‘Still Terrell’

When Terrell Salmon woke in the middle of the night one early April morning to feel a tickle in his ear, he thought it might have been a ladybug.

He couldn’t brush it off.

Frustrated, he hollered for help. Still groggy, Holly Salmon, his ex-wife, made her way down the hall to patiently sweep the phantom bug away.

“I hated doing it,” he said. “My life is getting over the fact that I feel like I bother her all the time.”

Terrell Salmon has been paralyzed since a freak fall last April.

He always went out the back door of his Lynchburg home, but on April 17, 2017 — a Monday morning — he used the front door. He slipped on the second or third step, and all of a sudden, he could not move.

Since the fall, Salmon has spent time in Carilion Roanoke Memorial Hospital and Salem Health & Rehabilitation Center and been denied entry to 300 nursing homes and spinal rehabilitation centers all over the country.

In February, he moved into a 500-square-foot addition built with him in mind off the back of his ex-wife’s home in Concord. Now he lives there 24/7, sharing the house with Holly Salmon, 47, and their daughter, Jordyn Salmon, 18, who will head off to George Mason University in the fall.

“That’s a lot to take on. It’s more than taking care of a baby,” Terrell Salmon said. “I don’t think either one of them knew what they were getting ready to take on. You’re taking care of a grown human being that’s in his right mind but can’t do anything for himself.”

***

Salmon grew up a typical boy who enjoyed motorcycles, football, lifting weights and hanging with his friends.

“I was always having fun, running around with my buddies, always playing outside,” he said.

At 47, he freely admits he never outgrew his love for motorcycles, which is what led him to a full-time job helping others find just the right bike at Harley-Davidson in Lynchburg.

He left his home that April day at about 6 a.m. and simply slipped. In two-and-a-half seconds, his world turned upside down.

“I was coming down a few steps, and the next thing I know, I’m trying to stop myself and couldn’t,” he said.

The motion of his steps sent him forward, unable to catch himself. He pitched forward and flipped over a brick wall.

Salmon fell on his neck and shoulders, causing an incomplete break to his spinal cord. He lay on the ground, unable to move his arms or legs.

Because the spinal cord damage also affected part of his vocal range, he only was able to cry a very shallow, “Help!”

“It was a big subdivision. There were people riding by, and I’m thinking, ‘There must be someone jogging down the road,’” he said.

He lay on the grass, praying to God.

Two hours later, Salmon was found and airlifted to Roanoke.

He stayed at Carilion Roanoke Memorial Hospital for five months as he and Holly worked to figure out his next steps, a process Terrell Salmon describes as “hell.”

“I wasn’t trying to walk again. I had small goals,” he said. “I wanted to use my hand again to operate the wheelchair or maybe I could move something or do anything, feed myself, scratch my nose, do simple things."

Rehabilitation centers wouldn’t accept him because he had too little movement. Others wanted Salmon to have a discharge plan to a long-term care facility.

“They wouldn’t take him because of his age or the level of care he would require,” Holly Salmon said. “There were no suggestions — just ‘good luck.’”

Unwilling to only visit her father in a facility, Jordyn Salmon insisted on bringing him home.

“We talked about, ‘What would this be like? Would you hate it? Would I hate it?’” Holly Salmon said. “My biggest concern was that someone would be there to take care of him, and it couldn’t always be Jordyn; it’s not up to her.”

***

While staying in the Salem Health & Rehabilitation Center from September until February this year, Terrell Salmon’s cousin, Mickey Harris — who Salmon’s aunt, Peggy Drinkard calls a “saint” — was working on a new safe haven for Salmon once he was discharged.

Harris said he woke up in the middle of the night soon after Salmon’s accident and knew he had to get involved somehow.

As the superintendent for Coleman-Adams Construction, Harris was able to get donated materials from area businesses — many of whom did not know Salmon — to build the $45,000 addition on the back of Holly’s home.

“To me, it’s not just her home — it’s the care she’s giving,” Harris said of Holly Salmon. “My part is so minute, it doesn’t mean nothing.”

The addition was built so it gives privacy to both him and Holly. It includes a long, wooden handicap ramp, doorways large enough so Terrell Salmon’s wheelchair can move freely in and out of a handicap bathroom, a small kitchen and a closet, as well as a nightstand, television and chest of drawers.

Salmon’s apartment is decorated to match his personality, with a framed photo of a collection of Harley-Davidson motorcycles and a shelf dedicated to Harley memorabilia. There is a painting on another wall created by Salmon’s grandmother of her home off Airport Road with a young Salmon sitting under a tree. On his dresser sits a wooden plaque that reads “GOD: I am in your hands, I know you won’t drop me.”

Jordyn Salmon and her father jokingly have named the space “The Handicap Hut.”

Prior to the accident, she saw her father about once every weekend. Spending almost every day with him now has made her realize how similar the two are.

“In some ways they’ve gotten closer, whether it’s realizing how alike they are,” Holly Salmon said. “I know it’s been tough on her.”

She recognizes this setup could be permanent, and she is prepared for that.

“I knew what I was getting into, whether anyone agreed with me or not,” she said.

Holly Salmon works with Davenport & Company, an investment firm downtown, as a client services associate working for a team of financial advisers and servicing their clients. She had been married to Terrell Salmon for a decade and divorced for another decade.

The two only spoke every so often, almost always about their daughter. Now she cares for him before and after work and on the weekends. Their relationship has evolved into a friendship during the past year.

“Probably the reasons, on the surface, we got divorced, probably aren’t there anymore,” she said. “After that many years and at our age, you still can turn into two different people. I may not think the same way I did 10 or 15 years ago, and he doesn’t either, and I guess it’s more like you’re friends. And we fuss; we still fuss about stuff. It’s not all sunshine and rainbows all the time, but it’s working, I think.”

Her life requires more planning now, and she has not yet been able to go away for a night since the accident. Though drastic, she worries if she leaves him home alone, something could happen, like the house burning down, and he won’t be able to do anything.

“He sits there and doesn’t do anything except sit there and worry about me having to do extra or more than he thought I was going to have to do, and I’m not upset with him about it; it’s not his fault. I’m still looking at it like this is something we have to work out,” she said.

***

Terrell Salmon is quick to say he enjoyed a normal day-to-day schedule before the accident. He was usually on the go, running from place to place. Now if he wants something to eat, someone gets it for him. If he wants to send a text or make a call, someone else is privy to the entire conversation.

“All of a sudden, I’ve been stripped of all aspects of life imaginable except for my thoughts,” he said.

During the week, he wakes up at about 6 a.m., and his aide Samantha Compton comes to wash his face, brush his teeth, feed him breakfast and give him his medications, which sometimes make him sleepy, so he dozes off for a nap. When he wakes up, Compton helps him bathe and eat lunch.

Then therapists start coming in.

“It feels like I’m picking up 500 pounds, and I’m not even moving,” said Salmon, who equates therapy to a full-body workout.

Afterward, he watches some television, gets changed again, is repositioned and has dinner.

“Most of the time, it’s a blur,” Holly Salmon said.

Nichole McKenzie, a licensed certified occupational therapy assistant with Centra Home Health, works with Salmon for one hour, twice per week, working every joint in his body.

Because he suffered an incomplete injury, doctors are vague on whether he will walk again, but that’s not yet a primary goal for Salmon.Following the accident, he only could move his head. After 11 months of physical and occupational therapy, he can move some toes, a thumb and has movement in his shoulders, wrists, hips, triceps and feet.

As long as Salmon’s caregivers and therapists continue making new progress and gains with his movement, McKenzie said insurance should continue paying for the therapy.

“Home health-based health care is getting them to a point where he can get out and go, making sure he can get dressed,” McKenzie said. ‘It’s not meant to be long term; it’s meant to get to the point where you can get out of the house safely. His case is different because he’s been denied other places, so we’re trying to do what we can to keep the ball rolling because if it stops, then all of this stops, too; all the new gains will stop.”

***

Terrell Salmon worked at Harley-Davidson on Timberlake Road on and off again for about 20 years. At the time of his accident, he was a fit specialist, working with customers to match them with the perfect bike to suit their needs.

His former boss, Wellesley Hargrove, owner of the Timberlake Harley-Davidson, described Salmon as smart, upbeat, prompt and productive. He never met a stranger, Hargrove said, and had a good work ethic.

“When he had the accident, we felt it,” he said of the staff of about 20 people.

On April 14, almost a year after the accident, Harley-Davidson held a fundraiser for Salmon and raised $22,000.

“When you own the bike, you’re part of an extended family,” Hargrove said. “They tend to rally around each other and support each other in times of need.”

Many times, this is done without the person in need knowing.

On this day, though, the entire parking lot of Harley-Davidson was packed with people waiting to see Salmon. This was his first official outing since his accident.

“He may feel at times he’s alone, but he’s not because there’s people rooting for him, and they believe in him,” Hargrove said.

Mike Almond, a friend of Salmon, visited him every week in the hospital and in rehab. He and his wife went on Christmas morning to see him and bring him gifts.

“It’s tough to know that when I leave, he’s still in the same situation when I got there,” Almond said. “It’s even tough when I’m there, just the small stuff, getting something out of the fridge and feeding him. That hits home when you experience it with someone who you are really close with.”

Almond said through Salmon’s experiences, he no longer sweats the small stuff or takes anything for granted.

“When I leave there, I know that my life is really, really good, no matter what’s going on,” he said.

Friend and former coworker Dennis Davis believes Salmon has a real story to tell and can be an inspiration to anyone who meets him.

“Terrell has a fire in him,” he said.

Salmon’s future may not include a motorcycle trip out West like he previously had dreamed, but his new aspiration is to one day be able to meet with other quadriplegics and paraplegics to help them through their journey.

“We don’t focus on the ‘can'ts’ — I can’t stand to be all drab and down,” he said. “People going through a tragic event in their life, they want to be bothered with you coming to see them.

“A lot of people felt like, ‘Oh, I can’t stand to see him that way.’ Then they realized I’m still Terrell. I’m still me.”