MOMENTS OF JOY, SADNESS, PAIN MARK RECOVERY
ance, and no guarantee that she’ll ever stand up again.
A 52-year-old wife and mother, she had the weekend off from her property management job when she went to visit a friend in Palm Springs. They drove to Las Vegas to see their favorite country act, Big & Rich, a duo that performed before Jason Aldean.
As bullets sprayed across the field that night, Litzenberg ran for cover. She darted out to grab a young woman who was shot when a man rammed into Litzenberg’s face, knocking her down as those trying to escape stomped over her.
She awoke in the hospital the next day unable to move the left half her body. Her daughter and sister drove in from Southern California, and have been at her side since. Her Palm Springs friend, Jennifer Hutchinson, got to safety without injury, as did another friend who joined them, Sue Buckley.
“My mom was always smiling. We’d go to country concerts 10 times a year. She’d take rides on Newport Beach on her bike. She was always outside, walking, exercising. She’s always been so bubbly,” says her daughter, Nicole Rapp., 21 “Now, she’s a whole different person. She’s just sad and scared of everything.”
The recovery has had its share of lows.
Last week, her daughter wheeled her to the lobby of Summerlin Hospital Medical Center to see the Stanley Cup, which was on display during a national tour. The crowd of fans gave Litzenberg flashbacks, and she started to cry.
Another day, her sister Cathy Hopkins was tapping her fingers on a wall as she passed the time in the hospital room. Litzenberg yelled at her to stop; the rhythm reminded her of bullets.
She spends four hours in physical therapy each day, usually leaning on a walker or held by a waistband as she drags her left foot behind.
But there have also been moments of progress and joy.
After a few days in the hospital, Litzenberg could move her fingers again. She got to cuddle up with a therapy dog, a black Labradoodle named Sophie. It reminded her of Beijou, her Shih Tzu back home. Nine days, she regained control of her left arm.
She tells her daughter to play the country music station on Pandora, and she still laughs and lights up she hears Big & Rich.
Every day, Litzenberg goes over her story with her family. The music, beer and dancing in the sun, and the blood, pain and screams at night. Doctors say talking about it will help her mind recover. They say it keeps her from hiding the memories only to have them pop up unexpected as the years ago on.
At the same time, she doesn’t want any reminders.
The city set up a center where victims could go pick up their belongings. Litzenberg had left her cowboy hat and boots behind that night along with silver Alex and Ani bracelets her daughter gave her as a birthday gift.
She ordered the family to not retrieve the items.
She tries to avoid the news. She knows a basic outline of the night. There was a man who shot from the Mandalay Bay. He killed people, he ruined lives, and nobody knows why he did it.
“There’s so much. Everybody’s got their different opinions and their different sayings and their different, you know, versions of it. Only the people who went through it and only the people who died know what really happened,” she says. “I know what happened. I don’t need to go that way. I just need to look at myself.”