My name is Sofiea Bussell [Clerico] born December 30th, 1938, as the ominous clouds of war threatened Europe. I was welcomed by five brothers, 27, 24, 21 18 and 14. Mom and dad were small farmers in Rosedale, a rural community near Bakersfield. All but one of my brothers would soon be serving our country in World War II.
Mom and I moved into a small cottage in town when I was about four and half. It was a pretty, comfortable small house with (what seemed to me) a large yard. Mom soon added a lathe house to the garage to assist her hobby and passion — gardening.
To me the best thing about living in town was that the milkman delivered not only milk through a little pass-through in the kitchen, but do-nuts! At the ranch mom sold milk and butter to the milkman. A lot of work. The mailman came twice a day, so a note to a friend in town could be mailed in the morning and delivered in the afternoon. (Almost as good as e-mail.) Best of all, instead of requiring a drive of six or seven miles, the grocer and pharmacist were a short six-block walk.
The house was double-wall construction, a luxury to us. Dad had built the rambly, five-bedroom ranch house himself … yep, single-wall construction. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer and always dusty.
Mom had a bedroom and I had a bedroom. Dad visited us sometimes. The third bedroom was the den, the sewing room, the hobbies room, the extra bedroom, a pass-through to the only bathroom and the sitting room. The wrap-around porch was a wonder. In all but the hottest and coldest days it was almost an extra room. The living room and dining room were for company.
We still had the ranch house. Mom and I traveled back and forth. She went to the ranch to clean and to gather fruits and vegetables from her gardens. I loved the house in town and didn’t mind at all when we eventually stopped the trips to the ranch. Mom sold it when I was seven to prepare for her sons’ transition from military life.
As a child, I most enjoyed the short walk to the lovely East Bakersfield library. At the age of only six or seven I found I could walk over and check out all the books I could carry home. i read voraciously. Mother would come in and kiss me good-night, then turn out the light. When she was safely quiet it her room, I would silently get out the flashlight and read under the covers until all hours. Books were my friends … and better conversationalists than many of my acquaintances.
I was never up in the morning when mom was out working on her beautiful flower garden. In the summer, at 8 or 9 o’clock she would come in to fix my breakfast. The day would begin.
As things turned out, my love of reading was to get me through some difficult times.
Bob Clerico was attending East Bakersfield High School when I was a sophomre and he was a junior. He was an outstanding athlete and President of the Letterman Club. As a senior he was named an outstanding student. We dated for several years and married in November of 1956. He finished Bakersfield Community College and Fresno State University. We moved back to Bakersfield where he began his career and I went to work as a clerk, then a secretary. Sadly, our marriage did not work out. We divorced in 1969.
Julie was 13, Kevin 12 and Erin 9 at the time of the accident. Along the way I had managed to complete courses at Bakersfield Community College amounting to about two years work. English was my favorite subject. On the day I was injured. I’d been divorced for three years. We were living at the Bussell Ranch where my remaining three brothers farmed about 16 miles from Bakersfield.
Employed as Administrative Assistant at Belridge Oil subsidiary, Belridge Farms, located between Wasco and Lost Hills, I drove 27 miles to work every day and back again in the evening. Many days I drove the 45 miles to Bakersfield to drop off mail, take the kids to lessons or shop. I knew I was spending too many miles on the road, but limited finances dictated there wasn’t much I could do about it. I couldn’t move yet.
At the time I was a member of a local charitable sorority. My social life revolved around its various activities. Divorced for a couple of years, I had dated a little, but nothing serious had developed. Once, in reply to the questions, “What I was looking for in a husband?” I replied, “Someone sensitive, perhaps a poet.” It wasn’t a candid answer. What I hoped for was someone who would be a good father.
As other women in my position have also found, such men are not easy to find.
When my work schedule permitted, I was active in the PTA. Local politics always intriiqued me, but I had not yet found time or means to take part in a meaningful way, other than voting faithfully.
Three young children and a full-time job left me with little time for hobbies. However, if time presented itself, my overriding passion since childhood was reading. I had always wanted to be more knowledgeable about history.
Things would soon change and I’d have time to read history.
The accident happened January 12, 1972.
Looking forward to the events of the day ahead, I was to be named Vice President of Safety at Belridge Farms. Of course, I left home a bit early. I was making my way on the wet pavement, through the fog. Suddenly, the car steering wheel was spinning furiously. I couldn’t grip the steering wheel to control the car. It was swerving wildly from right to left on the wet pavement.
My seat belt wasn’t fastened. I’d taken it back to the dealer four times, pleading to get the seat belt made fastenable. No luck. It remained unusable. But I kept the receipts furnished by the dealership with the request clearly stated
Suddenly the car began a vicous wobble and I was thrown out. My leg had moved up as the car had moved up (or down). My leg hit the door handle at just the right angle. I was thrown out. Sailing through the air I prayed for a soft landing. No such luck. I landed in the rocky bottom of a ditch, unable to move my legs.
It was only a few minutes until my co-workers saw my car and realized I was in trouble. Fortunately, one of them had a car radio. Soon an ambulance was there and i was on my way to the hospital. It seemed at the time we were going the wrong direction — but more of that later.
The paramedic was trying hard to keep me awake. I had lots of pain and the idea of falling asleep was very appealing but I struggled to do as he asked.
Soon we were at Kern Medical Center (45 miles or so). My eldest brother was called. When he arrived he was asked to sign the paper so I could be admitted. He refused and left abruptly. Clearly, he wasn’t concerned about what happened to me. I was now alone and most of the time — unconscious.
The problem shouldn’t have come up, but I didn’t have my insurance card with me. I had taped it to my typewriter so I could quickly process the insurance claims of co-workers — an almost daily occurence. None the less, the nurses managed to get my signature on the papers. The signature sprawled across the entire page.
They were convinced I was a “farmworker” because that was what my brother told them. He didn’t understand the difference between the Administrative Assistant and the field workers. Before that, I hadn’t realized how little he understood of what I’d told him about my life. Another long family story, probably better left untold.
In roughly six weeks or so they came to me with papers to sign so I could qualify for Medi-Cal (Known as Medicaid in other states). The hospital remained in confusion, as I had an ongoing salary and insurance — which paid all my bills at the time. But I made application anyway. At that time, I didn’t “qualify” for anything except Social Security. While I was poor, I wasn’t poor enough, it seemed.
The morning of my accident there were several other horrendous accidents which left various women with spinal cord injuries of various levels. One was a teenager who had had a tobagganing accident while at Frazier Park. Another was a young woman who was fighting with her boyfriend. To be certain she had the last word she had pursued him through the snow across the icy road near Tehachapi. She wound up with a permanent spinal cord injury.
The third accident that morning happened to the older mistress (no, not his younger mistress or his wife) of the neurosurgeon who was needed to do my surgery. She had shot herself in the head, but managed to remain alive. She also needed a neurosurgeon. The kind peoiple at Kern Medical Center transferred me to Memorial Hosptial to await surgery. Turned for yet another x-ray. I heard myself screaming. It was a hideous, unforgettable pain.
I was the very last to be taken to surgery. The hospital administrators did not yet know I had insurance. I was put off until last. The nurse stood in the hallway yelling at “whomever” that I should be taken into surgery immediately as I would not last much longer. Frankly, I was too weak to worry about it.
Eventually I wound up in surgery. The neurosurgeon bent over me to adjust something. It was clear he had been drinking. How do you tactfully suggest he might be too impaired to do surgery? I was still working out the approach I’d take when I lost consciousness.
When I awakened I was in intensive care. Unable to open my eyes, I had several questions for the young male nurse. He tried to tell me what I had been through and what would happen next. He gently explained as much as he felt I’d understand. He told me I had a concussion and had broken my back at level T-6. He said I would never walk again. My eyes would be okay in a few days. I remember trying, through the fog of powerful drugs, to figure out what the silver lining would be … how I would cope.
How, I didn’t know, but I did know I would do it. Somehow.
I spent the rest of January, all of February, March and a good part of April recovering at Memorial Hospital. Hospital care in 1972 was wonderful. I was fed well, spoiled rotten by the staff and had a ton of visitors. Learning I had many friends and well-wishers, but saw very little of my brothers, their wives and children. It was a clue I overlooked. It was several weeks before I could see my own children, whom I missed achingly.
Then I was transferred to Rancho Los Amigos in Los Angeles where I underwent rehab. They were wonderful, knowledgeable people. Nonetheless, I went through a dreadful, difficult period where I had to do for myself even though I wasn’t able to do for myself. At least, not for several long weeks. Thank heavens for the other patients and their generosity. Their families brought me food and spent time visiting with me.
Rancho Los Amigos was a marvelous place dedicated to the disabled of all description. There I saw so many different types and degree of disabilities. I saw disabled people who were coping quite well. On the other hand, some were getting by only because they found access somehow to alcohol and/or drugs.
My heart went out to the people I met there. Within a short time, I saw these people as inidividuals not as a group. They were distinct in every way … in the disability they suffered and in the way they dealt with it.
One well-meaning young doctor quietly suggested to me that I should try using pot. Shocked, I told him no. I tried to explain to him that I couldn’t bring myself to break the law, even a law I wasn’t too sure was right. I certainly couldn’t have used an illegal drug without my children knowing about it. Children imitate the behavior of their parents.
The young doctor explained I would probably spend a lot of time in bed and a lot of time in pain. He felt the drug would make life easier for me. Instead of taking his advice, I turned to books, which I loved so much. At that time, history was my first love.
They had a cart from the library that camet ’round every other day or so. The selection of books was not great, but it was certainly better than nothing. I was reading a book every day or two. It was all I could do.
Oh, yes. One fateful day a very kind lady from the nearby League of Women Voters reregistered me to vote. After Hubert Humphrey lost the presidency to Nixon, I was sure I wanted to switch my registration to Democratic. I was all set to vote when I got home. That one simple registration was to have considerable consequences in my life from then on.
When I was finally cleared to be allowed to sit in a wheelchair and go where I liked, I went to the telephone to call my kids in Bakersfield.
Finally, one hot day in August I told the staff that I truly needed to go home. I could not stand being away from my children one more day.
In the eight long months since the accident I had come to know who I was and what I wanted from life. I knew I loved my children more than any other thing in my life. Nothing else even came close. Further, I knew I missed working. If I could take care of my children, I would be fine. Work and caring for kids… is there anything else that matters?
My youngest brother, Al, drove me home to the little apartment I’d found before I was injured. The kids moved in with me. They had struggled while they lived with their father … a man not equipped by temperament to care for children.
We started over. A new way of life, new economic realities. All we had was each other, and our own optimism and drive.
Life began anew.