In my last blog, I promised to write about the car accident I had in January, so here goes.
First, some background . . . I live about 30 miles northwest of Baltimore. Every day, I commute to my job as a technical writer for a major package delivery company (what can Brown do for you?). I usually get to work around 7:30am and leave around 3:30pm.
On January 7, 2008 I left work much later than normal. It was about 4:15 when I got into my car and began the tedious drive home. Normally, the drive home doesn’t stress me out as much as the one in the morning, but since I was already late, I was anxious to get home. When I tested my BG before I left the office, I was around 110, which is exactly where I want to be for that time of day.
The drive was surprisingly easy for a Monday afternoon, but since it had been an absolute nightmare that morning (at least three major crashes that affected my commute), I figured we (the commuters of Baltimore) deserved an easy ride home. After breezing down the beltway, and cruising for a few miles down I70W, I noticed that traffic was slowing down ahead of me. For anyone who knows the area, this is a point on I70 where traffic always gets backed up (the rt. 29 split).
I gently slowed my car, coming to a complete stop behind a truck. As I stopped, I glanced in my rearview mirror to see if there was anyone behind me (something I always do). That’s when I saw these headlights coming at me. FAST. My first thought was that whoever was driving that car (a shiny new Jaguar) would notice that traffic had stopped before she (as I later learned) even got close to me. My next thought: holy crap, she’s not stopping. She’s not even slowing down. As I was thinking this, I tried to let up on the brake, and slowly let out the clutch thinking that I might be able to get out of the way. No such luck.
BAM, CRASH, BAM (again), CRASH
As I became aware of my surroundings, I noticed that there was a lot of smoke in my car. Not only that, I could feel so much heat coming from the dashboard area. Natural conclusion: Oh my God, my car is on fire . . . must get out now . . . I tried to open my door, but it wasn't moving. I tried to get the window down, but the power windows weren’t doing anything. I reached over and tried to open the passenger door, but it was stuck too. But, good news, the passenger window had shattered, so I could crawl out (if I could just get my body to cooperate). While this all seems kind of rational now, I was not thinking rationally. I undid my seat belt, and began to crawl over the center console to the passenger seat (which was covered in glass). At that point, the air bags were deflating and the smoke in the car had lessened significantly. That’s when it hit me – the car isn’t on fire; the smoke is from the airbags (both driver and passenger bags deployed).
Just for fun, I tried to budge the passenger door open, and finally, it moved. I managed to crawl out, hitting the pavement hands first and sort of rolling out. That’s when I began to notice the pain. My legs felt like they were on fire. I was immediately helped to my feet by a very kind lady, who stopped when she saw the crash. She, unlike the rude jerks who honked and yelled at me for creating traffic, helped me to the back of her SUV. She stayed with me until the police and paramedics arrived.
From the back of her SUV, I could clearly see my car, or what was left of my car (which wasn't much). I’m not a gear head or anything, but I loved my car. She was a beautiful BMW 330xi, with all the bells and whistles. I loved the sound she made every time I started her up (vrrrroooommmm). I loved driving her – I could zip around like the aggressive driver I am without breaking a sweat. Now, she’s crumpled up like a beer can against some drunk guy’s forehead. When the car hit me from behind, the force of the impact pushed me into the truck in front.
So, I was looking at my car and crying when I realized that I have to call Brian (my husband). Except, I didn’t know where my phone was; I didn’t know where my purse was. Fortunately, the nice lady (I wish I’d gotten her name) had grabbed my bag when she helped me out of the car. I found my phone and called Brian. I probably wasn’t all that coherent, but he managed to get the gist of what happened. I noticed that he sounded kind of funny, but I was too stressed out to worry. I assured him that I wasn't dying or anything, and told him that I'd call back when I knew what hospital I was going to. That's when the paramedics finally arrived. I was immediately placed on a stretcher and loaded into the back of the ambulance.
The EMT (a really cute (young) guy named Nate) started asking me questions (while removing my shoes and socks). Rather than answer him, I was too busy kicking myself for not getting a pedicure – I just knew my feet looked like crap with the peeling polish and rough edges. I was also thinking that I was grateful that something told me to shave my legs that morning. As any girl will admit, in the winter, we’re just not as concerned with shaving. I need the extra insulation that a little extra hair can provide. My next thought: what underwear do I have on . . . ? I couldn’t help these thoughts - I’m a girly girl.
Anyway, Nate was looking me over, checking for signs of shock, internal trauma, etc. He asked me if I had any neck or back pain, which I did, so I said yes. Big mistake. The next thing I knew, I was maneuvered onto a back board, they put this foam thing around my head, and I was being strapped down. I couldn't move, and I didn’t like it. Nate continued his exam noting the various cuts on my hands and arms. At that point, I noticed that the ring I had been wearing on my right hand was broken. The ring, bought by my husband on our honeymoon in Bermuda, was missing the center stone (a pear shaped aquamarine). That's when I got pissed. Before I was only upset and feeling sorry for myself.
As luck would have it, that’s the moment when they assisted the driver of the car that hit me into the ambulance. She’d declined treatment, but described what happened. She claimed that the car to her right had been driving without headlights, so she was attempting to alert the driver. She said that she never noticed that traffic had stopped, and didn’t slow at all before hitting me. I was fuming over the whole thing, so I said “but you were going so fast!” She said that she was going the speed limit (which is 65mph). She was very apologetic and wished me good luck for a speedy recovery. It was hard to be angry with someone who was being so gracious. After signing a statement declining treatment, she was let out of the ambulance.
A state trooper came in next. I was thinking: Are they ever going to take me to the hospital, or are we just going to sit here all night? The trooper asked for my license, which thanks to the nice lady who helped me, was in my purse at my feet. She rooted through my bag (it’s times like these that I’m glad I’m not some druggie or anything), found my wallet, and took my license outside. Nate kept checking my injuries, but not before commenting on my engagement ring. I’m used to the comments because it’s a really beautiful ring (an antique, platinum, Edwardian setting with a 2.5ct Old European cut diamond – it’s been in my husband’s family for years). Nate said, “Your husband must really love you judging from that rock.” Oh crap, my husband! I asked Nate where they were taking me. He said “Howard County.” I said that I needed to call Brian to let him know, so Nate grabbed my phone, dialed Brian’s number, and put the phone on speaker. Nate’s handy with the electronics. I told Bri where I was going, and he promised to meet me there. Nate ended the call, put my phone back in my bag, and told me that we were about to head out. The state trooper came back with my license, and off we went.
When I got to the hospital, after a very nauseating ambulance ride (being strapped to a board is not fun), I was left in a hallway while everyone discussed my injuries. Since I didn’t have shoes or socks on, my feet were freezing. When Nate came by, he was holding a blanket for me, which he kindly tucked under my cold feet. If it wasn't for Bri and the (at least) 10 years separating our ages, I would totally love Nate. I asked him if he could take me off the back board because it was really starting to hurt, especially on the back of my head. It felt like someone was digging a knife in there. Nate assured me that once I was cleared by a doctor, I could get off the back board.
I waited, and waited. I was (finally) moved from the hallway to a private room (I later learned that it’s the “psych” room). Rubber walls? No. Just nothing. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, Bri walked into the room, white as a sheet with tears in his eyes. So, of course, I started crying. He grabbed my hand and murmured gentle words to me, while I just cried. After getting some composure back, I told him exactly what happened. I could tell he was getting angry because he got quiet. “How the hell could someone not notice that traffic had stopped? Even if she didn’t see at first, she should have noticed before she got too close to you and hit her brakes.” “Nope,” I assured him; “she never slowed down.”
As we were waiting, he began to pluck pieces of glass out of my hair. I then realized that the awful pain coming from the back of my head must be from a piece of glass.
We were finally graced with the doctor’s presence at that point. He did some cursory checks, determined that I didn’t have a broken next or back, and finally removed the back board and neck brace. Thank God! I checked my scalp where the pain was; no blood, but sore. I did a head shake and a few more pieces of glass came flying out. Fabulous. But, the good news was that I could actually breathe again. I told the doctor that the worst pain I had was in my upper thighs. Not too impressed (or bored by my lack of life-threatening injuries), he wrote me a prescription for some Tylenol with codeine and 600mg Ibuprofen, gave me an excuse note for work, and sent me on my way. I was a little surprised by this. No x-rays? No nothing? Seemed strange, but I was so tired and I just wanted to go home (it had been over three hours since I got to the hospital) so I didn’t really care.
When I sat up, I noticed that my thighs had swollen to (at least) twice their normal size. We think that my legs hit the steering wheel when the impact forced the back seat into the front seat. I waited for Brian to put my socks and shoes back on and we headed out to his car. It was at that moment when I realized that I’d never drive my car again. She was dead; I was sure of it. I was sad, but I honestly didn’t think I'd ever want to drive again, so it wasn't that bad. Brian helped me into his car, and drove us home. One thing about Brian – he’s a racecar driver. Not a professional one, but it’s something he does competitively at various events all over the country. He also teaches performance driving and is a really safe driver. But, he likes to drive his car with some oomph. Great husband that he is, he didn’t even think about doing anything but drive at a nice steady pace.
We arrived home, and I was immediately greeted by lots of happy animals. I picked up my dog for the obligatory welcome home licks, then headed into the bedroom. I slowly took off my clothes (finding more broken glass in my bra – WTF?), got into my most comfortable PJs and climbed into bed. Brian headed off to the local 24-hour pharmacy to fill the prescriptions.
I can remember at one point during the whole ordeal feeling like my BG was getting low. Since I didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with a low (or worse not wake up because of the drugs), I tested. I was 165 mg/dl – I figured the stress of it all must have really spiked my BG since I was around 110 when I left the office. Just in case, I grabbed a juice box, put it on my nightstand, and turned off the light. Good night Shannon!
Since the accident, I have seen more doctors than I had in the whole five years preceding it (that’s a lot for a diabetic). I’ve had physical therapy for my back, endured a cistoscopy for persistent blood in my urine, had surgery on both legs to remove the grapefruit-sized hematomas on my thighs (which came back and I still have), and undergone numerous other tests and procedures. I’m still not healed from this trauma, both physically and mentally. Every day is a little better, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget what the multiple impacts of the crash felt like.
We bought a new vehicle – a Chevy Tahoe. I just don’t feel safe driving a car anymore. I miss my beemer, but the Tahoe is great, too.
First, some background . . . I live about 30 miles northwest of Baltimore. Every day, I commute to my job as a technical writer for a major package delivery company (what can Brown do for you?). I usually get to work around 7:30am and leave around 3:30pm.
On January 7, 2008 I left work much later than normal. It was about 4:15 when I got into my car and began the tedious drive home. Normally, the drive home doesn’t stress me out as much as the one in the morning, but since I was already late, I was anxious to get home. When I tested my BG before I left the office, I was around 110, which is exactly where I want to be for that time of day.
The drive was surprisingly easy for a Monday afternoon, but since it had been an absolute nightmare that morning (at least three major crashes that affected my commute), I figured we (the commuters of Baltimore) deserved an easy ride home. After breezing down the beltway, and cruising for a few miles down I70W, I noticed that traffic was slowing down ahead of me. For anyone who knows the area, this is a point on I70 where traffic always gets backed up (the rt. 29 split).
I gently slowed my car, coming to a complete stop behind a truck. As I stopped, I glanced in my rearview mirror to see if there was anyone behind me (something I always do). That’s when I saw these headlights coming at me. FAST. My first thought was that whoever was driving that car (a shiny new Jaguar) would notice that traffic had stopped before she (as I later learned) even got close to me. My next thought: holy crap, she’s not stopping. She’s not even slowing down. As I was thinking this, I tried to let up on the brake, and slowly let out the clutch thinking that I might be able to get out of the way. No such luck.
BAM, CRASH, BAM (again), CRASH
As I became aware of my surroundings, I noticed that there was a lot of smoke in my car. Not only that, I could feel so much heat coming from the dashboard area. Natural conclusion: Oh my God, my car is on fire . . . must get out now . . . I tried to open my door, but it wasn't moving. I tried to get the window down, but the power windows weren’t doing anything. I reached over and tried to open the passenger door, but it was stuck too. But, good news, the passenger window had shattered, so I could crawl out (if I could just get my body to cooperate). While this all seems kind of rational now, I was not thinking rationally. I undid my seat belt, and began to crawl over the center console to the passenger seat (which was covered in glass). At that point, the air bags were deflating and the smoke in the car had lessened significantly. That’s when it hit me – the car isn’t on fire; the smoke is from the airbags (both driver and passenger bags deployed).
Just for fun, I tried to budge the passenger door open, and finally, it moved. I managed to crawl out, hitting the pavement hands first and sort of rolling out. That’s when I began to notice the pain. My legs felt like they were on fire. I was immediately helped to my feet by a very kind lady, who stopped when she saw the crash. She, unlike the rude jerks who honked and yelled at me for creating traffic, helped me to the back of her SUV. She stayed with me until the police and paramedics arrived.
From the back of her SUV, I could clearly see my car, or what was left of my car (which wasn't much). I’m not a gear head or anything, but I loved my car. She was a beautiful BMW 330xi, with all the bells and whistles. I loved the sound she made every time I started her up (vrrrroooommmm). I loved driving her – I could zip around like the aggressive driver I am without breaking a sweat. Now, she’s crumpled up like a beer can against some drunk guy’s forehead. When the car hit me from behind, the force of the impact pushed me into the truck in front.
So, I was looking at my car and crying when I realized that I have to call Brian (my husband). Except, I didn’t know where my phone was; I didn’t know where my purse was. Fortunately, the nice lady (I wish I’d gotten her name) had grabbed my bag when she helped me out of the car. I found my phone and called Brian. I probably wasn’t all that coherent, but he managed to get the gist of what happened. I noticed that he sounded kind of funny, but I was too stressed out to worry. I assured him that I wasn't dying or anything, and told him that I'd call back when I knew what hospital I was going to. That's when the paramedics finally arrived. I was immediately placed on a stretcher and loaded into the back of the ambulance.
The EMT (a really cute (young) guy named Nate) started asking me questions (while removing my shoes and socks). Rather than answer him, I was too busy kicking myself for not getting a pedicure – I just knew my feet looked like crap with the peeling polish and rough edges. I was also thinking that I was grateful that something told me to shave my legs that morning. As any girl will admit, in the winter, we’re just not as concerned with shaving. I need the extra insulation that a little extra hair can provide. My next thought: what underwear do I have on . . . ? I couldn’t help these thoughts - I’m a girly girl.
Anyway, Nate was looking me over, checking for signs of shock, internal trauma, etc. He asked me if I had any neck or back pain, which I did, so I said yes. Big mistake. The next thing I knew, I was maneuvered onto a back board, they put this foam thing around my head, and I was being strapped down. I couldn't move, and I didn’t like it. Nate continued his exam noting the various cuts on my hands and arms. At that point, I noticed that the ring I had been wearing on my right hand was broken. The ring, bought by my husband on our honeymoon in Bermuda, was missing the center stone (a pear shaped aquamarine). That's when I got pissed. Before I was only upset and feeling sorry for myself.
As luck would have it, that’s the moment when they assisted the driver of the car that hit me into the ambulance. She’d declined treatment, but described what happened. She claimed that the car to her right had been driving without headlights, so she was attempting to alert the driver. She said that she never noticed that traffic had stopped, and didn’t slow at all before hitting me. I was fuming over the whole thing, so I said “but you were going so fast!” She said that she was going the speed limit (which is 65mph). She was very apologetic and wished me good luck for a speedy recovery. It was hard to be angry with someone who was being so gracious. After signing a statement declining treatment, she was let out of the ambulance.
A state trooper came in next. I was thinking: Are they ever going to take me to the hospital, or are we just going to sit here all night? The trooper asked for my license, which thanks to the nice lady who helped me, was in my purse at my feet. She rooted through my bag (it’s times like these that I’m glad I’m not some druggie or anything), found my wallet, and took my license outside. Nate kept checking my injuries, but not before commenting on my engagement ring. I’m used to the comments because it’s a really beautiful ring (an antique, platinum, Edwardian setting with a 2.5ct Old European cut diamond – it’s been in my husband’s family for years). Nate said, “Your husband must really love you judging from that rock.” Oh crap, my husband! I asked Nate where they were taking me. He said “Howard County.” I said that I needed to call Brian to let him know, so Nate grabbed my phone, dialed Brian’s number, and put the phone on speaker. Nate’s handy with the electronics. I told Bri where I was going, and he promised to meet me there. Nate ended the call, put my phone back in my bag, and told me that we were about to head out. The state trooper came back with my license, and off we went.
When I got to the hospital, after a very nauseating ambulance ride (being strapped to a board is not fun), I was left in a hallway while everyone discussed my injuries. Since I didn’t have shoes or socks on, my feet were freezing. When Nate came by, he was holding a blanket for me, which he kindly tucked under my cold feet. If it wasn't for Bri and the (at least) 10 years separating our ages, I would totally love Nate. I asked him if he could take me off the back board because it was really starting to hurt, especially on the back of my head. It felt like someone was digging a knife in there. Nate assured me that once I was cleared by a doctor, I could get off the back board.
I waited, and waited. I was (finally) moved from the hallway to a private room (I later learned that it’s the “psych” room). Rubber walls? No. Just nothing. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, Bri walked into the room, white as a sheet with tears in his eyes. So, of course, I started crying. He grabbed my hand and murmured gentle words to me, while I just cried. After getting some composure back, I told him exactly what happened. I could tell he was getting angry because he got quiet. “How the hell could someone not notice that traffic had stopped? Even if she didn’t see at first, she should have noticed before she got too close to you and hit her brakes.” “Nope,” I assured him; “she never slowed down.”
As we were waiting, he began to pluck pieces of glass out of my hair. I then realized that the awful pain coming from the back of my head must be from a piece of glass.
We were finally graced with the doctor’s presence at that point. He did some cursory checks, determined that I didn’t have a broken next or back, and finally removed the back board and neck brace. Thank God! I checked my scalp where the pain was; no blood, but sore. I did a head shake and a few more pieces of glass came flying out. Fabulous. But, the good news was that I could actually breathe again. I told the doctor that the worst pain I had was in my upper thighs. Not too impressed (or bored by my lack of life-threatening injuries), he wrote me a prescription for some Tylenol with codeine and 600mg Ibuprofen, gave me an excuse note for work, and sent me on my way. I was a little surprised by this. No x-rays? No nothing? Seemed strange, but I was so tired and I just wanted to go home (it had been over three hours since I got to the hospital) so I didn’t really care.
When I sat up, I noticed that my thighs had swollen to (at least) twice their normal size. We think that my legs hit the steering wheel when the impact forced the back seat into the front seat. I waited for Brian to put my socks and shoes back on and we headed out to his car. It was at that moment when I realized that I’d never drive my car again. She was dead; I was sure of it. I was sad, but I honestly didn’t think I'd ever want to drive again, so it wasn't that bad. Brian helped me into his car, and drove us home. One thing about Brian – he’s a racecar driver. Not a professional one, but it’s something he does competitively at various events all over the country. He also teaches performance driving and is a really safe driver. But, he likes to drive his car with some oomph. Great husband that he is, he didn’t even think about doing anything but drive at a nice steady pace.
We arrived home, and I was immediately greeted by lots of happy animals. I picked up my dog for the obligatory welcome home licks, then headed into the bedroom. I slowly took off my clothes (finding more broken glass in my bra – WTF?), got into my most comfortable PJs and climbed into bed. Brian headed off to the local 24-hour pharmacy to fill the prescriptions.
I can remember at one point during the whole ordeal feeling like my BG was getting low. Since I didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with a low (or worse not wake up because of the drugs), I tested. I was 165 mg/dl – I figured the stress of it all must have really spiked my BG since I was around 110 when I left the office. Just in case, I grabbed a juice box, put it on my nightstand, and turned off the light. Good night Shannon!
Since the accident, I have seen more doctors than I had in the whole five years preceding it (that’s a lot for a diabetic). I’ve had physical therapy for my back, endured a cistoscopy for persistent blood in my urine, had surgery on both legs to remove the grapefruit-sized hematomas on my thighs (which came back and I still have), and undergone numerous other tests and procedures. I’m still not healed from this trauma, both physically and mentally. Every day is a little better, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget what the multiple impacts of the crash felt like.
We bought a new vehicle – a Chevy Tahoe. I just don’t feel safe driving a car anymore. I miss my beemer, but the Tahoe is great, too.
No comments:
Post a Comment