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As told by Kim Loyd I’ve always been a strong woman, mentally, physically, and emotionally. I single-handedly reared my daughter and provided all she needed. My friends and family have always known me to be a formidable force, openly expressing my opinions, working hard, and giving from my shallow pockets to secure the most basic of needs for others. Strength and faith have always been my greatest assets. Eventually, I found and married Tim, a wonderful man who stepped into our family as the perfect addition. Tim and I were only steps away from leaving the corporate world and entering into our own small business venture, a specialty café serving gourmet grilled cheese Panini sandwiches. My life was near-perfect and each day I counted my blessings and gave thanks for all that I had. Everything changed one sunny September day in 2005 when I awoke in a hospital room, unable to move, my head locked in a medical halo. Tim stood before me, his eyes filled with tears as he stroked my hair. I was confused, but recalled my car being upside down, the sound of helicopter blades, and a voice saying, “We’re taking her to Methodist, not Parkland.” Suddenly, I was seized with the fear that life as I’d known it was over. Would I have the future I’d hoped for or forever remain in need of others to provide basic care rather than being able to take care of them? I remember driving home from the hairdresser that day. Dolled up in my favorite shorts and shirt with a great new hairdo, I was at my peak. I realized I’d left my phone at the salon. I turned the car around and began heading back to get my phone. This little detour radically changed my life. Suddenly, as if a person was sitting in the passenger seat next to me, I heard someone say, “Hold on! Don’t move!” It was at that very moment a car ran a stop sign and hit my car rolling it several times. The next thing I knew, the world in front of me was upside down. At the time, I had no idea I had broken my neck, clean through, in four places. Had my car made another half roll and sat upright, I could have died. Any movement of my head would have severed my spine. The doctors didn’t know what to expect in terms of my recovery, but said I was one very lucky woman. Nobody was sure if I’d walk again. Nobody could tell us what lay ahead for me other than several surgeries, transplanted cadaver bones, and great deal of physical therapy. To go from having everything I ever wanted to lying in bed unable to move, unable to take care of myself, was a nightmare. The thought of being a burden to my family whittled away at my spirit. My husband deserved more than a wife who needed constant care. My daughter deserved to have a strong mother. My grandchildren deserved a grandmother who could play games with them. And my mother deserved more than being on her knees praying for my life. I had to beat this, but I didn’t how or if I could. Nobody was sure. Why did I survive? There must have been a reason for my survival. Not knowing this answer was more painful than my physical injuries. All I knew for sure was that I had to heal. Otherwise, the dream of our little grill cheese shop might die. The dream of a true partnership with Tim would end and he would be by nurse, my caretaker. I refused to be anything less than he truly deserved. Although he always said he would change my diapers until the day we were both in heaven, I wanted more for him than an invalid wife. I had to be a strong, happy mother and grandmother. Strength and reliability were essential to all that I had been, all that I hoped to be, and all that I was. My friends and family deserved more than the pained woman I had become. Despite knowing my survival was miraculous, depression was my constant foe. With only my ability to think and speak, I slowly began to realize that my purpose was to give love and hope to others. As I healed, it became apparent to me I had to share my story as proof of the possibilities. But, how? Where? I desperately needed answers. Though my recovery was astounding, it left me physically challenged and unable to manage the duties of a café manager. Then, a friend suggested we open a popcorn and candy store. This, we believed, would save me the physical effort of running to and fro carrying piles of dishes in my arms. After 10 years of planning, 10 years of focus, 10 years of hope for our little grilled cheese store, it took only one day for us to decide to open a Mom and Popcorn Company, all because of the injuries from that fateful September day. Focused on our new venture, we set out to create the perfect place for families in the fashion of candy stores from days gone by, a place that encourages the child within to come out and enjoy the sweet temptations. Our store, covered in rich woods made even more beautiful by natural light pouring in the oversized windows at the entrance, has walls lined with wooden barrels and glass jars full of brightly-colored candies, both modern and nostalgic. The overflowing stock of taffy, fudge, chocolates, gumballs, mints, and bottled sodas in an old-fashioned cooler brings customers to our little piece of Mayberry in North Texas. All we lack is an outdoor rocking chair for Sheriff Taylor. I didn’t realize what this change in direction would afford me. Had we opened a café, I would never have been able to affect so many lives. Customers would merely have been hungry folks expecting superior service from a wait staff. Instead, customers come into our store out of curiosity rather than need. They are immediately greeted by the smiling faces of our fun-loving staff and the smell of freshly popped popcorn. Adults from all walks of life find themselves sharing memories of the moms and pops of their childhood. They bring with them their grandchildren and children who ooh and aah over all the treats laid before them. It’s a place of fun and laughter, and it is my stage. The atmosphere is disarming. Most people relish in all the colors, scents, and nostalgia of our little store. Occasionally, however, there are those unaffected by our staff or all of the wonderful goodies we’ve set out. Since it’s nearly impossible not to be taken back to summer fun of younger days while in our shop, those especially sad, serious faces always give me cause for concern. When moved, I will share my story of survival. I’m always so deeply touched when, days and sometimes weeks later, I receive a call from a past customer who will share their story with me and thank me for taking the time to talk with them despite their seeming reluctance to engage with anyone. As I look back on the events that shaped my life, I realize the accident brought about our store which has become a hub for the local community. Although we re-invented our dream, I believe it was for the best. I am witness daily to the renewed youth in the adults who enter our doors. Local children visit time and time again just because they feel safe with us. I encounter people of all ages, from all walks of life, who I can truly “see” and positively affect their lives. My accident, as physically and emotionally devastating as it was, gave me a renewed sense of purpose. My survival gave me the opportunity to fulfill my life purpose. And our quaint popcorn and candy store has become a venue I never would have had before the accident. It is a place where people come in for sweets and treats, but leave with the knowledge that I am a friend who cares deeply about their lives. The bags of candy and popcorn under their arms are just icing on the cake. Comment on this story on our message board |
