By Dana Stephenson, Guest Columnist

It was a warm October afternoon in 1997 when my boyfriend called and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. Being from the northeast and motorcycle season was almost coming to an end, I said sure.

I often wonder how my life would have played out if I had just stayed home that day.

It started out as a normal ride with another friend, until the friend took off down a back road. Being just 18, my boyfriend took off after him. Long story short, the road turned and we did not. We slammed head-on into a telephone pole at 85 mph. The brakes on a motorcycle don't work so well when the wheels aren't touching the ground.

I was airlifted to a hospital and was in critical condition for several weeks. I spent 10 months in the hospital and had at least eight surgeries for a fractured spine and pelvic bone, pierced colon, and bruised heart, lungs and kidney. On the outside, I only had a few scratches but I was lucky to be alive at all, considering I wasn't wearing a helmet.

Sadly, the worst was yet to come. I kept asking the nurses, “Where’s Mike?” The nurses would act like they couldn't hear me. I understand now they were just doing their job, but at the time I thought I was going crazy.

Three days into my hospital stay, I asked my dad the same question. He gave a simple reply, four words that I'll never forget: "He didn't make it."

Not only was this my first experience with broken bones, surgery and stitches, it was also my first experience with death.