Ryan and I survived a serious wreck this Christmas. The following is a fairly personal account of what happened and my recovery from it.
It's difficult to explain the surprise you feel when you survive a situation where you expected to die; where you just accepted the fact that you were going to die, and yet you lived.
It changes everything.
On December 20, 2008, we were caravanning to Colorado with my parents for Christmas. We were driving through Wyoming, near Evanston in our Ford Ranger. We drove through a lot of bad weather, snow, wind and whiteout conditions before finally reaching a patch of clear sky, and what we thought was clear road. Shortly after we sped up to around 65 mph, we hit a patch of black ice.
I closed my eyes. We hit the guardrail at an angle and the airbags went off. There was a 50 foot drop on the other side. I thought for sure that we'd gone over. We flipped twice, I think. It was so loud; a violent jumble of crunching and crashing. I heard Ryan shouting at me to hold on. His voice sounded muffled. I still had my eyes closed. I expected the blackness to take over. I expected every sensation to stop. I didn't think we'd survive. As we rolled I just accepted the fact that we were going to die. In a strange way, that acceptance calmed me.
Those few seconds were the whole world right then. We landed on the driver's side door. There was a buzzing, like the sound of an emergency light. I expected to see grass and snowy boulders out the windshield. I saw asphalt. I saw Mom and Dad's Prius. I saw Dad running on the slippery road toward us. He'd seen the whole thing in his rear view mirror. I don't know which is worse: seeing your child go through that, or experiencing it yourself. Either way it's awful.
The cab was smoky. My right pointer finger was bleeding but I couldn't feel it. I don't remember seeing the airbags. We had out seat belts on. That was the only reason I hadn't fallen onto Ryan. The seat belts, the airbags, a super well-made truck and the Providence of God are the only reason Ryan and I are alive today.
Always wear your seat belt.
An army medic stopped to help us. She'd seen the crash too. She asked questions to see if we had head injuries. She gave us one of those quilts that people send over to the soldiers in Iraq. She wanted us to have it. We were honored.
We never got her address. Mom gave her their phone number, but unless she contacts Mom, we'll never be able to thank her properly. If God ever blesses us with children, that quilt is going on one of their beds. Some day we'll tell them the story of how we got that quilt, and they'll know that there are good people out in the world.
When we were alone together we prayed. Ryan thanked God that we were alive. He couldn't think of anything else to say. I said it was enough.
The truck was still running on its side. It was smoking. We'd forgotten to take the keys out. My Weird Al CD "Straight Outta Lynwood" was still in the player.
An ambulance came. They gave me a neck brace and strapped me to a board because I'd hit the back of my head on something. I stared at the ceiling of the ambulance the whole ride back to Evanston. Ryan got to ride sitting. The ambulance people were funny. The woman's day job was policeman; the man's was English teacher.
They gave us tetanus shots at the hospital.
We spent the night in a local hotel. It was hard to go to sleep. Ryan and I kept thinking about how much worse the day could have gone.
Daniel and Erin lived only a few hours away. He came and got us the next day in their Honda Element. It took a while for him to get there because of the weather. He was also dealing with a back injury. We would ride with Daniel, and Mom and Dad would stay in the Prius. Ryan wanted to drive. Get back on the horse after it kicks you off, and all that.
We drove to where our truck had been towed and got all our stuff. It wasn't fun, looking at the mangled Ranger. It was like a bad joke, like someone was trying to tell me that I'd been in that vehicle while it was flipping and grinding on the pavement. It wasn't funny. I didn't like it.
I took a few pictures. Seeing it through the camera was easier than seeing the real thing.
Next we stopped at the crash site since it was on our way.
A whole section of guardrail was caved in. It's stronger than it looks.
I took more pictures. Mom offered to take some with me in them, but I didn't want to. I just wanted to observe. I couldn't handle being a part of it yet.
I could see the tire ruts where we'd run to the guardrail.
We were really sore the day after the crash but aches and pains don't all come right away. A few days later my right shoulder hurt suddenly. It felt like it was about to pop out of joint. I'm still careful with it. My nose was scraped up by the airbag too.
I have a hard time when well-meaning people try to joke about the crash. I know they're just making light of it because they don't understand. I don't know what to say.
One guy asked if we did any pirouettes on the highway.
I'd rather they didn't say anything at all.
I'm getting better now. Lots of things are getting better now, but I'm not expecting to be totally "healed" by such and such a day or time. I'll never expect that because you can't put a time line on these things. No one knows how they'll cope when they walk away from something like this.
When Mom was going through chemo for her breast cancer a friend of hers gave her some great advice that kind of summed up the experience. I get it now. I think it applies here too.
You've changed. Your old normal doesn't exist anymore. It's gone. Now you're walking around in the dark with your arms outstretched, bumping into things you can't see and trying to find a new normal.
I'm guessing the search is different for everyone. So, I'll be emotionally out of whack for a little while, but that's okay. I'm just searching for my new normal.
