Thursday, February 19, 2009
Source: RI.gov
EVENT: Rhode Island Department of Corrections Annual Employee Awards Ceremony
DATE: Thursday, February 19, 2009 TIME: 9:00 a.m.
LOCATION: R.I. Department of Mental Health, Retardation and Hospitals Eleanor Slater Hospital George C. Arnold Conference Center in the Regan Building 111 Howard Avenue Cranston, RI 02920
Saturday, April 19, 2003
The crowd is gathered tightly around Ring 2. The typical calls and cheers are a little louder than usual. The faces seem a little more intense. I wander down to the ring curious about what is happening. At a karate tournament we are fairly used to the tremendous energy and talent our young star performers have. We are used to looking out among the crowd and seeing a spinning body spring into the air, twist, kick and back down. Another stuck landing, another blinding combination… I really want to see what is generating this level of interest.
As I approach the ring, I realize that it is the Junior Black Belt Grand Championship round. Kids of all ages and sizes line the ring waiting for their chance to perform. They are all winners in their respective divisions and all very talented. In the ring is Miss Tori Andreozzi, a 12-year-old Black Belt. A petite young lady who is as intense and focused as any competitor of any rank or age that is in competition this day. Her form is flawless, stances low and rock solid, every movement calculated and crisp. She is a joy to watch.
I wait in anticipation as the judges calculate the scores. There are many champions in this round and with the level of competition present on this circuit nothing is ever easy or taken for granted. It is won or lost by the slightest slip-up, usually by a margin of a hundredth of a point.
Finally, the center referee announces that we have a tie. The tie is between Miss Andreozzi and her elder sibling Robbie Andreozzi. Robbie, who is a 14-year-old Black Belt rising star, has a résumé that includes many Grand Championships, State, National and World titles. One can only imagine at how much the younger Andreozzi has anticipated this day. The countless hours of practice, the numerous karate lessons, the patience of practicing a form over and over again until it is as nearly perfect as humanly possible. She finally has her big brother right where she wants him, he is in her sights, and he is her yardstick to measure up to.
I am waiting to see how this plays out. Will the judges have the competitors turn and they choose the winner by pointing in the direction of their pick? Or will they go again? Tori puts matters to rest as she strides over to her older brother, carefully looks him in the eye and states, “You and I are going again, buddy”. I love it. This kid has such great courage and determination! The competitors are back in the ring and though their styles are quite different I have to admit that they are both masterful. I am so proud as they proclaim Miss Andreozzi the winner, and it is obvious how very proud her older brother, and her parents are of her.
This was a great moment and I believe it would make a great story. It truly was a champion’s fight, but sadly this is neither the fight nor the end of this story. Tragically, a vehicle in a hit and run accident, struck young Tori Andreozzi on Wednesday, March 26th. Left for dead on the side of the road she never completed her daily walk home from the school bus drop. She was rushed to the hospital, unconscious, not breathing. We lost Tori at that time but the brilliant work of those special people who help us at the worst of times brought her back. She was transported to Hasbro Children’s Hospital in Providence, listed in critical condition and giving little chance of surviving.
Still hospitalized, her family rarely leaves her side. And for the people who know the Andreozzi family we have sorely missed seeing them all together at the Don Rodrigues Karate Academy in Warwick, RI where Tori, Robbie and their mother Cathy have all achieved their Black Belts. Her mother Cathy, with her ever-present smile and kind words, is a help to anyone who asks. Robert Sr., quick with a joke or sage advice, is a friend to everyone. They spent many hours with their “family” at the karate school as they coached their children towards the pinnacle of the sport they love. With the exceptional family she has could Tori be anything but the exceptional kid she is?
And, did I mention this kid’s courage and determination? This kid is a fighter and she is still fighting. The ring is gone and the crowd is smaller but she fights on. Battling numerous fractures in her arms, legs, pelvis, and torso. And suffering through multiple operations as the surgeons try to restore her limbs, and that angelic face which was so cruelly injured by a 3000-pound machine in the hands of an allegedly impaired driver.
Unfortunately, the worst of the injuries is the hardest to repair. The brain is still largely a mystery even to the most brilliant of us all. And while we have no choice but to wait and see if her brain can heal we have seen the signs. Although she is thus far unable to speak and lacking of much motor function, when the tears come as her friends must leave at the end of visiting hours, or she displays obvious signs of discomfort when a certain nurse shows up, we know that Tori is still here.
She has a long road ahead with a burden that she shouldn’t have to bear, but one that may ultimately affect the quality of her entire life. I wish you all could have seen her at that tournament which seems so long ago now. I wish you could have watched the courage and determination, the strength of character, and the pride. She was a joy to watch. But most of all I wish that everyone does get to see it and that this special child wins her true champion’s fight.
Friday, March 26, 2004
A moment. A snapshot. A space. A place in time. Our lives are filled with them. Some moments are those of glory that you relive over and over. The emotion they create is so powerful it evokes a physical reaction. You feel a warmth shower over you. It’s as if a burning light has been placed deep inside and the heat it generates fills every fiber of your being. And then there are those moments, those snapshots, those spaces and places in time that bring a different emotion. These are the moments that irrevocably change life. These are the moments that leave an indelible mark on your soul. These are the moments you wish never happened. The moments you wish could be erased from time.
Some of these moments are seemingly insignificant in the scheme of things. Yet, no matter how small even these moments can alter relationships and change the course you are traveling. A question, unasked. A phrase uttered in a particular way. A task undone. An impulse let loose. There are things I have done, things I have said, that have produced moments such as these. Moments, that as soon as the words are coming out of your mouth or as soon as you feel your body moving you begin to regret. And yet, as much as any of these moments in the present can affect your future, they do not even approach the enormity of other fateful moments.
And so it is that 365 days ago a careless, reckless, irresponsible individual intersected with my beautiful, perfect and loving 12-year-old daughter. That moment, that space, that place in time is one of those irrevocable, indelible moments. To think that just seconds on either side could have resulted in a different outcome. But somehow, cruelly, fate decided, and that moment was born.
To this very day, I still feel that moment. I ever so clearly remember sitting in the living room talking with Bob anxiously awaiting the children’s return from school. I ever so clearly remember hearing a howling like that of a wounded animal. Immediately, something inside knew. We ran. Ran to the door, screaming Rob’s name. And, before he could answer, my eyes told me. Tori. Where was my baby? I have never and hope to never again see that look in his or anyone else’s eyes. His voice, hoarse, throaty, screamed, “she’s been hit, oh my god, she got hit by a car”. We were out into the yard and into the road before he could even finish. Running, running, not knowing what we would find. And there, there in the distance laying all alone was our little girl. Lifeless.
Not only in her body, but in her face. Oh my god, her face. That beautiful child with the porcelain skin which was now an ashen gray, seemed to have lost half of her face. And those eyes, big brown chocolate laughing eyes, were swollen and empty. Screaming. I just remember so much screaming. Poor Robbie kept screaming, “is she dead, is she dead?” And, Bob, dad, protector of his children, frantically scanned the crowd asking “who did this to my baby?” Somehow, I remembered, as a baby the way Tori would react to getting hurt. If we made a big deal out of it, she did. If we remained calm and seemed in control, she was. And so taking Bobby’s arm I asked him to talk to his little girl and to let her know we where there and that we loved her. And he did. And he held and stroked his little girl. Wanting to cradle her in his arms and yet knowing she was so fragile, motionlessly hanging on. Although to look at Tori it didn’t seem as though she could or should still be with us, she had a pulse. I witnessed her belly heave and loosened the snap and zipper on her jeans. I just remember thinking they were her favorite capris. It was the first day she had worn them.
And then, help was there. We were carefully moved aside to let rescue personnel get next to our child. It seemed an eternity. Yet within minutes they were taking her into the ambulance for transport. No words were spoken. And at that moment our family was separated. Bob and Rob needed to go off with detectives for Rob to answer questions. I watched my men walk away clinging to each other, clinging to hope. As Tori was put into the back of the ambulance, I was gently turned away. I proceeded to the front passenger door. The ambulance was just getting ready to pull away and the driver looked at me sympathetically. He reached a hand towards me to comfort. It seemed to take forever. The chaos of that ride seems so unreal even to this day. It was as though I was watching through another’s eyes. I do remember sitting backwards on my knees, clutching the sides of the seat and praying quietly to the heavens above. And then, I knew. I knew the moment her heart stopped. I saw it in her body and I saw it in his face. Wanting to scream and wanting to clutch my baby close, an inner voice took control. I heard my own voice calmly calling to Tori, assuring her of our love and begging her to stay. The young man tending to my daughter seemed startled and alarmed to realize I was present. I managed to assure there was no need to be concerned about me, just to concentrate on Tori. And, that is just what he did. Where it not for the persistence, the skill and determination of that young man coupled with a guiding heavenly hand, the ride would have ended very differently.
When we were greeted at the first emergency room by social work and chaplain staff they lead us down a corridor to the family room. I could not, would not, enter that room. It irrationally felt to me that if we didn’t enter that room then death could not touch us. We stood in the hall. Stood hanging on to each other until a nurse offered us a moment to be with Tori before we continued on to the trauma center. I can’t begin to explain what those next few moments were like. We walked into a cold, stainless brightly lit room and in the center was our child. She lay motionless, without expression. They had carefully pushed back her hair and wiped her face for mommy, dad and Rob. A gentle whisper told us it was time to go. The next journey seemed even longer, more desperate. At this time we still had no idea as to the extent or severity of her injuries. Details didn’t matter at that point. Only saving our child. When we arrived at Hasbro staff flew into motion and we awaited word. At the first hospital I had Tori’s favorite stuffed animal brought to us. Tori, even at 12, always carried Baby with her whenever we traveled. I carried that animal with me and held him tightly to my chest. Someone appeared with a small jar. Inside were Tori’s rings. I just remember Bobby holding tightly to that jar, so tightly his fingers were red. He clutched those rings to his chest for hours. Sometime much later I remember gently prying the jar from his hands. People. Family. Friends. Dear sweet friends who rushed to our side. In addition, the band of police personnel around us swelled. Tori was stabilized and prepared to go to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. Once there, we gathered in the family room. That room was to become the hub of our lives for the next several weeks. Friends spilled into the hallway as word of the accident spread. Unfortunately, as we clung to one another a newscast told the rest of the story. An unbelievable story of an individual, who not only left our child at the side of the road to die but continued on her way to strike another vehicle. Now that individual had a name and a face. And, something, I can never erase from my mind, I saw the vehicle, and the damage, staring at me from the television screen. Somehow our circle of friends, and more importantly, Tori, survived those next few hours. The team surrounding Tori included many physicians from many different disciplines. Neurosurgeons to relieve the pressure inside her head, orthopedics to tend to the many fractures and broken bones causing massive bleeding, plastic surgeons viewing the damage to her face and foot, intensive care doctors, radiologists and general surgeons, all paraded in and out of the family room. It would be days before those same doctors would be able to tell us that Tori was stabilized and would stay with us. Ironically, it would be just after that joyful news that we would be hit with the next blow. An MRI told the story of extensive damage to her brain. Bob and I sat together holding hands listening in disbelief and with a heavy heart to the words the physician spoke. There were certain things they could assure us. There were certain healing processes they could predict. The broken bones, aided by more surgeries, would heal in time. The gruesome slashes to her face and foot would mend. Her brain, however, would not.
I remember thinking in the first few hours she lay in the PICU, how little she looked like Tori. Her features were so distorted, one side of her face terribly bruised and misshapen. It was impossible to look at her without your eyes gravitating to the cruel split below her lower lip. It would be several days before they would attend to that gaping wound. There were so many other priorities. Her bones have healed and her scars are mending. Some things may remain to be seen. One growth plate was fractured and time will tell if it will allow growth at the same rate as the uninjured one. Her foot, also so cruelly ripped open required several surgeries and finally a skin graft to close the wound. In addition, the foot was so severely crushed wires were placed inside to help support and rebuild. Tori overcame many obstacles early on. One can only imagine how much her physical condition, built from years of martial arts training, and her determination aided her in this quest. When Tori began breathing on her own she was extabated without a problem. Slowly, as each tube, each bolt was removed Tori looked more and more herself. And now 365 days later one priority remains. It is still, the unknown factor.
And so each day as others her age go off to 8th grade, the malls and dances, Tori gravitates between a wheelchair and a hospital bed. Instead of running through the halls of Deering Middle School with friends, she is pushed down a corridor in a brain injury center by caregivers and therapists. Jeans and hoodies have been replaced by stretch pants, and jerseys.
Some things have not been replaced. Her tight circle of friends remains the same. In fact, the circle of love engulfing Tori has widened. And though we can never ever come to understand or accept why, there are some lessons to be learned.
Take the time to make those controllable moments in your life, the kind of moments that you will treasure. Make the most of those moments. Say what is in your heart and do what is your hearts desire. Take a moment to hold close those you love dearly and tell them how you feel. Once a moment has passed it is gone forever. Don’t regret what you could have done, could have said. Live in the moment. Hope for the future.
And so, one year later, we still wait. We wait for that moment, that breakthrough, that possibility that time does make a difference. Time does heal. Live in the moment. Hope for the future. That’s what I do.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Source: Corrections.com
The 50 or so fidgety, flip-flop-wearing, high school students sitting in the prison visiting room were asked to be honest if they could. The question: how many of you have ever driven a car after consuming alcohol, or gotten in a car with someone who has been drinking, or know a friend or classmate who has done either? All the kids respond by raising their hands.
This is the Zero Fatalities Project, a Rhode Island Department of Corrections (RIDOC) initiative to prevent drinking and driving among the state’s youth. From April to June, RIDOC invited 1,700 high school students, parents, and community members to small, inmate-panel presentations. The inmates are all serving long sentences for DUI and reckless driving offenses. Sometimes speaking to groups of 200, the panelists talk about their crimes and the effects their poor choices have had on their lives and those of their victims’ families.
Several agencies are backing the project, including the Rhode Island Police Chiefs Association, Rhode Island State Police, the state’s Family Court, Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD), and the state’s Attorney General’s Office. Assistant Attorney General Jay Sullivan, who prosecutes DUI crimes for the state, begins each presentation with a sobering wake-up call for the audience.
“Teens kill teens and teens kill innocent victims,” Sullivan says one Wednesday morning to a group of juniors and seniors from Coventry High School. In the last two years, 25 teens were killed on the roads in the state because of speed or alcohol. That translates to one teen a month. Sullivan has witnessed the destructive toll these cases take on so many lives.
“All of these guys [sitting on the inmate panel] have fond memories of high school,” Sullivan says. “But I am unfortunately a part of their young lives now. Don’t make me part of your high school memories.”
In Rhode Island, if someone under the influence of alcohol kills a person, the maximum sentence for the driver is 15 years. The shortest sentence on this morning’s panel of five inmates is seven to nine years; the longest is 15. The average sentence of the group is nine years.
“Sitting where you are today, you have all the power in the world right now,” a young inmate tells the group. “It might not feel like it, but you do, and you should realize that and not make the decisions I did.”
As the inmates, two women and three men, take turns telling their stories, it becomes clear that at one time they had a lot in common with the young individuals sitting just a few feet away. Two of the panelists even went to Coventry High School. One was a student when her accident happened.
“Listen to your parents,” she says. “They love you and care about you and are trying to protect you. They have your best interests at heart.”
Most of the panel are in their early twenties, chosen for their age so they might make a connection with their mostly high school-age audiences.
“You have the opportunity to learn from other people’s bad choices,” one panelist says.
“Decide before you leave your house how you are going to get home,” another advises. “Plan out how you’re going to get home, don’t get complacent. This will absolutely happen to you. Don’t get in a car and drive, don’t get in a car and be a passenger. My best friend died during a crash while he was driving under the influence.”
“I saw friends die in drunk-driving accidents in high school, and that didn’t stop me,” another panelist adds.
Zero Fatalities also offers a view from the other side of these terrible tragedies. After the inmates speak, Cathy Andreozzi, the mother of a victim of a drunk-driving accident, slowly takes to the podium to tell her story.
“You’ve heard a lot of pain and regret today,” she says. “They wish they could take it all back. I have a lot of pain and regret too. My daughter, Tori, is still alive, but it’s not nearly the life she’s supposed to live.”
Andreozzi’s 12-year-old daughter was walking down the side of the road in the middle of the day when she was struck by a drunk driver, leaving her with devastating physical injuries and a traumatic brain injury. She can no longer speak, eat, or care for herself.
“Life as you know it can change in a moment and there is no warning,” Andreozzi says. “When you think about your lives so far, you’ve had all your choices made for you. As you get older, you start to make choices for yourself. But these young people in jail have reverted to having their choices made for them. This is not the way it’s supposed to be, but it’s because of one bad choice. I will never give up hope that the future doesn’t have to be the same for other people.”
The Zero Fatalities sponsors share that hope.
“I’m not here to scare you, I’m here to tell you the truth,” Sullivan says to his young audience.
An important part of that truth is that young people are empowered to make the right decisions to save their and others’ lives. As the high school students file out at the end of the program, the panel, sponsors and victims hope they’ve relayed that well enough so these kids won’t have to return to tell their own tragic story.
(Original article on Corrections.com: http://www.corrections.com/articles/18952)
