The Wreck

I had a wreck a few days ago. A bad one. I am lucky to be alive, since my car isn’t. It was a big, blue, gas-guzzling, steel reinforced “clunker.” But it was my clunker.

My arm, my good arm, was sliced and diced. My head and jaw hurt like I’d been through another series of electro-shock treatments. (Different story for a different day). I shake. My concentration is shot. I am more paranoid than usual. I ache all over. And if that’s not enough, for the next few weeks I am driving a Kia.

I’ll give you the bare facts, then I’m going to bed. I don’t know if I will write tomorrow.

I was on my way to the Mental Health/Mental Retardation (MH/MR) clinic for my monthly “visit” with my psychiatrist and to pick up ‘scripts (7) for another month of meds.

I was driving 30 through a residential area when out of nowhere a white blur going 35 slammed into my driver’s door. I was thrown over the curb, across the lawn and up against the house on the corner. Since I was conscious through it all I assumed I wasn’t hurt. Then, I saw blood running down my arm, onto my shirt, my pants and the passenger seat. Glass, I guess.

The front of her ’98 Lexus folded up like an aluminum can.

The neighbors came running and wouldn’t let me out of my car until the ambulance arrived. They brought me glasses of water and told me hair-raising stories of neck and back injuries, most of which resulted in some form of paralysis.

The police came first. Two cars, three officers. One talked with the woman in the Lexus, one gathered witnesses and the other talked with me.

I thought I was making sense until he told me I wasn’t.

“You’re in shock,” he said. “Don’t worry about anything. We’ll get your statement in the ambulance when you pull yourself together.”

Two ambulances arrived. His and hers. When they removed her from the Lexus they slapped a neck brace and a back brace on her and laid her out on one of those hard, plastic stretchers.

They pulled me out and helped me lie back on a stretcher with wheels. Mine had padding.

The woman asked them to bring her over to me. Regret came pouring out.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t see the stop sign. Forgive me.” She was sobbing. She repeated it three times.

I don’t know her name. All they told me was that she is insured by Allstate.

I’m not, but there is no doubt I was in good hands.