Shatters

My turquoise Chevy Cavalier swerved off the road, and suddenly I found myself trying to push the rubber of the brakes against the carpet of the floor as I tried desperately to stop. The tires refused to halt as I continued to skid at 30 miles an hour along the grass and packed dirt of the cornfield along the Hubbardton road. There was nothing I could do, except stare out the cracked windshield at the expanse of trees that approached faster and faster. Terrified, I gripped the wheel, my knuckles white from trying to regain control. CRUNCH. Steel met hard, solid bark as my Chevy collided headfirst into the trees. I didn’t even have time to scream.

I can’t remember much after that, other than a handful of jumbled images. I looked out the shattered windshield to see smoke rising out of the totaled car. I do remember my feelings, however. Though terrified, I had the sense enough to unbuckle my seat belt and know I had to get out of the car. I remember my door not being able to open, and there was no way I could get out the passenger side. Thankfully I had manual windows and could climb out the driver-side one. I remember intense pain all over my body, and feeling stiff. I remember struggling to walk on my left leg because the pain was agony, but I bit it back. I needed help.

I remember a couple pulling over, and seeing my car rammed in the tree, and ran over to help. I know I had them call my mother, and I heard them call the police. The next thing I remember is waking up, looking up at the people staring down on me. I was on a backboard and in so much pain I wanted to scream. But as always, I didn’t. I remained silent and calm. I looked over in the distance, far to my left, and saw my mother, brother, sister, aunt, and my sister’s boyfriend standing along the edge of the road with the police officers. I focused on my mother. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew her eyes shed tears. This was the second time she had to see me lying on the side of the road, not knowing if I was dead or alive. I hoped it would be the very last time she’d ever have too.

What I can tell you is that April 30, 2009 I brushed with death for the third time in my life. In a period of just nine short years, I’d had three car accidents. The first time I was hit by a car two weeks after my twelfth birthday. The second time was the previous December. I had worked a twelve-hour shift and then tried to bring a friend home at three in the morning. In exhaustion, I fell asleep behind the wheel and went off the road. They told me if I had gone an inch further, I would have flipped my car, totaled it, and died. The third time was the day I came home from college, much of which I can’t remember now unless I try very hard. I do know they told me I was lucky to be alive, let alone be able to walk away. I suffered a broken left hip socket and torn left knee tendon. I spent two months of my summer on crutches and reliving the aftermath of my now-full swing PTSD. I knew I was lucky to escape death a third time, but even then, they told me my hip would never heal completely. From past experience, I knew I would never completely heal both physically and mentally.

Since that day, and in my months of recovery, I turned towards my writing as a comfort and a solace. I was laid up for most of the summer, so I couldn’t enjoy everything I should’ve been able at a young age of 19. Experiencing the near-brush of death three times in my life, I consider myself lucky. I guess I’m meant to still be here and fate has bigger plans for me, whatever they may be. I did walk away with one thing: I don’t view this as a regret, I see it as a learning experience. I take each day as it comes and now I live life to the fullest because I never know when it could be taken away from me. I write about anything and everything I’m thinking, anything I wonder about, I am angry, sad, happy, etc, about. I write about what I want to do in the world, or I write about my past, or what I’m afraid of. I have always written from the heart, but within these months of recovery I learned to be fearless in my writing and write about things I’d considered Taboo before. I learned to write with my instinct, my voice, and with courage. What I noticed I wrote about the most was hope. Hope and the ability to dream of a future I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been so lucky.