Part 3: Hurdles on the road home

PART THREE OF THREE

Brandi Coulter sat in the hospital waiting room, eyes locked on her cell phone, thumbs a blur as she text-messaged her friends. It was early October, and she and her sister, Brianna, now 19, were hoping for some good news about their fractured bones.

For two months, the sisters had dutifully worn their back braces like armor. They never left their home in Savage without first strapping on the hard plastic shells over their T-shirts or dresses.

But Brandi, 17, was itching to get her life back. She wanted to play soccer with her team just once, before her last high school season slipped away.

All she needed was for the doctor to say the word.

Dr. Walter Galicich, a neurosurgeon at Hennepin County Medical Center, walked into the exam room, flipping through their radiology reports. He glanced at the sisters, who -- just 14 months apart -- were often mistaken for twins.

"All right. Who's L-5, and who's T-12?" he asked, using medical shorthand for their fractured backbones.

"I'm L-5," Brandi said.

"Your X-rays look excellent," he told them both. "You're healing really well."

Brandi looked up expectantly. And the back brace?

"You got one more month, though," he said.

"Nooooo," she moaned, and buried her face in her hands.

It had been nine weeks since the Coulters' van had gone down with the Interstate 35W bridge, and there was no sign that life was returning to normal any time soon. Not for their mother, Paula, who was still in the hospital. Not for their father, Brad, who was unable to drive or work.

And not for Brandi or her sister, who just wanted their family to be whole again.

• • •

Paula Coulter winced as she pulled herself up from her wheelchair.

"My legs are just dead," she said. "It just hurts."

She gripped the parallel bars in the Hennepin County Medical Center rehab center, and looked skyward, summoning strength. Amanda Simone, a physical therapist, held on to her safety belt, coaxing every shuffle forward.

"Oh, man," Paula said, grimacing. After managing the length of the parallel bars, she flopped into her wheelchair. "I'm pooped," she said. "Should I be tired?"

"You did a lot this morning," Simone said.

Paula smiled. "I just need to catch my breath." And then she would try again.

Brandi, like her dad and sister, visited every day, often bringing her homework. She watched in admiration as her mom slowly learned to walk again, fighting for every step. Sometimes Brandi pushed the wheelchair behind her, in case Paula's legs gave out.

It was hard to believe how far her mother had come in just a few weeks.

For more than a month after the crash, she hadn't moved at all, in a virtual coma from a head injury. Now Paula spent her days in one tedious, arduous exercise after another, trying to rebuild her body and sharpen her mind.

Before the accident, she had been meticulous about her hair and makeup and clothes. Now, she wore her hospital "uniform" day after day -- sweatpants, sweatshirt and tennis shoes. Her long blonde hair had been shorn to a dark buzz cut, which barely hid the surgical scar. Her life was focused on one thing: getting strong enough to go home.

So it was bittersweet when Paula was released from the hospital on Oct. 5. They were not sending her home, but to a rehabilitation center in Golden Valley called the Courage Center.

Brandi and Brad arrived early to help her pack up her hospital room and lug her things out to the car. Brandi watched with a shy smile as her mom hugged the staff goodbye before she was wheeled outside into the rain.

After two months and four days, Paula Coulter was the last bridge survivor to leave the hospital.

• • •

A week later, on a crisp fall Saturday, Paula and her family drove to Eagan for a high school football game. She had promised a nephew that if his team made the championship, she would be there. Now, she was keeping her promise. For Brandi and her sister, it was a familiar sight: Mom and Dad, the ultimate fans, cheering from the sidelines. Only this time, Mom was in a wheelchair.

It was Paula's first day trip since the accident, and she wanted to make the most of it. After the game, she craved a Big Mac, much to her family's amusement. Before the accident, she turned up her nose at fast food. Now her taste buds had changed -- nothing tasted right -- and she was willing to try anything. So they swung by McDonald's, and then they made their way to the light brown house on Oak View Court.

The last time Paula had seen her home, she was dashing out for dinner on that hot first day of August.

Now, the leaves were turning amber and red, and she was wrapped in a blanket against the autumn air.

This was not the homecoming she had planned. Brad and the girls knew that Paula couldn't walk up the entry steps, and they weren't strong enough to carry her. So they sat in the driveway, gazing at their house, until neighbors spotted them and bustled over to help.

Once inside, Paula frowned at the clutter in her formal dining room. It was overflowing with cards and gifts that had piled up since the accident. She moved slowly in her wheelchair through the narrow halls, as her dogs, Coco and Gonzo, regarded her warily.

Being there felt weird, she told her daughters.

Brandi felt much the same.

For three months, she and her sister had dreamed of their mother coming home. Now that Paula was there, the reality began to sink in. Everywhere, there were hurdles she couldn't cross, stairs she couldn't climb, obstacles to her safety.

If she couldn't get upstairs to her bedroom, where would she sleep? Where would she shower?

How would they ever get back to normal?

As the van rumbled back toward the Courage Center, there was a sense of both sadness and relief. Paula wasn't ready to come home. And, clearly, home wasn't yet ready for her, either.

• • •

The plate-glass windows at Red Cross Headquarters overlooked the very spot on the Mississippi River where the bridge had once stood.

Brandi sat beside her dad as other bridge victims -- some in wheelchairs, some wearing body braces -- arrived in the packed conference room. A wall of TV news crews and photographers faced them.

Brad and the others were here on Oct. 25 to speak at a special legislative hearing. Even though it was a school day, Brandi had asked to go along, to lend her dad moral support.

He looked uncomfortable in his stiff plastic neck brace, and his eyes seemed sad. "On August 1st, we were traveling to Joe Senser's in Roseville," he began, his voice trembling. Brandi grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eye.

She watched her father describe feeling the bridge sway; crawling out of the wreckage; finding Paula, nearly lifeless, in the back seat. He talked about his wife's months in the hospital and at Courage Center. "She's there to this day, working hard to regain everything that was taken away from her on August 1st," he said.

Brandi wiped away tears. Despite all they had been through, she realized just how lucky they had been. Some in the audience had lost a husband or a wife when the bridge collapsed.

Her family had survived. Her mom would be coming home. It could have been so much worse.

• • •

An adjustable bed showed up in the Coulters' living room one November day. Someone had donated it to 18-year-old Jessie Shelton, another bridge victim, shortly after the accident. Now that Jessie had recovered, her family had shipped it on to the Coulters. And there it sat, blocking the way to the dining room, until they found a place for it.

They still weren't sure when Paula was coming home. Since moving to Courage Center, she had learned to walk, a bit unsteadily, without help. But she still used a wheelchair when she tired; and always, they worried about her falling.

Brad and the girls planned to set up a makeshift bedroom for Paula in the family room, next to the fireplace, in case she couldn't climb the stairs. They'd need wheelchair ramps, too. But that was just the beginning.

At Courage Center, Paula was surrounded by nurses and therapists whenever she needed them. Brandi wondered how she and her father and sister could possibly fill that gap. By now, they had shed the braces that confined them for so long. But were they strong enough to care for her by themselves? She knew that her mom would need a lot of help -- showering, getting ready for bed, cooking, leaving the house. She would need physical therapy for months to come, and someone to drive her.

It was unnerving to think how her mother would get by when everyone else was at school or work. Brandi, who had just turned 18, decided she could rush home at lunchtime to give her a hand if needed.

Bit by bit, the house was getting ready for Paula's return.

And bit by bit, so was her family.

• • •

Eleven days before Christmas, Brad and Paula pulled up to the house in their white Nissan Murano SUV. This time, it wasn't a dry run. This time, she was home for good.

Their next-door neighbors were waiting with a bouquet of roses. "Welcome home! So glad you're here," shouted Abby Katzmarek. Her daughter, Katie, 4, carried the flowers and a handwritten sign, "We love you."

"Thank you, Katie," Paula said softly, taking the roses. "Thank you. See you in a while."

The first snowfall had blanketed the lawn in white. Paula stepped onto the driveway and took her husband's hand. Then she walked, unsteadily, into the house.

A Christmas tree glittered in the front bay window. Sunshine poured into the kitchen through the patio doors. Coco and Gonzo greeted her with their shrill barks.

Paula shuffled to the kitchen counter and began unwrapping the roses.

Then the side door opened, and her daughters arrived, carrying white sacks of take-out sandwiches, letting the cold December air rush in. They hovered around the counter, watching their mom move around the kitchen, just as they had done thousands of times before.

Brandi grinned, as the pugs scampered underfoot. "Look, girls," she told the dogs. "Mommy's home for good now."

Paula smiled ever so slightly, and placed the roses into a vase, one by one.

Maura Lerner • 612-673-7384