It's time

I started a new job eight months after my car accident; I couldn't handle being surrounded by memories at the casino anymore.  Although I only worked at Perkins for four months, I count it one of the best experiences of my life because it's where I met my Jeanie (the first time, that is).  Another person I worked with was Kris, a sweet-hearted senior who was the president of her high school's SADD chapter.  I'm not exactly sure how much of my story she knew, but she asked me one night if I would consider speaking about my experience to an assembly of students for drunk driving prevention. 

I thought about it.  I really felt called to do it.  But I had to acknowledge that I was in a very unstable time in my life, and I just wasn't ready.  She completely understood.

I've never forgotten that pull on my heart to tell my story.  It has always been so important to me to turn this tragedy into something good, for me and for others. 

Fast forward twelve years.  The local high school in the community in which I work is hosting Every 15 Minutes, a program which strives in an excruciatingly realistic way to educate high school students about the dangers of impaired driving.  My supervisor asked me to be a part of the ambulance crew being filmed several months ago, and I agreed.  I've participated in mock crashes before and was able to handle them just fine. Then, in December, one of my partners mentioned his own involvement with the program, and I was moved to help him pass out informational letters and seek donations from local businesses.  Shortly thereafter, I had the chance to watch the video of another local high school's production from last year.  It took my breath away.  I sat in the chair at work trembling, fighting hard against the tears that were gathering in my eyes.  I can tell you firsthand, they do a remarkably authentic job.

My partner asked me that day if I'd ever consider speaking.  The steering committee had already planned, as most schools do, to contract with speakers from SADD, but my partner thought it might be particularily hard-hitting for the students to see one of their very own local public safety persons, someone whom they'd just watched earlier that morning extricating their moulaged classmates out of a smashed car, share her own story.  I said that I'd absolutely consider it, but didn't really think they'd want me when they could have a professional speaker.

Last week, since she was my partner, I tagged along to a planning meeting for the event with my supervisor.  As they were discussing contracting with a speaker, Karen spoke up and said to the group, "Well, this is the woman we were talking about." 

?

Personally, I hadn't forgotten, but I mostly thought it was a forgotten question by the other people involved.  Now it was official: would I do it?

I said I would.

I'm not sorry.  I want to do this.  Saying no was not really an option for me.  The speakers from SADD are paid for their time, but I turned down any payment.  I had already donated my own money to the cause since my employer would match it, and I was compensated years ago, by two insurance companies no less, for all that I endured.  My profit will be the students, even the single student, who takes my words to heart and doesn't get in the car, or takes the keys away from the person they love.

The personal impact so far has been distinct but tolerable.  I knew that just thinking about this would be a trigger for me.  I've cried a couple times watching rollovers on TV.  During a scene in Dexter a few weeks ago, as he was lying on an ambulance cot staring up at the upside-down face of the paramedic, my heart froze up as I said to my friend, "Wow, I remember how that felt."  A couple of weeks ago I learned that my injuries will prevent me from being a bone marrow donor, to a dear friend or to anyone who might need it, and this devastated me so much more than I could have anticipated.  It reminded me just how badly I was injured, and that this day is still, and forever, with me. 

As I helped my mom to the bathroom after her surgery last month, as I fed her baby bites of toast, I almost lost my composure as the feelings returned to overwhelm me: how it felt to be the one who needed to be helped to the bathroom.  I couldn't even sit down on the toilet without help, much less take care of my own business.  Mom would cut my toast into six vertical, crustless strips and gently feed it into the corner of my mouth that wasn't swollen shut, so I could suck on it and tongue it around until it was mushy enough to swallow.  My dad, my sister, my brother - all had to help me dress.  Button my pants, fasten my bra, put my socks on.

How do I talk about the darkest moments, which were also the clearest moments of my life?  How do I describe what went through my head when I knew I was going to die? 

We've all heard that "your life flashes before your eyes."  I understand what is meant by the statement, but I would explain it a little differently.  When I saw what was going to happen, I went quiet - so absolutely quiet - inside, even as I drew a desperate breath, turned my head away, and braced my arms against the ceiling.  My body went through the instinctive motions of self-preservation, but that is not the primary sensation that I remember. 

Instead, I remember the most piercing ache at my heart, a crushing sadness that felt like someone had reached their hand into my chest and was attempting to pull my heart from within me, as if the tendons and tissues holding her in place were being stretched and torn.  A visceral and deeply physical pain as I thought, "Oh God...Mom.  Dad.  They're going to miss me so much."  Then, my sister.  My brother.  "I'm their "big sister"...they're not going to understand." Thinking of them all, I thought, "They're not going to know they were the last ones I thought of before I died."

And then it was happening. I was aware, and I was sensing the violation to my body, but I was still so quiet inside, feeling no pain.  I was attempting to count the rolls.  I was calmly reciting in my head, "We've gotta stop soon...we've gotta stop soon...soon...soon...oh we're slowing down...almost done..."  I was waiting, oh so calmly, for the impact that would either stop the chaos or mercifully end my consciousness.

How do I describe those first moments when I opened my eyes?  What I saw?  How it felt to lie in a swamp as a terrified-looking police officer held my c-spine and tried to assure both me and himself that "the ambulance is coming, it's coming, they're almost here..."

How do I describe what it was like to be loaded into a helicopter, seeing in my peripheral vision the carnival of lights beneath me as we lifted off?  How do I describe how it felt to leave him down there?

To lie in an ER for hours, waiting for news about Derek, waiting for my parents?

To be sewn and splinted back together?  I don't know how to describe that kind of pain.  The kind that makes you black out and scream things you don't remember.

What it's like to live with the scars.  Inside.  Outside.

What it's like to have to say "I love you" to a plot of ground because you never had the courage to say it in life.

I'll stop now.  I know what it does to other people to hear me talk about this, and honestly, it's getting hard to breathe.  I've asked my family to tell me what that day and those that followed were like for them, to write down the feelings and the fears and share it with me so that I can share it with the students next month.  Some of it I've already heard, and I know it will hurt to both hear it again and learn new things.  Days like August 18, 1999 affect a whole many more people than the ones it happens to.

But I will hear it.  I will remember. I will share it.  I have a lot to bring back into my present and process yet again.  I am giving this talk the day after I graduate from college, and I feel this is no mere coincidence.

I may keep someone else from experiencing this.  I may save a life - in a whole new way.

Remind me of this, please, in the days to come.