Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God
Am I dead? I don’t think I’m dead.
Am I hurt? I can’t tell. Am I? My shoulder and neck feel like they’re on fire.
What’s that smell? Is that smoke?
I have to get out NOW. The door won’t open. The passenger door opens. Good. I’m climbing out of the car.
I want to scream at her. But I don’t.
My kids. Call Opac, who is waiting for me to pick him up a quarter of a mile away. Make sure he knows I’m safe, but not coming.
Veruca. She’s going to come home, and I’m not going to be there. Maybe I should call the school. No, don’t call the school. Don’t want to scare her. Tell O not to tell her anything until I can call her.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
Have to call Todd. Tell him I’m okay, but the car is not.
I guess we’ll have to have the car towed and then I’ll go home. He tells me to go to the hospital. I guess I should? I don’t know.
The woman in the other car is not a woman. She’s a 17-year-old girl.
She asks me if I’m okay. I say no. She just wrecked my car. How can I be okay? But I don’t say any of that. She says, “you must’ve been really speeding.” Oh no, she dint.
The state trooper asks me what happened. Good Samaritan next to me says he doesn’t think the girl saw me at all.
EMTs arrive. One of them insists I sit down. I don’t want to sit in the car. I sit on the guard rail, and he asks if it’s okay to put an arm around me, in case I pass out. I don’t think I’ll do that, but I trust him.
Still trembling all over. But insanely calm. They put a neck brace on me.
My neck is starting to hurt. Bad. I’m worried about the two new discs I had in June.
In the ER. They superimpose my birth year, and I tell them that while I’d love to be 22 again, I am NOT.
Alone in the room. Blood pressure and heart rate really high. I need CTs and xrays. They need a urine sample in case I’m pregnant. When will people stop asking this?
I’m okay. I’m okay, right? This neck brace hurts like hell. They won’t let me take it off yet, but they give me ibuprofen.
What if something is really wrong, even though I feel alive? What if they don’t let me go home today?
Opac calls to check in with me. I talk to V. She is upset, but I am calm. Insanely calm. I think she’s reassured.
The CTs and x-rays are done, and I’m in a holding area to be taken back to my ER room. It’s taking forever for someone to take me back. The calm is slipping away rapidly, because Todd just texted me that he’s here. I need to see him.
And then the phone rings. It’s O, checking in again. His voice calms me, because I have to sound calm. He tells me to stay calm. My almost-18-year-old is telling me to be calm.
Finally. I see Todd, and the façade is gone, and the first tears come. My heart rate is still high, but it’s coming down. They give me some valium to calm me. I’m going home.