It's hard to forget every moment of the crash. It plays in slow motion, never ending, even weeks after it happened. It starts fine, you're with friends and you are on your way to a performance, and you're having fun. You're in the passenger seat talking to the people behind you because you're part of a big, singing family. Someone pulls out a can of soda before an intersection, and you think of a joke you could tell, but none of the words get said as you cross into the intersection on a yellow light, and it turns red once you're in. You can't stop in the middle of an intersection, that's just more cause for an accident. Another car turns left in front of you, convinced you're going to stop. The can of soda explodes right before the hit.
It's the moment after impact -- that's the scariest part. You watch as the dust settles while you take inventory. Do I still have two arms, two legs? Do I still have fingers and toes? Can I see? Can I hear? When you've checked all of that off, you move on to your pain index. What hurts? At first you don't notice anything. The pain comes later, when you're looking at the aftermath and actually seeing what happened to you.
Everything continues to move slowly through time, you give your phone to the driver so they can call the police. You unbuckle your seat belt and climb out of the car, already hearing sirens in the distance. You bite back your anxiety, even though you want to crumble. When you can get to your phone, you call your parents, who happen to be in an airport in the next state, getting on their flight home. Nobody wants to hear from their child that they've been in an accident, especially when they're an hour-long flight away. This is when you start to cry, to let all of the anxiety wash over you.
This is when the pain comes. You finally sit down on the grass at the gas station that's on the corner and you start to notice your injuries. The seat belt rash, of course, is a given, but there's a sharp pain in your right shoulder blade, and it won't go away. You notice that you can see, but you can't actually see because your glasses are missing. You sit while the EMT's ask questions: name, birth date, address, social security, medical conditions, injuries sustained from the collision. It feels like you're moving through molasses, trying to answer the rapid-fire questions. And even the simplest question becomes difficult because you're under duress and in shock. Someone puts a hand on you and you gasp in pain. It feels like a break, even though it may not be.
Parents rush to the scene, one after another. First, for the driver of the other car, then the driver of your car. You wait patiently for your grandma because your parents are gone. Then, the person who was sitting behind you -- their parent comes. You sign off on your medical release because you are old enough and you don't want to take the ambulance to the hospital. You'll go when your mom gets home. You sit there, helpless to do anything about your situation. Everyone checks on you, and a bystander continues to tell people that you have a medical condition that is similar to the one you actually have. Finally, your grandma shows up at the scene, ready to take you to her house so you can wait for your parents. But you have to talk to the police about what happened; you have to tell them what injuries you've sustained.
It's hard to forget every moment of a crash because it's all so vivid. It's a nightmare that really happened.
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