October 30, 2014
Today marks the second installment in a series. Part I can be found here. Peace, ~v.
Dazed, Not Confused
With my eyes still closed and my glasses still perched intact atop the bridge of my nose, I set about removing myself from my restraint. My shackle, formerly known as my seat belt, held me in bondage to the wreckage that was once my truck. Within seconds, I whipped off the shoulder strap from around my neck, unbuckled the seat belt holding me hostage, and walked away from the crash, never even looking back.
In an otherwise
parallel poetic universe, this would be the end to my story. Poetic justice dictates that I walk away from the crash a bit dazed and confused and never turn back; dramatics begs to differ. I had to turn back, I had to look at what should have been my resting place (see what I told you…dramatics). Besides, although completely dazed, I was certainly not confused.
As I wandered a few feet from the wreckage, I paused and turned to face my would-be tomb. As dramatic as that sounds, it was exactly what I was thinking at the time. You see, I knew my body had been through a traumatic experience and I also knew that it wasn’t my well-constructed truck that had saved my life. Okay, not exactly true. Nevertheless, I was convinced that it was The Voice who had intervened to save my life.
As I stood staring at the remains, a tall gentleman approached me, cell phone in hand.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You look okay. We called the paramedics.”
“Did you see what happened and how many times I rolled?” I replied.
“I didn’t, but my wife did. Hey honey,” he shouted at an unseen woman, “How many times did she roll?”
I didn’t need to hear the response, I already knew the answer.
“She said five.”
“She said three,” we both answered in unison.
He was referring to what his wife had said. I was referring to what The Voice had told me.
The gentleman shook his head, “She said five.” I let it go, I was dazed, but not confused.
“Can you call my sister, please,” and I rattled off her number.
I stood almost stock still and waited for help to arrive. I had already done a quick but thorough assessment of my injuries. I had four superficial cuts on my right hand, my left hip was smarting from the seat belt restraining me during the free fall, as was my neck and the rest of my left side, especially my left wrist, and that was all…let me repeat,…and that was all.
I neglected to take a head count of each lookie-loo who happened upon the scene. I could just feel their vibes, and their vibes screamed in disbelief that anyone had survived such a mangled mess. My vibe screamed in disbelief as well, but it was a disbelief of a different nature: I could not conjure up The Voice
I couldn’t peel my eyes away from my used-to-be truck. No airbag had been deployed, no glass had been left intact, and there were no instructions forthcoming from The Voice. Then as if on cue, “M’am, where do you hurt?” It wasn’t The Voice, but it was a voice, the voice of another angel.
This particular angel came equipped with an oxygen mask and a stretcher. “M’am, we’re gonna have to roll you onto this board…” and his voice trailed off. Funny, I hadn’t heard the ambulance arrive; maybe I had sustained some sort of head injury that had incapacitated my hearing. “Oh no!” I thought as I was loaded into the awaiting ambulance, “I can’t feel my head! My head is numb!”
As we began to pull away from the scene of the accident, Paramedic Angel began asking me questions about my injuries. When he was finished with his inquiries he sat down next to me, adjusted the oxygen mask that by then was resting on my right cheekbone and whispered almost reverently, “You just close your eyes now and relax, because you are the luckiest person in the world right now.” He also uttered something to the driver, who began picking up speed and running his siren.
It wasn’t until I heard the siren wailing that I realized that my hearing was still intact. It also dawned on me that Paramedic Angel must have instructed the driver to hurry it up on my account. “How come you told him to go faster?” I mumbled through my oxygen mask.
“Your blood pressure is low and that bothers me.”
I chuckled , “You didn’t run the siren when you came to get me because you were afraid I was dead. And now you’re running the siren because you’re afraid I’m dying.” He nodded his head in the affirmative. He looked so worried that I had to tell him, “I won’t die, I stayed awake.”
His response? “You hit your head pretty hard; you may be in shock.” I didn’t have the heart nor the courage to tell him that the Voice had told me that if I stayed awake I would live; I did, and I did. I just wished The Voice would come back and tell me what was wrong with my head.
My head had been knocked around at 65 mph. Surely it must be battered and bruised. I had only to flashback to the contorted piece of metal that had once been my driver’s side door to know what the results of the CT scans of my head would read like. I had no pain in my head, yet I knew I had just suffered a traumatic head injury.
As I arrived at the hospital, I prayed to God that He would allow me to feel the pain of my head injury so that I might better pinpoint the epicenter of the trauma and work toward recovering. I was still praying when the ER doctor came to my bedside to give me the news.
To be continued.