When my twin brother Dan got into a devastating cycling accident in 2011, I didn’t hear about it from a doctor or family—I got a Facebook message. That message changed everything.
Dan and I are twins, and somehow, I just knew it was serious. Even before the doctor confirmed it, I knew he was admitted under a trauma name, and I knew it was bad. Really bad. He was in a coma, had a punctured lung, a broken neck and back, and later we’d learn he suffered some paralysis. I was in Colorado. Dan was in Arizona. It was spring break, and there were almost no flights. But I got there. One-way ticket, no idea how long I’d stay.
When I first walked into the ICU, they let me in after hours. Dan was hooked up to everything. The doctors told me, “We don’t know if he’ll make it through the night.” That night was terrifying. I learned that Dan only survived because his cycling partner—a cardiac surgeon—used a tire lever to pry his jaw open and open his airway until the ambulance came.
The next morning, after picking up my dad from the airport, my first stop was Walmart. I bought a simple notebook and pen—the tools that would become my lifeline in organizing the chaos that followed. I started making lists of everything that needed attention.
Dan was in grad school—I needed to contact his professors. He worked as a mechanical engineer at Honeywell—I needed to inform his employer. He had just signed a new lease on an apartment—I needed to break it. There were bills to pay, a bike that wasn’t paid for, concert tickets he’d purchased—all these details of a life suddenly interrupted.
I was 29. Working full-time. Living in Boulder. I’d go to the hospital in the mornings, work remotely, and spend the rest of the day doing errands, coordinating care, and trying to stay ahead of the storm before going back to the hospital to spend as much time with Dan as possible. Sometimes it was calling banks who refused to let me pay his bills—even with my own money. Other times it was managing a Facebook page with daily updates so I didn’t have to call or text 40 people a day.
When Dan finally emerged from his coma after about a week, new challenges arose. He experienced the confusion and psychosis that can come with brain injuries. One time I left briefly to buy jeans because I was freezing in the hospital, and they called me back urgently: “Your brother’s trying to break out of the hospital.”
When I returned, Dan was frantic. “Rebecca, we gotta go. I need these wheels for these cobbles,” he said, thinking he was in a bike race. Another time he was convinced we were being held by the mafia. It was heartbreaking to witness.
Eventually we realized the nerve damage was actually paralysis. I started researching specialists in spinal cord and brachial plexus injuries. Craig Hospital in Colorado became our goal. It wasn’t easy—there was an application process, we needed an air ambulance, and commercial flights were out due to his lung injury. I was ready to charge $15,000 on my credit card when a generous donor—someone in the cycling community—offered his private plane. The outpouring of support from his community brings me to tears to this day.
Dan spent three months at Craig Hospital. I drove there a few times a week, had dinner with him, talked to his OTs, his therapists. I even did seizure training so I could safely take him out in a wheelchair. We got him an iPad so he could stay connected. I brought a stuffed elephant he’d had since we were very young. We made his space feel as much like home as possible.
Eventually, he moved in with me and my partner. We put a hospital bed in the living room, then eventually figured out how to move it into a bedroom so he had privacy. But living together was hard. Dan was deeply depressed. He didn’t want help—but needed it. He’d get mad if I made him food, and wouldn’t eat if I didn’t. I was juggling work, caregiving, and mountains of paperwork and medical bills.
Friday nights, I’d go to Barnes & Noble with my black box of bills, making calls about insurance codes and tracking expenses. Dan also started seeing his therapist again and even though it was wildly expensive, it was incredibly important. I was constantly weighing what was best for him with what was possible for me.
There were painful moments. Dan lashed out often. I was exhausted. My partner saw it too—Dan would barely acknowledge me, but he’d greet my partner with kindness. It stung. And then there were the consequences of missed PT sessions, which would potentially cost us valuable progress if Dan missed the bus and I didn’t leave work to pick him up at home and drive him. I didn’t always know whether to step in or let Dan face the consequences.
Looking back, I wish I had set more boundaries. I wish I’d asked for more help. I wish I’d sought therapy for myself—tools to help process the overwhelming emotions of becoming a caregiver overnight at age 29. I needed someone to sit with me in the chaos. I learned to receive help from friends, colleagues, and even strangers. It really did take a village.
Most of all, I learned that caregiving isn’t about getting it all right. It’s about showing up—messy, tired, scared—and doing the next thing on the list. Every single day.
