Well, my idea of writing about car crashes doesn’t seem to have stirred up much interest, and my own accounts have become far more verbose (and probably less fascinating) than I intended. But I might as well finish what I started.
The wreck I’d had in my pickup truck in early 1998 had left me briefly shaken, but I pretty quickly got over it (once the insurance company had fixed all of the physical damage). I resumed driving my truck to and from work just as I always had, disregarding the wreck as just one of those things.
One morning in October of that same year, I left for work in a heavy downpour. I wasn’t particularly keen in driving in such nasty weather, but the previous day I’d worked from home, so I figured I ought to put in an appearance. But once I got on the road I was surprised to find just how heavy the rain was; the last weather forecast I’d seen hadn’t said anything about significant rain at all, and this was positively torrential. (I found out later that some parts of the area got three inches of rain that morning, so it really was an unusually heavy system that came through.)
The memory of the January wreck was in the back of my mind, and even though this wasn’t ice or snow, it was an awful lot of water. But I wasn’t in any great hurry to get to the office, so I took it slow. Unfortunately, my caution was apparently not sufficient. As I was driving north on Highway 751, shortly before the turn onto Fayetteville Road, I drove across a particularly heavy flow of water running across the road, and immediately the truck began to hydroplane. I couldn’t believe it was happening again: once again, I was losing control of the truck, just as I had in January.
First, I started sliding into the oncoming lane, which fortunately (again!) was empty. Briefly, I thought I had regained control, or was at least going to manage to bring the truck to a stop while still on the road; but that proved not to be the case. I now found myself sliding to the right, still careening forward at something close to 40 miles an hour, and headed off the road.
I am not entirely certain what sort of motions the truck went through after that; what little I do know comes from having observed the scene after it was all over with. I know that I went off the right side of the road and down an embankment, though I have no idea what direction I was facing when this happened. I know that the truck came to rest almost upside down, resting against the driver’s side (very much like how Mom’s Tercel had come to rest back in 1983). And the nose of the truck ended up pointing back in the direction from which I had come, so at some point I’d spun completely around (on what axis, I don’t know).
What I do remember is that the subjective experience was quite horrible. First, of course, there was the overwhelming incredulity I felt at having this happen to me again. But I was also quite aware during those brief seconds that this was far, far worse than what had happened in January. Back then, I’d gone into a spin, but I’d stayed in the horizontal plane the whole time and had come to a comparatively gentle stop in some soft mud. This time, I was plunging down an embankment, through branches and bushes and undergrowth, and the truck was not going to be staying on its wheels.
I fully expected a serious injury. Although I obviously didn’t have time to think such complete thoughts, I did brace myself for the sensation of something horrible happening to me: a leg or arm being broken or wrenched off, or some obstacle crashing through the windshield and through my head. There was nothing I could do, absolutely nothing, but wait for it to happen. And when the truck came to a stop, I was not at first certain that I was intact.
It didn’t help that I was thoroughly disoriented. Not only was the truck upside down, but my glasses had been thrown off my face (an indication of the forces I was subjected to); I couldn’t see clearly at all. I spent a moment or two trying to figure out whether I was damaged, and gradually I concluded that once again I’d come through a serious wreck with no injuries at all. The truck was still running, and once again the CD was still playing (“Memory Lane Traffic Jam” by the Australian band the Ice Cream Hands). Even under those circumstances, I couldn’t help remembering the radio playing the Police back in ‘83.
I turned off the ignition, and I must have released my seat belt, though I don’t remember doing so. I stood up and started trying to open the passenger-side door, which was basically above me; at about this time, a guy who had stopped to help appeared, asked if I was OK, and started trying to help with the door. We could not get it open, and eventually he asked if I could roll down the window, which hadn’t occurred to me. I put the key back in the ignition and turned the power on, and fortunately the window opened OK.
“Let me see if my glasses are intact,” I said, and quickly found them somewhere among the debris inside the cab. Unfortunately, one of the lenses was missing, so I had to find my prescription sunglasses and put those on instead. Then I grabbed my briefcase and looked around for anything else I needed to take with me; inanely, I commented that my coffee had gone everywhere. I handed my briefcase to the guy and then climbed out through the window, perching on the side of the truck and then jumping to the ground.
At about this time, I became aware of the taste of blood in my mouth, and I realized that I was not, in fact, completely uninjured: I’d bitten my tongue rather badly. But remarkably, I’d felt no bumps or impacts on any part of my body. As I climbed up the hill from the truck, all of my limbs working properly, I was finally convinced that I really was all right.
Other cars slowed, but the guy who’d stopped to help me — I later learned that his name was Robert — signaled to them that I was OK. The rain was still pouring down, and he helped me with my umbrella; I held it over myself, not even noticing that he had no umbrella and was getting soaked. He asked me to show him my tongue, and when he saw it he said it looked bad enough that it might need stitches. He offered to give me a ride somewhere, but I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to know what to do.
Another car stopped, and the woman driving it told us she was a nurse. She ordered me to get out of the rain and come sit in her car; I was hesitant, because I was soaked, and her car had leather seats. But she insisted. I sat there feeling chilled and began to shiver, partly because I was drenched, but mostly because of the shock. The nurse asked Robert to retrieve a wool blanket she had in the trunk of her car, and she covered me up while she used her cell phone to call 911. She asked my age, and I sat there listening while she reported to the dispatcher (in very professional terms) that there had been an accident, there was a 33-year-old male involved, and he was a little shocky.
After she finished I asked if I could use her phone to call Lynn, and she dialed the number for me. I told Lynn I’d had a wreck but that I was OK, and said I’d call her again as soon as I knew what was going to happen next.
And then I lost it. As I sat there in that nurse’s car — I suppose I’ll never know her name — the magnitude of what had happened (and what almost happened) began to sink in. Not just the horror of the wreck and the fear I’d experienced, but also anger at myself for apparently not having learned whatever lesson I should have learned in January. And I was disgusted because I knew that the truck was almost certainly totaled, less than a year before we would have had it paid off; this only months after the birth of our daughter, at a time when we didn’t need any financial blows. So much for Laura’s college fund, I thought. I sat there, huddled under the blanket, and sobbed.
But soon I gathered my wits, and I decided I wanted to go back to the truck. I figured my missing glasses lens was intact, somewhere, and if I could find it I could put it back in (the frames were undamaged, and the little screw was still there). The nurse said “Are you sure you’re OK?” I said I was still a bit shaky, but that it was emotional, not physical. I thanked her and headed for the truck; Robert offered to help, but as we approached the truck, I had second thoughts. Climbing back in would have been difficult and possibly dangerous, so I just had to wear my shades the rest of the day.
Through the rain I saw the lights of an approaching emergency vehicle, and I said “I guess this is my ride.” A rescue-squad truck and an ambulance pulled up, and the paramedics had me hop into the back of the ambulance so they could check me over. They gave me a blanket and took my vitals, and one of them (his name was Wes) confirmed that I needed to have a doctor take a look at my tongue, which I’d bitten on both sides, but more severely on the left.
But in general, I seemed to be OK, so they left it up to me whether they should take me to the hospital. I still couldn’t think clearly, and I had a hard time figuring out what to do; I didn’t really feel that I needed to go to the hospital that urgently, and I was certainly well enough to drive myself to a doctor later. On the other hand, I had no transportation away from the scene; I’d have to call Lynn again, and she’d have to bundle up the baby and come get me in the rain. I didn’t really want to do that either.
At this point a state trooper arrived, approaching the back of the ambulance and asking for my driver’s license. I gave it to him, and he went back to his car. But before he could come back to talk to me further, the paramedics decided to take my blood pressure a second time, since it had been slightly elevated the first time. Now it was up to 140 over 120, and Wes said “OK, that’s reason enough right there to go to the hospital.” I agreed, glad to have an excuse to take the easy way out.
From the back of the ambulance, I thanked Robert profusely. I cannot say for certain that I would have done what he did, getting soaked to the bone and making himself late for work in order to help me out. He gave me his name and number, just in case I needed him to corroborate what had happened (he had been right behind me). The paramedics told the cop they were taking me away, covered me with a blanket, and strapped me to a stretcher; we were then on our way.
It felt good to lie down and attempt to relax. I knew that I needed to try to calm down, particularly since my blood pressure had been dangerously high. The ride to the hospital was a bit surreal; here I was, riding in the back of an ambulance, even though I wasn’t seriously injured. (Although I was starting to notice that my neck was a little stiff, and my right arm was starting to feel a little sore.) I tried to converse with Wes; “I guess when you guys wake up and it’s raining like this, you get ready for a busy day, huh?” He said that I’d actually been their first call that morning, but that they had been waiting. I think I also babbled about having a new baby at home. And I also remember that, for some reason, they couldn’t raise the ER on the radio. “We’ll just surprise them,” Wes said.
Soon they where wheeling me into the ER, and I was taken to Room 18 (it wasn’t really a room, just a curtained area), where I was put on a bed. A nurse checked me over briefly and then suggested I change into a (dry) hospital gown. She also brought me some warm towels that felt absolutely wonderful.
And then I waited, trying to relax and not think too much about what had happened or where I was. I felt strangely disconnected, partly because I couldn’t really see properly. I had two choices: I could either wear my sunglasses, making everything too dark, or I could take them off, making everything too blurry. Instead I just closed my eyes. On one side, I could hear a doctor loudly telling a hard-of-hearing old lady that they were going to admit her to the hospital because of her ventricular fibrillation and fluid in her lungs. On the other side, I could hear snatches of hushed conversation between a woman who was depressed, occasionally crying, and a psychiatric resident who was asking her questions about her thoughts and feelings and which drugs she’d been taking.
At some point, I made a trip to the restroom, and on the way back I borrowed a phone so I could call Lynn. I told her where I was and asked her to come get me, but stupidly, I did not ask her to bring me some dry clothes.
Eventually a very competent medical student showed up and performed a thorough exam, finding nothing notable wrong with me apart from the tongue injury; that, she said, probably wouldn’t need stitches. When the attending physician arrived, he agreed, telling me that mouth wounds tend to heal well. That was it, and a few minutes later the med student came back to go over the discharge papers and to give me some instructions (I could take ibuprofen for pain, and I should call them if I had a heart attack, that sort of thing). She also cautioned me that I would probably feel worse over the next couple of days, because muscle strains tend not to show symptoms right away. She also said that I should be careful when eating; my tongue would heal pretty quickly, she said, but probably not quickly enough for my liking.
Eventually Lynn arrived, and I reluctantly put my soaked clothes back on. She gave me a hug, and then we gathered up my stuff and headed for the car. Laura slept all the way home, and I kept turning around to stare at her, trying not to think about how close I’d come to never seeing her again.
When we visited the junkyard a day or two later, I was stunned to see evidence of the tremendous forces that had been at work in the wreck. I did find my glasses lens, which was fortunately intact. I also found the garage-door opener, which had been clipped to the visor; it had come loose and was now in four pieces. The compartment where the tire iron was stowed had come open, and the tire iron — which I had not correctly secured the last time I’d used it — had flown out, and that is probably what shattered one of the rear windows. (Could have been my head.)
The truck was totaled, of course, although that wasn’t official until after the insurance adjuster had taken a look at it a few days later. It didn’t matter: on the way home from the hospital, I told Lynn that I would never drive a pickup truck again. I’d now had two wrecks in the thing, and in each case the same thing had happened: the rear wheels had lost their traction, the truck had fishtailed, and I’d lost all control. If I hadn’t been driving a rear-wheel-drive vehicle (one with no significant weight over the rear wheels), I felt certain neither of my 1998 wrecks would have happened. Never again, I swore. Within a week I was driving a new Saturn SC2 coupe.
So now I’ve told (in far, far too many words) the stories of the three major car accidents I’ve had in my life. And I think I can draw several conclusions from these experiences.
- Pickup trucks are not cars. My first wreck doesn’t count because in that one, I left the road on purpose. The two 1998 wrecks both happened in a pickup truck. I shouldn’t have been driving one unless I was using it to haul something.
- No matter how fast you’re going, you’re going faster than you think you are. When you’re driving down the road, 40 miles per hour doesn’t seem very fast. But when you’re crashing down an embankment into solid objects, trust me: it is very fast. Slow down.
- Water is evil. All three of the wrecks I’ve had in my life involved water on the road — sometimes liquid, sometimes solid. Ever since that last wreck, I’ve been somewhat phobic about driving in the rain, and I absolutely will not drive on snow or ice. (The one time I tried, I quickly became a basket case.) I’m perfectly content to hang on to these phobias, because they seem to be pretty healthy ones to me.
Oh, and one more thing. The music does keep playing. And when that happens, you find that certain songs will never again be quite the same.
Post a Comment