I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but my main day
job is retail, so picture a basic retail shopping center.
I was at work, walking to the rental car (long story short,
southerners don't know how to drive in snow) to sit in quiet during my break,
when I heard tires screech and a thud, I turned in the direction of the sound
and saw a car bounce back from hitting the curve as it turned into the lane I
was walking.
I thought to myself, "I've clipped curves like that
before." I felt embarrassed for the driver. As I began to turn back I
noticed the car speed up as it headed for some cars.
"That's weird. They're not slowing down-- oh god, they're
not slowing down."
If you've never seen or been a part of a car accident,
please believe me, everything slows down the way you've always been told it
does.
The crash had a plastic popping sound and not really metal
crunching. Parts flew everywhere. (In the
moment I don't know why I cared and tried to mentally process why it
didn't sound like it was supposed to sound. Whatever that means.)
I'm running to the crashed car. I feel like my legs are in thick
weighted boots. I'm walking through the thickest air ever created. The phone is
in my hand is a brick (I can't even process it as MY phone). It takes an
eternity to push 4 buttons.
I approach the car. Half of the front of the car has merged
with the car it hit. For a minute the only things that exist are me and this
smoking car. I come closer and in the window from the smoke a hand appears. My primal
brain says, "Car explode." A firm voice in another part of my head
says, "Open the door." As I reach out to the handle, primal brain
says, "door hot," another part of my brain asks, "door
locked?" The door handle is cool plastic and the door swings open
smoothly. The lady is sitting in the driver's seat. She looks like she's about
to fall asleep. She mumbles something about the car skidding.
I'm on the phone with the emergency dispatcher. I tell the
driver not to move. I tell a man who's approached the car, "Be careful. It
looks like coolant on the ground." (God, there's a lot of coolant. Coolant's
pink, right?)
The driver is saying her leg hurts. I'm talking like I have
lead on my tongue, the dispatcher is telling me to calm down. I'm answering her
questions. I give what I think is the correct address (I'm better with landmarks.
I give landmarks. The local police know where we are.), No, I don't know a pole
number, we're in a parking lot (what the hell?).
I'm telling the driver not to move again, and at some point
reach into her car and put the car in park (Wow, what an unusual gear box).
Primal brain stopped talking. The "smoke" was apparently the chemical
reaction from the air bag and quickly dissipated when someone opened the
passenger door. Another lady brings a blanket or something for the driver. I'm
pacing, completing the call with the dispatcher and waiting for the police. (I
feel like I want to cry, but not a good time to cry. The driver needs help. No
time to cry. Important stuff first. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deeeep breaths.
This lady needs help. Help this lady. Help. Her. First.)
As time sped up to normal, the total damage was the driver's
car, plus 3 other automobiles, including a minivan that was parallel to the
store but ended up facing the store by the time the owner emerged to discover
the damage. It was at the tail-end of the lunch rush and the weather forecast
was calling for a good chance of bad weather. By the smallest probability I was
the only one walking on the far end of the lane. I consider myself an armchair anecdotal
statistician. The Vegas odds of a pedestrian not getting hit would have been obscene.
Later, a few employees came up to me and commended me on
stepping up the way I did. I wanted to tell them, "That is the slowest
I've ever moved in my life," but felt uuber weepy, and just smiled. I
received a very grounding hug (Still didn't have time to be super weepy. I was
at work. Had to work. Work.)
It occurred to me, or at least has occurred to me now, the
people who run into fires and jump into raging rivers often comment about not
feeling like they did anything extraordinary, probably because they too felt
like they're moving slow as a snail and it’s a miracle they were able to do
what they did.
I get it. I don't
think I did anything anyone else wouldn't do, but I get it.
So my point for telling the story is that, one, I needed to
tell it. It's cathartic. Two, later, when I was processing what happened and
what I was feeling (I'm an analytical empath.), it occurred to me the feeling
of fear that the car might blow up and being in survivor-helper mode did not
feel as the terror of writing, or, more specifically, as submitting a story for
publication.
Because health scares, an emergency water ascent, and surviving
my twenties weren't enough.
Aren't I a funny little human.
So now, after I've processed as much as I could to FINALLY
cry, the demon sitting in the corner, the one who slipped all those subtle
notes of "You can't be, do, or have_________ because of __________."
just sits there, arms crossed, looking sullen because it knows I know the only
way to break the cycle is to keep walking through hell. To get use to the heat.
To realize it is bearable. It's not that hot. To think of it as warm (I'm a
SOUTHERNER, for Pete's sake. Heat is our THING. We OWN it. It's our JAM!)
People who support me will hand me glasses of water (Ice cold water with pellet
ice in a pint glass is the awesomest, bestest, greatest thing and is worthy of
horrible grammar.) You just have to say, "Hey, man. It's hot and I'm thirsty.
Can you hook me with up with some water."
Easy peasy.
