The Crash

Survey the scene.

Airway.

Breathing.

Circulation.

Excessive blood loss?  No.

Major deformities or tender abdomen?  No.

Surely, there’s head or spine trauma.  But again, no.

Even as my disoriented brain ran through the checklist, I stared blankly at a stand of white birches sitting about 2 inches from my driver side window. 

Everywhere I looked there was snow and tree limbs. 

Through the falling flakes, I could make out freshly churned up snow leading vaguely in the direction of the road.

I was facing the wrong direction – looking back toward the Canadian border, which I had just passed through on my way home.

As more of my senses came back to me, I realized there was liquid pouring from my brow. 

Blood?  No.  Unless my poor health habits had finally turned my blood to Coca-Cola, it was just my drink.  A vacant cup holder confirmed my suspicion. 

The twisted engine of my SUV sounded like a craigslist lawnmower, but it was still running – still pushing warm air into my battered vehicle.

I ran my hands over my feet, my legs, my torso, and finally each arm and my head.  How could I not be hurt? 

I repeated the process just to be sure. 

Smoke was rising in the glow of the headlights in front of me.  It was -15 degrees outside.  Did I dare turn off the engine, my only heat source?  Not yet. 

Moments ago, I had been 5 minutes from our driveway.  I had been listening to music, imagining myself basking in the heat of our home wood stove.  I had pictured myself giving M a kiss as I returned from another business trip. 

As a rounded one of the last bends before arriving at home, I felt the ominous sensation of my back wheels loosing traction.  I didn’t panic:  This happens from time to time.  I gently adjusted the steering.  I stayed off the brakes, willing the car to re-align itself with the road.

Try as I might, the ice would not relent.  As if racing their own front end, the rear wheels of my doomed vehicle silently continued dragging forward.  They were now completely sideways on the road. 

Game over.  This was it. 

I had driven Maine’s route 201 almost every day.  I had been through blizzards, ice storms, torrential downpours, and late night driving marathons.  Now a simple patch of ice was going to be thing that finally delivered on the road’s unspoken promise. 

It was my turn to go careening into the void.

I felt the front bumper make contact with the snow bank.  With a hasty, shouted prayer I buried my head in my arms and waited.

The world spun. 

Upside down. 

Right side up.

Upside down again?

Where’s M?

Still rolling. 

Where’s M?

Hitting the trees now.

Where’s M?

Silence.  Stillness.  Where is M?  Is the scene safe?  Airway? Breathing? Circulation?

Why had I not been hurt? 

It took me 5 minutes to find my cell phone, which had been tossed like laundry in the dryer.  All the while I knew it had no chance of working.  This was Maine.  This was 5 minutes from the Canadian border.  Smoke signals are more likely to work around here than phone calls.  I needed a flare gun, not an iPhone.

Finally, I found it in the back seat.  It was nestled between the seat and the door, covered by papers that had found their way out of my briefcase. 

One bar!

Even as I dialed, I sized up the walk in my mind.  Cold night.  Dress shoes. 

It was ringing.  Good sign.  I still didn’t expect the call to go through.

When S picked up the phone, I was so taken aback, that I didn’t know what to say.

“Hello?”

“Uh…  I’m ok.”

“OK… what’s up?” 

“I’ve been in an accident.  Can you come get me?”

“Yeah.  I’m on my way.  You hurt?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you checked yourself over?"

“Yes.  Twice.  Where’s M?”

“She’s here.  What should I tell her?”

“Let me talk to her.”

When M picked up, I wanted to feel all the emotions I had felt in the moment of the crash.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline; maybe it was some animal survival instinct, but all of those emotions felt somehow suppressed.  I was a robot, searching for human emotions that were somewhere else.  They were a dictionary concept that I couldn’t feel for myself. 

I told her I was fine; told her I’d be home soon.  I cringed at the fear in her voice.  I looked up empathy in my robot dictionary and imagined what it would be like to feel bad for having scared her. 

I got off the phone, frustrated with myself for not feeling something.  Maybe my brain was damaged in crash.

I stepped out of the car for the first time as a French Canadian driver stopped and approached the snow bank to ask if I was ok. 

I told him I was fine, and pointed to my cell phone.  He looked at me, then looked at the car and nodded, not believing me, but feeling he had done his duty. 

As he drove off, I looked back at the car for the first time.  Smoke still rose in the shining headlights.  Every exterior panel looked like it had been beaten in with a 9-iron.  The car was clearly totaled, yet every window was intact. 

Does that happen?

I calculated the odds of this in my head.  Robotically I understood my perfect health was a near-miraculous anomaly, but I felt so little.  I thanked God that I had survived, and meant it, but only as a CPA means it when they report your earnings.  It was a fact.  God was good.  My heart remained paralyzed.

The night dragged on for hours.  The nearest police officer was 2 hours away.  S and our friend K waited patiently with me, joking the time away and telling me how lucky I was.  These are good friends.  They dropped everything to come for me.  They brought me snowpants.  S’s wife, CC even brought us snacks.  I looked up gratitude in my robot dictionary.

After watching the wrecker disentangle the car from the trees and drag it up out of the ditch, we finally turned for home.  It was a short trip, and as we drove I did my best to communicate the love for my friends that I was aware of, but couldn’t feel at the moment. 

They dropped me off at home.  I imagined a sitcom-style, “Honey, I’m home!” entry, with M jumping into my arms.  Then I opened the door.  I quietly hung up my jacket.  Without a word, M came and gave me a hug.  I wished the warmth of her arms could melt my mechanical heart.  We talked about our days.  For a moment we talked about the crash, but there was too much to tell for the little energy we had left.  We climbed in bed. 

I left early the next morning for another business trip.  I had 11 hours of driving to do, this time in my own car, since the company car was now a company insurance claim.  Which was more the automaton; the cold, precise voice of the GPS; or me?

It was a week later that I finally became a human again.  I broke down in tears as I tried to tell the story of the crash.  I was literally sitting between my boss and my boss’s boss.  The emotions, now mixed in with a healthy serving of embarrassment, were rushing back.  I had been on the road since the morning after the crash.  I hadn’t seen M since that night. 

Where was M? 

I wanted to go home.  The adrenaline was finally gone and I felt it all now.  My love for my friends.  My gratefulness to God for preserving my life.  My crushing, incommunicable love for M.  Where was M?

I was useless for the rest of my meetings.  The robot was malfunctioning, and all that was left was an emotional wreck – the one part of me finally showing the effects of the crash. 

It hurt.  My emotions were bleeding, concussed by the events of the week before.  I was grateful for the pain.  I looked up love in my robot dictionary when I finally saw M again, but I didn’t need the definition. 

This was it.