Still Rolling Forward

Maybe One Day

Sometimes late at night, when the house is finally quiet and Jessica’s thoughts begin drifting instead of racing, she catches herself imagining another child.

Not now.

Definitely not now.

Life is already medically complicated enough.

Hospitals still happen too often.

The pressure ulcers still need constant attention.

Her body is still fighting battles every day just trying to stay stable and alive.

But maybe one day.

That thought still exists quietly inside her heart.

And honestly?

It surprises her sometimes that hope still exists there after everything her body has survived

Jessica already knows motherhood changed her life completely once before.

Elijah didn’t just become her son.

He became the reason she survived herself.

The reason she got clean.

The reason she stopped running so recklessly toward destruction.

The reason she learned how deeply love can transform a person.

So naturally, part of her wonders what it would feel like to experience that kind of love all over again someday.

Another little voice inside the house.

Another child to protect.

Another life to guide.

Another little person calling her Mom.

The thought feels beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

But reality complicates those dreams quickly.

Because Jessica honestly doesn’t even know if pregnancy is physically possible for her anymore.

After everything her body has survived, there are so many unknowns now.

The accident.

The surgeries.

The trauma.

The infections.

The wheelchair.

The medical complications.

Even her cycle barely feels normal anymore.

She only gets a period every six months or so.

And during quiet moments, that thought scares her more than she likes admitting aloud.

Am I even fertile anymore?

Could my body physically carry a baby safely?

Could I survive it medically?

Would it be dangerous?

Would doctors even allow it?

Jessica doesn’t know.

And not knowing leaves a strange ache inside her chest.

She knows eventually she’d need medical answers.

Scans.

Tests.

Appointments.

Maybe a CT scan.

Maybe an MRI.

She isn’t even fully sure which one would show what doctors need to see.

But eventually, if life ever moves in that direction, she knows she’ll have to face those questions seriously.

Right now though?

She tries not to spiral too deeply into the unknown.

Because there are already enough medical fears filling her life daily.

So instead she tells herself:

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

And honestly, that mindset helps her survive sometimes.

One bridge at a time.

One battle at a time.

One day at a time.

Still, the dream exists quietly.

Especially the thought of another little boy.

Jessica laughs sometimes because she already has names picked out in her head despite not even knowing if another child is physically possible.

Jared.

Aston.

Names that somehow feel strong and soft at the same time.

Names she imagines sounding nice beside Elijah.

“Elijah and Jared.”

“Elijah and Astom.”

She smiles every time she thinks about it.

Because even after all the trauma, part of her still allows herself to dream a little.

That matters.

A lot.

When she imagines another child, she almost always pictures a boy.

Not because she hates girls exactly.

Jessica simply always connected more naturally with boys and men throughout her life.

Even growing up, she never really fit into stereotypical “girly” friendships.

She hasn’t had a close female friend since grade school.

The drama, gossip, emotional competition — none of it ever felt natural to her.

She always felt more comfortable around guys.

More relaxed.

More herself.

That probably started during childhood.

Jessica grew up rougher than most girls around her. While some girls were playing with makeup or dolls, she was outside skateboarding, gaming, riding quads, and hanging around with her brother and his friends.

That environment shaped her deeply.

Skateboarding especially became part of her identity for years.

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years falling, learning tricks, getting back up, trying again.

Jessica loved the freedom of it.

The noise of wheels against pavement.

The independence.

The adrenaline.

The challenge.

Even now, after the wheelchair, she still misses skateboarding deeply sometimes.

Not just physically.

Emotionally.

Because skateboarding represented a version of herself untouched by hospitals and trauma yet.

Then there were the quads, dirt bikes, and side-by-sides too.

Jessica always preferred engines, speed, and outdoor chaos over social drama.

That lifestyle felt natural to her.

Dangerous maybe.

But real.

She understood dirt, bruises, adrenaline, and rough humor better than she ever understood fake friendships or gossip circles.

Even now, despite everything the accident took from her physically, those interests still live inside her personality.

The wheelchair didn’t erase who she was completely.

It only changed how she experiences life now.

Sometimes Jessica wonders what kind of mother she’d be to another child now compared to before.

And honestly?

She thinks she’d be softer.

Wiser.

More patient.

Trauma changed her deeply.

Motherhood changed her deeply.

Survival changed her deeply.

The younger version of Jessica lived recklessly because she thought she had endless time.

The current version treasures every peaceful moment because she knows time is fragile.

That changes how a person loves.

There’s fear attached to the idea too though.

Real fear.

Jessica worries about her health constantly already.

The infections.

The wounds.

The hospital stays.

The possibility of future complications.

Adding pregnancy into all of that someday feels both hopeful and frightening.

Because she understands now how serious her medical reality actually is.

And unlike when she was younger, she no longer ignores dangerous realities pretending they don’t exist.

If another child ever happens, it would require planning, medical supervision, honesty, and stability.

And honestly?

That thought alone proves how much she’s matured.

Years ago Jessica would’ve rushed into life recklessly.

Now she thinks carefully because she finally understands consequences matter.

Elijah sometimes sparks these thoughts too.

Watching him grow older makes Jessica emotional in strange ways.

He’s becoming more independent every year now.

Still her best friend.

Still incredibly close to her.

But growing.

That’s what children are supposed to do.

And occasionally, while watching him laugh or talk excitedly about something random, Jessica catches herself imagining another little voice inside the house someday.

Not replacing Elijah.

Never that.

Just adding more love.

Because love multiplies inside families.

It doesn’t divide.

At the end of the day, Jessica knows none of this may happen.

Life already surprised her enough times to know nothing is guaranteed.

Her body may not physically allow pregnancy anymore.

Doctors may advise against it completely.

Medical realities may simply make the decision for her.

And if that’s the case, she knows she’ll survive that grief too.

Because she’s survived everything else.

But until then, she allows herself to hope quietly sometimes.

Allows herself to imagine tiny future possibilities still existing beyond hospitals and trauma.

Because hope matters.

Especially after suffering.

And maybe that’s one beautiful thing Jessica learned through survival:

Even badly scarred lives still deserve dreams.