It hit me: Part 2 (literally)

I realize now more than ever how life can change in a single minute.
My wakeup call came on an ordinary Tuesday evening on my way to meet two friends at a coffee shop downtown.

I rush out the door, only to realize I’ve forgotten my cell phone. I’m going to be late, so I decide not to go back for it.
I’m downtown, not very familiar with the area.
I’m getting into the left turn lane. The light is green. I’m looking at the street sign and the oncoming traffic and decide to go. I see they’re coming quickly.

I hear a horn blast and feel the impact.
I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never been in a real accident. A fender bender, sure—but this is bad. This is not going to be good.
I’m in slow motion, spinning around fast.
Powerless, I’m inside my car, but feel outside of it all as it collides with another and cartwheels on its side. I brace for a roll, but slide to a glass-cracking stop.

The questions begin inside my head. What just happened? Am I alive? What’s going to happen?
Quickly I see people peering through my windshield. Only a driver’s-side door separates me and the ground. I’m laying there, parallel to the earth, feeling paralyzed until the questions come from behind. Are you conscious? Are you in pain?
Then the firemen. Can you move your fingers and toes? Where are we? How old are you? What’s your name?

I realize I don’t feel any out-of-the-ordinary pain. I know I hit my head and my neck twisted in an unnatural fashion. Why am I OK? I begin to wimper then cry. They tell me to stay put while they see if they can roll my car back to an upright position. Do you think you can crawl out of here, or do you want us to cut you out? I can do it.

I don’t feel any pain. I can move, though am not sure I want to.
The fireman directs me as I crawl over my seat and out the broken back window. They lead me to an ambulance. I’m walking and shaking and answering questions and they’re making me decide if I want to go to the hospital. I don’t know how long that will take and how much it will cost and what they will do to me. No I feel fine.

I need to tell my friends what happened. My cell phone is at home. I just want to go home.
No, I don’t know their numbers. Yes, I will take a cab voucher.
The ambulance leaves, I sit in the cop car. They’re directing traffic. There’s a fire truck and about three police cars.

People driving by look shocked, like I was when I’ve seen accidents before. “I’m so glad that wasn’t me,” I thought.
Now it’s me. I thought I was a good driver. Aggressive, yes, but not reckless. I wish I could take back that split-second decision.

I get issued a $90, 3-point ticket for an improper turn, failing to yield. I’m still shaking, haven’t stopped. I can’t believe I did this. What about the other people? I go to gather my things out of my car. One cop finds my keys for me, says I need them to get in my house. It actually didn’t even occur to me to grab those. “Accidents happen,” he says. “At least no one was hurt and cars can be replaced. That’s what insurance is for.” Thank you.

The cab driver plays Enya for me as I sniffle in back seat. “Have a good night. I mean, hope your night goes better.”
First thing after telling my roommate what happened, I call the friends who’ve been worried sick and tell them I’m alive, but not well—but could be much worse.

Now what? I’m thankful to be alive. Thankful to be able to move. Thankful that soreness is my worst complaint. Yet, sad this had to happen. Sobered to realize I was powerless to stop the force of thousands of pounds of metal crashing, spinning sideways, and plummeting to their demise and my chagrin.
Humbled to accept God’s grace and dependent on help from others.
Confused about what all this means and what will happen.
Anxious to know what I’m supposed to learn from this, and for these lessons I’m strangely thankful.
I’m thankful to know what it is to have potentially lost my life. I’m thankful for the people who love me and for the chance to love others and to live more ordinary Tuesdays.
What an extraordinary gift is love and life.