1/14/00
I can’t even keep track of how many times I’ve been to the hospital in the past 4 years. Surgeries, follow-up appointments, diagnostic tests, and emergency room--
February 20, 1996, my mom wakes me from sleep at midnight, knocking on my door to tell me I have a phone call. Somebody calling about work, she says. But I know better, and I crawl to the end of my bed to pick up the phone, and it’s who I thought it was. A few representatives from the class of ‘95 calling to invite me over to watch “The Usual Suspects.” But in my half-asleep daze, I say I’m too tired to drive, and they say, no problem, we’re on our way.
i look out my window as we fly down the road
it’s all a blur, my stomach churns, my head throbs
i yell at him to slow down
i repeatedly yell at him to slow down
i plead
he laughs
the music pounds in my ears
my heart pounds as thoughts of jumping go through my head
i look over the front seat at the speedometer
i would die jumping out of that speeding car
i cannot jump
what do I do?
there is nothing i can do
i can yell
i yell
curve after curve
we barely stay on the road
the car skids to the left, to the right,
back to the left and off the road
crashing into a tree at 60 miles per hour
bones breaking
branches breaking
muffled moaning and groaning
i see myself
doubling over my lap belt like the tree doubling over the car
i must hold on
waiting for help to arrive
paralyzed
unable to move my legs
starting to slip away
help arrives
they tell me to hold on
i am holding on
i can no longer hold on
they pull me out slowly
they lay me down on the ground
i hear the faint crinkling of leaves in my hair
i feel distant
golden beams of light shining down on me
i see the darkness of night as i look up through the trees
soon i hear them talking about me
as if i am no longer there
soon i am gone
in an ambulance
flat on my back
i open my eyes to see
a man wearing blue looking down at me
i ask him for my life
he gives me a blanket
i ask him to hold my hand
he holds my hand and tells me to hold on
i thank him
i thank him repeatedly
fade to black
awaken to light
as they roll me in
the lights seem to be flickering
my eyes must be fluttering
bright lights blinds me
eyes shut
clothes rip
eyes open
poking and prodding
i squirm as they prepare me
hooking me up to monitors and tubes
i look up to see men and women in blue
they wheel me towards the operating room
my hearing fades
will I be awake?
i see lips moving
i hear no reply
it’s all over
the drugs must be working
fade to white
it’s all just begun
We all have our stories, and this is one of mine. The shortened version of the beginning of one, in some writing I recently rediscovered from years ago. And for years I thought writing about it and talking about the car accident was the way to free myself from it. But instead it took over, and then I got sick of it, so after about 5 years I just said, “enough. No more writing about it. I’m over it.” But in some ways I had neglected a crucial part of myself: my body. Not fully neglecting, but not going deep.
My body remembers, and although it’s resilient and has healed well, parts of it are still stuck, still afraid, still adjusting to the trauma of the accident and the subsequent surgeries. And the night of the accident, I left my body at least twice. Once a few minutes before the accident when I saw it coming, and once at the time of impact. Did I ever fully return?
Thirteen years later I woke up feeling I'd returned, feeling grateful to be alive, feeling grateful to feel. I started my day with a meditation and a continuum dive, and then I took a bath.
Submerged in water, eyes closed. At some point I opened my eyes, but just for a second. The lights shining down on me were bright. I was reminded of being in the hospital, a foggy memory through fuzzy vision, a CT scan or MRI, some diagnostic procedure in a bright sterile room. And I wondered if the reason why most people don’t like hospitals is not only because of their association with illness or injury, but because of the trauma of leaving the dark warm wet quiet safety of the mother’s womb and entering into that bright sterile hospital room and the arms of strangers.
Some of my memories of waking up in the hospital remind me of tales I’ve heard of alien abduction. Poking and prodding. Tubes and monitors. No escape. Where am I? Who are you? Am I really here? Is this really happening? When will I wake up? When will I get to go home?
13 years later this is still one of my stories.....Luckily I have other stories as well-- luckily? What do I mean by that? I've been thinking a lot about stories. How we get stuck in them. Our past, our experiences are part of who we are, but sometimes they hold us back.
That's all for now. Time to eat. I can eat! 13 years ago I was told I may never eat again. 13 years later, I am eating and savoring every bite.
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