So, apparently, this never got posted. I apologize for that, I thought this was up months ago...
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, “UUUHHHHHHNH,” drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, “UUUHHNH”—roll—“UUUHHNHUHHHHNH,” oh, that’s bright!—make the stars go away—hand, hand, where you—hold my head, “UUUHHHHHHNH,” stop the red drips, they’re running down my face.
“STOP—don’t DO that—QUIT moving—Do you KNOW WHERE YOU ARE?!?” the man’s voice was loud and obnoxious from the start, hurting my already-hurting head even more as he yelled in my ears: “NO, NO, NO!—DON’T move, lemme hold your head STILL, I said DON’T MOVE YOUR HEAD—Do you KNOW WHERE you ARE? DON’T YOU TRY TO SHAKE YOUR HEAD AT ME—I SAID, DON’T MOVE YOUR HEAD; YOU COULD HURT YOURSELF—YOU COULD . . .”
Like I’m not hurting already, already?—my head hurts, and my toe hurts, and my hip hurts, and my knee hurts, and my leg is killing me—and now the blood is running in my eye—NO, you let me brush it away—come on, it’s GOing in my EYE!
“ . . . LIE STILL! . . .”
UGGHHH! what a pain in the neck!
“ . . . HERE, I’LL TIP YOUR HEAD BACK A LITTLE . . .”
OW!! Literally a pain in the neck now. Oh, YEAH, now that’s MUCH better, now the blood isn’t running in my eyes as much, now it’s running all over my FACE and running all through my HAIR, AND I have a CRINK in my NECK after two seconds)
“ . . . QUIT TRYING TO MOVE!!! . . . . THAT’S RIGHT, JUST LIE STILL, TRY NOT TO SHAKE . . .”
I’m shaking?—why am I shaking?—stop shaking, Bethany
“ . . . JUST LIE STILL, TRY NOT TO SHAKE, JUST ST . . . .”
A girl broke in, “Who is that, what happened to her, is she gonna be okay?”
“Who is that, who is that—omigosh, omigosh, omigosh—I can’t believe that happened to her—Bethany, Bethany
“NO, she doesn’t,” the obnoxious head-holder’s voice replied before I could open my mouth—“I’ve been . . .”
Hey, wait a minute there, cowboy, just cuz you got your hands on my head don’t mean you can read my mind; I know exactly what happened to me: that stupid car hit me!
“ . . . I’m not even sure she’s conscious, I’ve been asking her over and over again but she doesn’t respond—what’s your name?”
She interrupts again (what a rude person—although, of course, they’re all being rude now, talking all over the top of each other), “Her name is Bethany. I just can’t believe . . . .”
“I was ASKing HER.”
“BETHAAANEEEE, CAAAN YOOOOU HEEEEAR MEEE—HOOOWWW OOOLLD ARRRE . . .”
Yes, but you don’t need to treat me like I’m deaf or really stupid and talk in that really loud, slow voice.
“ . . . WHAAAT DAAAAYY ISSSS IIIIT? . . .”
I open my eyes a minute to glare at the aggravating her—and I think: if I could just see your face, I’d really love to slap it right now for using that idiotic tone of voice—good thing for you I lost my glasses. Now let me think. “I’m 21,”—I say it out loud, but they’re not listening, so I’ll just go back to my thinking—hmmm, lemmesee, last Thursday was Gramma’s birthday, which is the 15th, which means Friday 16, Saturday 17, Sunday 18, Monday 19, what day is it?—okay, so I taught practicum today in Sheldon, and I had classes yesterday, which means today is Wednesday, which is, ummm, where was I?--lemmesee, Thursday was the 15th, which means Friday 16, Saturday 17, Sunday 18, Monday 19, Tuesday 20, Wednesday 21, which is today,
so . . . “Today is Wednesday, April 21st,” but of course, nobody’s paying attention now that I finally have this all worked out cuz they’re busy talking, they’re SOOO busy talking they can’t even hear me when I try to answer their stupid questions.
“ . . . BETHHAAANEEEE, AAARRRE YOOOOU OOOKAY? . . .”
Do I look ok, do you think this is my idea of fun?—“I’ve been better.”
“ . . . BETHAAANEEEE, DOOON’T WOOORRRY. THEY CAAALLLED THE AAAMMMMBUUULAAANNCE, THEEEY’RRRE COMMMING TOOO GEEETTT YOOOU.”
“Bethany
I know that voice . . .
“They’re going to take you to the hospital,”
. . . whose voice is that? . . .
“Just don’t worry, we’ll take care of you . . .”
. . . that’s Di Murphy, that’s who that voice is! I’m glad she sounds so calm. Nice and calm . . . I can trust her to take care of everything . . .
“Bethany
I open my eyes and see the fuzzy blur of someone down closer to me, closer to the ground. I can’t make out the features of the face, but the gray fuzz on the top would have given away Di Murphy even if I hadn’t recognized her voice. There aren’t too many gray-haired women on campus. She’s talking about how she’ll take care of everything . . .
Oh, rats, I’m going to miss class tonight—and I really need to go—oh, well—“I guess I have a good excuse to get out of class tonight . . .”
Di laughs a little: “that should go in campus quotes! Only Bethany
Did I say that out loud? Di starts talking again, but I’m not really listening. I just can’t seem to pay attention. My feet are starting to get very cold, and I’m getting sick of people telling me to wake up when I close my eyes. Don’t they realize that I’m only closing my eyes because it hurts when I try to look around without my glasses on, because my eyes don’t focus as well? Apparently not, cuz they’re all shouting at me again to wake up and open my eyes again. I wonder . . . “Where are my glasses?” I know it’s rude, but I interrupt anyway.
One girl answers, “I picked them up . . .”
“But they’re broken . . .” comments another.
A guy pipes in, “Bent in half is more like it . . .”
“They’re no good to her that way . . .” adds a second guy.
A third guy says, “Here, let me see them . . .”
“OOOOOOOOOOORREEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOORREEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOORREEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOORREEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOHHHHH!” the wail of the siren drowns out everything for a few seconds. People bustle around, shouting and putting a neck brace on me—
Ooooh, that’s tight! AAAH, help, I’m drowning in my own spit and I can’t swallow it, they’ve got that thing on too tight—I can hardly breathe and I’m choking on all the spit collecting at the back of my throat!
They roll me onto a back board, pick me up and put me in the gurney, then put me in the ambulance. As the doors slam shut and someone slaps them twice, I hear the voice of the guy who held my head.
They’re sending him along? Why him? Why not Di, or one of my friends? I wonder if anyone’s called my mom—does she work tonight? Let’s see, if she does, she’ll leave at 6:22—I was going to supper and it was 5:17 when I left my room—but it’s probably a little later than that because I kept stopping to talk to everybody—so probably more like 5:30 when I got hit—and even though it seemed like forever, I probably wasn’t laying there in the street more than ten or fifteen minutes—so it’s only about 5:45 and they should have plenty of time to call her. Why’s it taking so long to get to the hospital? If my leg didn’t hurt so bad, I could have driven myself here quicker than they’re going. For crying out loud, if my leg didn’t hurt so bad, I could have WALKED there quicker. Ah, at last! It’s about time we got to the hospital—aah, beautiful silence—well, not really silence, just the absence of that awful banshee siren. They should issue earplugs. Funny, the ceiling lights aren’t so disorienting this time. Guess that’s ‘cause I’m not all full of drugs this time. Some Demerol would be nice about now, though—I could just drift off into la-la land on it again—sleep my way through a few days—oh, I better pay attention now, they’re talking to me again, not just over my body.
“The doctor will be here soon . . .”
“Can you call my mom? Her number is 737-5109.” They leave for a few minutes and then a nurse comes back to say that they can’t get a hold of my mom at that number and ask if there is anyone else they could call. I rattle off my grandma’s phone number and also tell them where my mom works so that they can try to call her there. Then a man comes in and starts to wheel me somewhere else.
“Can we loosen this thing?” I ask, tugging at the neck brace. “I realize that it’s in case my neck might be broken, but really—my neck doesn’t hurt at all. And I feel like it’s choking me. Couldn’t you just take it off?”
“Not before we take x-rays,” he says as he pushes me out of the room. When we get into radiology, he takes a few x-rays and then takes off the neck brace. I am so glad that he’s done that, I barely notice as he walks out of the room.
I start singing. That’s semi-normal for me: I’m one of those people that musicals are written for, who actually do just burst into song while they’re walking along. I have been known to sit outside in the rain and make up songs, or make up songs in my room, or sing my own songs in the shower. I also sing just about everywhere I go—even while working in the cafeteria dishroom.
Anyhow, I start singing, there in the radiology lab. The song I choose for this occasion: Trading My Sorrows.[†] The lyrics seem very applicable to my life as Romans 8:28 runs through my head: “In all things, God works for the good of those who love Him.” Trust, just gotta trust, I think. Well, God, I have no earthly idea what good You’re gonna bring me out of all this, but I’ll trust You. Like the man said, ‘I’d rather be an optimist and a fool than a pessimist and right.’* Besides, You’ve changed bad into good before . . . that’s why “I’m trading my sorrows . . . ”
Just as I am about to repeat the song a third time, someone comes back into the room. He wheels me out through the waiting room—which is full of people. I can’t recognize any faces until my grandma comes to walk next to the gurney. We go back into the ER and a doctor comes in wearing blue jeans. He tells the nurse to clean up my forehead and flush my knee with a saline solution. While she works on that, my mom comes in. She says that she had just gotten to work when they told her to turn around and come back to the Orange City
The nurse puts an IV in my arm and I am thoroughly impressed by two things: that she actually listens when I tell her where the best place to stick me is, and that she gets it in the vein on the second try. For a hard stick like me, who’s been stuck as many as 27 times in one sitting by nurses and anesthesiologists trying to get an IV in me, getting one started in two sticks is really something.
Now the doctor gives me a shot of pain medicine through the IV and looks at my head. He shines his flashlight in my eyes and then puts a stitch in my forehead. Then he looks at my knee and mumbles something about it. I try to lean forward to see it, but he pushes me back on the pillows and tells me not to look at it. He tells the nurse to get a suture kit and starts poking around in my knee, half mumbling comments all the while: “missed that artery . . . vein’s not broken . . . that ligament’s okay . . .”
I begin to wonder what I did hurt, since he seems to be saying that everything is pretty much alright. My curiosity jumps to the fore and I ask, “How many stitches do you think I’ll have?”
“A lot,” he answers, “and several layers of them. This gash goes all the way to the bone. The first one will be a running stitch that just keeps going for seven or eight stitches’ worth—and the thread will just disintegrate as it heals—and then there will be more stitches on the next layer, and then maybe fifteen or so on top, which I’ll have to take out after a couple weeks.”
He goes right to work on me, putting all those stitches in my knee, and in what seems like no time at all, he says that I should be sent to a room for the night. I am shocked to see that the clock in my room already says . It’s been FOUR HOURS since the car hit me? It seems to me that the actual time should have been much shorter, even if it did feel like an eternity at some points.
Seven years to the day have passed since that night. And many times, it still seems like time is speeding along. Where have the last seven years gone? It feels like I snapped my fingers, and BAM! here I am.
Other times, though, it seems like those seven years are the entirety of my life. Was there a time when I didn't get migraines? A time with no scar on my knee and no lump on my hip? A time when my faith in the ordinariness of my life extended to believing that no matter how fast a car was going on Albany, it WOULD stop at the crosswalk?
I barely remember that girl sometimes. Sometimes I miss her. For although I used to be her, she is no longer me. She dreamed of a glorious death sometimes. Running into the street to push a little kid out of the way of the car. Getting shot for her faith by Columbine-ish gunmen. Becoming a martyr overseas.
Perhaps it took a brush with death for me to realize that how I die isn't as important as how I live. I would still like to have a meaningful death-- don't get me wrong-- but a meaningful death would not make up for a meaningless life. Every moment counts; every second matters. Every choice I make and action I do has the ability to impact someone. I can choose to be jaded and neurotic, a control-freak who alienates those around her. Or I can choose to be compassionate and encouraging, someone who does her best and helps others. And whatever I choose to make of each day of my life will leave behind an imprint, an echo of me. I would like that to be a good aftertaste in the mouths of others.
I made some good choices back then, when the crash happened; such as choosing to trust God rather than freak out. But some of my choices were not so good; for instance, my faith in drivers always paying attention to what they're doing. Now I am more deliberate about Who I place my faith in. And even in light of the crash, I would have to say that He's never let me down yet. But that's another story...
Endnotes
[†] If you’re not familiar with this song, here are some of the lyrics:
I’m trading my sorrow;
I’m trading my shame;
I’m layin’ them down for the joy of the Lord!
I’m trading my sickness;
I’m trading my pain;
I’m layin’ them down for the joy of the Lord!
. . . . .
I am pressed but not crushed,
Persecuted not abandoned,
Struck down but not destroyed—
I am blessed beyond the curse
For his promise will endure
And His joy’s gonna be my strength!
Though the sorrow may last for the night,
His joy comes with the morning!
* This quote is sometimes attributed to Albert Einstein.
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