GUNSHOT VICTIM WOKE UP SUDDENLY
INTO A LASTING NIGHTMARE
Published on TUESDAY, May 2, 1989 Section: Valley & State Page: B1
© 1989 The Arizona Republic
Byline: E. J. MONTINI, Republic Columnist
David Carey Jr. woke up suddenly, as if something inside him had exploded.
He could not move. His arms and legs didn't work. They wouldn't respond.
He couldn't believe that such a thing was possible. He was 19 years old, an athlete, a right-handed pitcher for Scottsdale Community College.
He must be dreaming, he thought. He must. What else could it be?
So he screamed, trying to wake himself from this nightmare.
He could hear his own voice, his screams. And he heard the panicked voices of his roommates.
But he still couldn't move. Something terrible had happened to him.
The nightmare was real. He understood that before losing consciousness.
Carey's roommates called for an ambulance.
It was about 3 a.m. on March 7. Some of Carey's friends had been horsing around with a 9mm pistol.
They had removed the weapon's cartridge clip, but had forgotten about the single bullet still in the chamber.
The gun went off.
The slug went through the door to David Carey's bedroom. He was asleep, face down, on his bed.
The bullet hit him toward the middle of his back, traveled up his spine and lodged in his jaw.
It woke him for an instant. Long enough for him to scream.
David Carey Sr. was asleep, too, when he was awakened by the telephone ringing.
David Sr. was in Florida at the time. He lives on a disability pension due to a heart condition.
He could tell by the sound of the voice on the other end of the line that the news was bad.
''I took my heart medicine,'' he said, ''before they told me what happened.''
A nurse described the accident. She told him that his son might not live out the day.
''I hardly remember,'' he said. ''I don't remember much except being here in the hospital with him ever since.''
We were talking in the lobby of the Samaritan Rehabilitation Institute, just
south of Good Samaritan Hospital. For the past six weeks, Mr. Carey has spent most of his days there, with his son.
At night, he stays at the Ronald MacDonald House.
''It's the only way I could do it,'' he said. ''We don't have the money for
anything else.''
Young David Carey is now kept rigid by a device known as a ''halo,'' a
fearsome-looking metal contraption that screws into a patient's skull and
keeps his head up, his back straight.
He can move his left arm a little, and has a bit of feeling in his right wrist, his throwing arm.
But that's about it. Doctors don't believe he'll regain the use of his legs.
''He has good days and bad days,'' his father said. ''Sometimes, he just wants to ask why this is happening to him.
And I can't tell him that. There's no answer that I have.''
On Monday morning, I saw David in one of the rehabilitation rooms at the
institute. He looked tired, thin. His voice is soft and hoarse from having been on a respirator for some time.
I told him something inane, inadequate, like, ''Hang in there.''
He whispered back, ''Thank you, sir.''
Larry Smith, David's baseball coach at Scottsdale Community College, said, ''This is a great kid.
He earned the respect of the players and coaches here because of his attitude, his hard work.
I can only hope that this freak thing, that you couldn't plan again if you tried, happened for some purpose.''
David Carey is without insurance. Because the accident happened off
campus, the school's insurer is not liable. Students from the school, however, are planning several benefits.
A dance and charity basketball game are scheduled for Friday.
And on May 13, a large outdoor flea market is to be held in the college's parking lot.
Proceeds from all the events will go to the Careys.
''Sometimes I look at him, and it hurts me so,'' David's father said. ''I can't do anything for him.
I can't tell him why it happened. I can't help him.''
There are many patients like David at the institute. They're the victims of
automobile or swimming accidents, of disease, whatever. I was told about David by students at the college.
They mistakenly thought a local professional-sports organization wanted to charge them for attending one of Carey's charity benefits.
When I found out that wasn't true, I figured I wouldn't write about David.
Accidents happen, after all.
Then I went to the hospital and saw his father. And saw him.
He is kept erect on a wheelchair by straps and the halo. His hands lie on padded armrests.
His fingernails are long. It's a small thing, I know, but it struck me that David Carey's fingernails grow, and he cannot stop them.
Just as I couldn't stop thinking about that one tiny detail as I was leaving.
As I was walking away.
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