Prep sports: Family, community still believe for Britton

Santa Clara • Sanitized with an antiviral facemask, latex gloves and a fluorescent yellow isolation gown, Autumn Shipp is approved to proceed inside Room 515 in the Acute Rehabilitation Unit at Dixie Regional Medical Center, where pictures decorate blandly painted walls with memories of her brother, Britton, young and vibrant.

On Day 69 of his natural coma after suffering a traumatic brain injury, the same 16-year-old boy, a three-sport athlete at Snow Canyon, breathes through a tracheotomy, sitting upright in a motorized wheelchair.

"It's hard to see your once-healthy little brother not be able to do anything for himself," says Autumn. "You don't know what he's going to be when he wakes up; if he'll be able to walk, or if he'll remember you."

As an activity for Snow Canyon's Sadie Hawkins dance, Britton and his date, Cassidy Ottesen, a 15-year-old classmate, embarked to a remote area roughly 35 miles north of Santa Clara near St. George in a side-by-side UTV to shoot firearms on the morning of Nov. 1.

Cold skies eventually turned to hailing rain, forcing the teenagers to return to their cabin, located a few miles back. More concerned with fleeing the storm, and figuring the journey was short, they disregarded protective helmets and seatbelts.

Britton and Cassidy, who were five minutes ahead of the group, were ejected from their utility terrain vehicle when it struck standing water while traveling approximately 20 miles per hour. The UTV flipped once, its roll-cage collided with Britton's skull, crushing it instantly.

"A matter of six inches, and it might have been a broken leg," says Britton's father, Jesse Shipp. "If he had a seatbelt on, there would have been minor scrapes."

Despite a severe laceration on her leg, Cassidy, untrained in first aid, crawled to Britton, turning him onto his side before clearing his airways with her fingers. She waited for help to arrive, shielding the pelting hail with her jacket, unsure if the young boy in her arms would survive.

$20,000 concussion • Jesse Shipp perched on a baseball bucket hidden beneath the shaded dugout, shouting instructions to his youngest son, Ledger, earlier that same morning. Residing in the heartland of Utah's Dixie for the past 25 years, Jesse and his wife, Sommer, often interacted with the community, mostly through youth sports.

"I've coached all my kids," explains Jesse, father of Autumn (age 20), Britton, Greyson (14) and Ledger (8). "We don't take family vacations, we go to tournaments. It's where all of our greatest memories are."

Autumn was a multi-sport athlete for the Warriors too, signing with the University of Utah's softball program. Britton's true love was baseball — he was a pitcher and leadoff hitter — but his powerful arm also translated perfectly at quarterback, while his hand-eye coordination helped him excel at point guard. A competitor at heart, Britton constantly tangled in the action.

Spending the afternoon on the baseball diamond was an ordinary family afternoon until Sommer received a concerning text message: Britton had been in a four-wheeler accident and lost consciousness.

"That's all we knew," Jesse relates.

Unalarmed by the vague text, Jesse fumed at the thought of his son acting reckless. Raised among avid hunters, Britton had experience with off-road vehicles.

Nobody panicked. It was probably just a concussion. Sommer said she would keep Jesse updated from the emergency room, uncertain if they even needed an ambulance. Either way, Jesse didn't need to stop coaching.

"About 25 minutes later, one of the mothers on the team came over," Jesse says. "[She] told me: 'You need to go. They're life-flighting Britton.'"

Paramedics needed the medical helicopter to access the faraway location, Jesse reasoned. Britton was simply knocked out, and now his concussion was going to "cost $20,000." He walked calmly to his truck, driving normally to Dixie Regional when his stomach turned, a sinking feeling that something was gravely amiss as he watched the propellers slowing on the rescue pad.

Jesse sprinted across the parking lot, finally reaching the helicopter as two sheriffs impeded his progress.

"What are you doing?" they questioned.

"That's my boy on there," Jesse cried, pushing through their restriction.

"We don't know if it's a female or a male," the sheriffs reasoned as Jesse screamed for answers. The cargo doors swung open.

"I could see it was him," Jesse said.

Bloodied, intubated and comatose, Britton appeared lifeless. Jesse, whose family follows the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, felt compelled to offer a blessing. But there wasn't time.

"My wife asked, 'How bad is it?'" Jesse relates. "They said, 'It's as bad as it gets. If we don't hurry, he's not going to make it, and we're not sure he's going to make it anyway.'"

Traumatic brain injuries are classified using the Glasgow Coma Scale, an assessment ranging from 3 (essentially brain-dead) to 15 points. It measures level of consciousness and neurologic function based on motor and verbal responses and the ability to open eyelids.

Britton's rating was 4.

"He had minutes," said Dr. Benjamin Fox, a neurosurgeon with the Southern Utah Neurosciences Institute at Dixie Regional. "He would not have survived a helicopter transfer to either Las Vegas or Provo."

Dixie Regional, which unveiled two operating rooms focusing on spinal and neurosurgery in mid-August, began acting as a Level II Trauma Center on Sept. 9 to push for reclassification. State law requires heath care institutions to behave as if they've obtained certification for a one-year probation period before applying for status change. Less than two months prior to Britton's accident, he would have been transferred.

"One giant miracle," Autumn says.

Fox performed a craniotomy, allowing Britton's brain to swell outward rather than fatally toward his brain stem. He removed half of his skull, bone fragments pressing on his brain, and a hockey puck-sized subdural and epidural hematoma. Britton required a permanent shunt, which pumps brain fluid from the front-lobe ventricle into his lower abdomen.

Five hours passed when the Shipps finally received the news: Britton is alive but in a natural Stage 4 coma without any promise of waking up.

Unable to sleep, Jesse sifted through old photographs, reflecting on his relationship with his son. Tears trickled from his swollen eyes peering into the image of the two scouting elk at Fishlake Meadow.

"Words can't mask the pain my heart feels," Jesse captioned the picture on Instagram. "Please say a heartfelt prayer for our Son! #believe4britton"

B4B • Snow Canyon green and gold ribbons wrap around tree trunks. Plastic cups are embedded in chain-linked fences, spelling words of encouragement. It has been 101 days since Britton's accident, and green lights still illuminate porches scattering Santa Clara Drive.

This community believes Britton will wake up, and they're keeping the lights on until he does.

Jesse never envisioned his words as a rallying cry. Materialized in a moment of despair, he doesn't even remember writing it: Believe for Britton. It's a message of hope plastered from shirts to silicone wristbands to fundraising banners. The hashtag spread virally across social media platforms, and it hasn't stopped.

Divisional boundaries dissolved that afternoon. Forming valuable relationships with the Shipp family from years of competition, opposing programs mourned Britton as one of their one.

Crosstown rival Dixie raised $2,500 during its basketball camp. Carbon delivered a Christmas stocking and wore green shoelaces in the boys' basketball game after hanging a banner: "Carbon believes for Britton." Canyon View donated proceeds from home games, while other programs stitched Britton's No. 7 into game uniforms.

Bear River, Pine View, Stansbury. The list goes on. They're honorary Warriors now. Together they're fighting for Britton.

"When it comes to sports, we're [rivals]. But when it comes to something like this, we're family," said Dixie basketball coach Ryan Cuff.

Jesse estimates $100,000 has been raised from countless car washes, yard sales and dance performances. The Shipps are insured medically, but deductibles alone are crippling. Eventually, Britton will need home healthcare, and potentially round-the-clock care. Expenses from physical therapy could last years.

"That money is going to lessen our burden," says Jesse, referencing how the community has left meals on his doorstep, never missing a night. "There's still unbelievable amount of bills coming in."

Tragic as the accident is, Jesse says, it has been a blessing in disguise. Optimism reigns as Britton's story continues to teach precious life lessons and inspire others to appreciate every moment, knowing it all could fade instantly.

"They're helping all of us by putting things in perspective about life and relationships," Cuff says. "And how important it is to come together in a crucial time and win the bigger game."

Autumn's daily progress blog has received more than five million views from around the world, including from Australia, New Zealand and Italy.

"They've shown so much love," Autumn says. "There's no doubt in my mind that they have played a huge role in my brother's life."

Competing to live • Sommer arrives at Dixie Regional in the afternoon after prepping the youngest for school. Autumn handles the morning; with support from Utah coach Amy Hogue, she's forgoing her sophomore season to stay in St. George.

Jesse is on the nighttime shift. He positions headphones against Britton's favorite Atlanta Braves flat-billed cap. He's finally wearing his own clothes.

"Shotgun Rider?" Jesse inquires.

Britton responds: Thumbs up for Tim McGraw.

"We see he's in there," Jesse says. "He's fighting for everything."

Britton is currently in a mild conscious state, able to respond to commands — a vast improvement from weeks in an unresponsive condition. He laughs. He smiles. Showing growth from hours of physical rehabilitation each day, he opened his left eye one quarter of an inch and wiggled his toes. Therapy mats are now his pitching mound. He's competing to live.

"They said 10 minutes of him doing that is like us running a half-marathon right out of bed," Jesse explains.

There is no handbook on inner-workings of the brain. The healing process is individualized in every case. Level of cognitive function is rated 1-8 on the Rancho Los Amigos Scale, and Britton is at 3.5.

"He was meant to defy those odds," Autumn says. "I think he's going to keep moving forward and getting better."

Days of sorrow are dwindling. Britton will likely never be the same, but to the Shipp family, he'll always be the quirky boy who ordered bowls of whipped cream at restaurants and sung loudly with the radio, even if he didn't know the lyrics. He's the one with the rocket arm and the sense of humor, albeit quiet until you know him personally.

Jesse narrates a story of faith. Britton stood amongst thousands in the heavens before he was called to life. One by one the challenge was presented: Will you sacrifice yourself for the betterment of others? And one by one the challenge was refused until Britton accepted.

"He's the kid who stepped up and said, 'I'll do it,'" Jesse says. "To know he was going to help thousands of people is bigger than anything he could have done on the court, on a field, or at the plate."

The Shipp family will always remember Britton's defining characteristics. But above all else, he'll always be the boy who inspired them to believe.

Twitter: @trevorphibbs