you out"  I didn't want a wheelchair. On April 4th, 1991, at 2:30 PM, I carefully stood up, at the​ bed, and walked out of that rehabilitation hospital.

After the hospital

I may have been out of the hospital but was far from recovered.  My friends had moved me back with my parents. My Father and I relationship was restored. While waiting for the various agencies to start the planned outpatient therapies. My parents helped assemble a small pottery studio in their basement. With the purchase a small used kiln a studio was ready.

That small studio became my sanctuary. Many things in my world were unclear. But during the many hours I spent in that room each day creating art; my world became crystal clear.  

My lifelong friend, Mike, would drive me an hour north to buy clay and supplies. During those long drives and even today, he helps me rebuild the lost memories. I am very thankful to have him in my life.  I'm not sure where I would be in this world if not for Mike. 

Sometime, mid-summer of 1991, after a few months in the basement studio and just beginning some limited outpatient therapy; We met with a doctor for a review of the SSI disability application my parents submitted in January. I walked into the doctor's examination room; He asked me the usual questions: What is the day and the date, who is the president, etc. He had me read a few lines, aloud, from a magazine and perform some other exercises.

After the doctors' review was finished, he took the folder holding my medical records and tossed it onto a chair. Pointing at my records, he then said, "According to that … you should have the cognitive processes of a child and be in a wheelchair or at best, use a walker! Your recovery is a miracle. I am very happy to see your progress. And happy to say you have no need for SSI assistance." That was the best "rejection".

I continued working in the basement studio. The creative process was very healing and worked well with my other therapies. After months of outpatient rehab / work study.   I started working a part job at the mall.   With encouragement from my rehabilitation counselor I began part-time college in the fall of 1992.  I continued to receive some therapy while in school. Three years later earned an Associate of Applied Science degree in business.

During the 1990, I continued making pottery. I entered art shows when I was able. 

In late 1996, I got married and moved to Kentucky. I had a job in sales and worked part-time teaching the potter's wheel at a US Army Post Craft Center in 1997 and 1998. While in Kentucky received my adult Confirmation in the Catholic Church.

After my first marriage dissolved, in year 2000, I moved Pittsburgh and started a career in computer support. Life in the big city and job demands made finding the time to create art very difficult. I only made a few pieces a year. Art became an almost non-existent part on my life. The year 2006, I married again and moved to OH. We have started a family and life is good.

 Opened Doors

Since I have been married, God has opened several doors leading me back to the Art World. I feel it would be a sin not to make a serious effort in the art world. I cannot say, "I'm on a mission from God" but I was allowed to keep and further develop the ability of creating. I want to share my work with the world". I have begun to work with a local artist groups. I will teach again when possible.

During the process of setting up a studio, in ohio, I have met some very helpful artists. Some local and others from around the country. The opportunities are very exciting! 

I am now starting to establish myself in the local art community. I have my works in several galleries and have begun to participate in some grass roots efforts of the local art scene.

I realize now, if not for the 1990 accident I probably would not had fully joined the church and 'Pottery' would had been just a nice memory of High School.

 

Thank you for reading, God Bless!

Christopher Karg

 

Footnotes and updates.

1. usually left Art class covered in clay. While in (9th grade) Home-Ec class, I chose an apron as a sewing project … Amazing, I still use that apron today. (Pic in background of page)

2.    The patient's head is bolted to a medal halo. That halo is connected to four vertical bars and is securely attached to a hard plastic vest warn by the patient.

 

3.    The stages of cognitive development have been created, as a guideline, to better explain a head injury and recovery.     (I paraphrased) Stage 1: Coma. No response. Stage 2: Wax and wane, mostly sleeps, has moments of response. Stage 3: Localized response, is more alert for several minutes at a time, responds to simple commands. Stage 4: Agitation and confusion, my brothers compared my behavior, in this stage, to that of an angry and out-of-control, two year old.  I had destroyed a couple of wheelchairs and sections of the wall.  Stage 5: Confused Non-Agitated. Will have longer moments of focus. Will recognize some family and friends, easily confused because of significant memory loss. Stage 6: Patient will start to have an awareness of their situation. Able to concentrate for longer periods. Stages 7: Patient will appear to be normal and fairly independent. Patient will not understand his limitations and will still need supervision. Stage 8: Patient will be mostly independent, may need assistance in making compacted or emergency decisions. New learning takes longer. Social, emotional and intellectual capabilities may be lower than before the head injury.

 

June 2014

My lifelong friend, Mike, Lost his battle with Cancer less than a year after diagnosis. He may not walk with us today but he will never be far away.   I cherish all the memories we had and know that now he isn't suffering... I ask all of you to say a prayer for the family of Michael Snow. 

2017

I regularly participate in regional art shows in Ohio and Pennsylvania.  










FIRE TO PROMOTE
​Karg Pottery​