On Thursday, November 17, 2016, this happened:
Thursdays and I have always had a complicated relationship.
This particular Thursday was no more fiendish than many others. I was in a hurry – rather more like a mad dash – but, as that sort of busy-ness is one of the defining characteristics of the first three decades of my life, it felt normal. Of course I was weary from a long day of teaching. Of course I was rushing home – across town – after my after-school tutoring session to take care of the dog, get dinner together (to-go) for myself and my husband, and rush back – across town – to the same building for a rehearsal. Of course there wasn’t enough time to fight rush-hour traffic, accomplish all that was needed, and make it to rehearsal 15 minutes early, as expected and desired. It was all normal; it was all “Thursday”.
I’ve always felt a deep kinship with Arthur Dent when he said: “Today must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.”
Ergo, on this particular Thursday, I followed the steps of my lifelong stress-dance automatically, blithely unaware that the music was about to come to a grinding (*literally*) halt. Dinner in tow, I sallied forth to rehearsal in my beloved Percy, a 2006 Toyota Corolla, which was blessed with a dynamic duo of namesakes: Percy Jackson, because of its deep-ocean-blue color; and Sir Percy Blakeney, because…reasons. (If you haven’t read The Scarlet Pimpernel…do. As soon as possible.) Turning left out of my neighborhood is a bit tricky, particularly during heavy traffic and particularly after dark, but I’d accomplished it successfully so many times that I was confident in my abilities. You just need to be aggressive, I thought. I saw what I took to be an opening in the oncoming two lanes and made my bold move into the center turning lane.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up, still strapped into Percy’s driver’s seat. It was dark, but I could dimly see that my car was inside a building of some kind. Disoriented, I dimly guessed that I was inside a garage, and began to wonder – with a horribly sinking feeling – how I had gotten there. Did I fall asleep at the wheel? I speculated dazedly. Was I drugged?
And then, with an even greater sinking sensation:
I’m going to be late to rehearsal…
I tried to open my door, but it was jammed shut. I think it was at this point that the words “car accident” began to take shape in my brain. I grabbed my purse and my scarf (priorities, ladies) and climbed out through the passenger side door to go in search of answers.
A very nice lady found me and led me into her apartment. In an amazingly short time (shout-out to the Fayetteville, NC emergency response folks!), the living room was full of paramedics and police officers, all very concerned about the condition and location of me and my vehicle. After they assured me that no one else was hurt, thus allaying my first and worst fear, I remember feeling it was deeply important that they understand how “fine” I was. I tried to make jokes, answer questions lucidly, and exude as much cheer as possible. Even when I looked down at my shirt and realized it was red, and further ascertained that the redness came from a profusely bleeding head wound, I remained remarkably calm. Even when they told me that my car was not in a garage, but rather in someone’s living room, and that it had made its uninvited entrance therein through a pair of plate glass doors, I strove to maintain my composure. I felt it was my duty not to cause the poor EMTs any more heartache than I had already. (That’s what they call “being in shock”, ladies and gentlemen.)
Despite my assurances that I was fine, the blood dripping from my head guaranteed me an immediate and hasty journey to the hospital. I have often said a prayer whenever I hear sirens in the distance, asking God to be with “whomever that’s for” and provide the needed help in time. The prayer has become more personal since that day when I was the reason for the sirens.
Despite my care to grab my purse, I found myself sans wallet and sans phone. Apparently, the two things I actually needed in my purse had flown out of it some time during Percy’s last (and unintended) joyride. God bless the kind lady who originally took me in, and who let me use her phone to get in touch with my husband – and leave a somewhat delirious message on my best friend’s voicemail, asking her to tell the other folks at rehearsal that neither my husband nor I were going to make it. (Shout-out to all my theatre professors through the years, who ingrained certain tenets of professionalism into me so deeply that not even a life-threatening emergency could shake them.) Thankfully, even though my earrings had also taken flight, this bracelet remained:
“Courage, dear heart.”
It wasn’t until I was in the emergency room, awaiting the return of the x-ray technician, that a police officer came and finally told me the whole story. (First responders, I gather, are very careful not to say anything at the scene that might upset you. Hence, they hadn’t exactly told me the truth in its entirety.) An oncoming Avalanche (poetic, isn’t it?) had slammed into my driver’s side door. Percy had then spun across two lanes of traffic, narrowly missed the apartment complex sign, threaded his way between two trees, and – rather than hitting the unyieldingly solid wall of the apartment building – crashed through the glass doors into someone’s living room, wheels still spinning. The police officer used the words “divine intervention”.
I am inclined to agree with him.
Not only was I alive, but I was relatively unscathed.
Since I passed out on impact, my body yielded limply to all the force exerted upon it, and nothing was broken. The head wound was not severe enough to keep me at the hospital, so – four hours of waiting later – my husband, having assured the doctor that he would keep an eye on me that night and bring me back posthaste if I began exhibiting erratic behavior, brought me home and made me dinner. (I had left the cold bag with our dinner inside it in Percy’s front seat. When my husband retrieved it the next day, the food inside was still cold, so our lunch was taken care of!) We watched The Office, went to bed, and were thankful.
Doc was very glad to see us.
Granted, once the shock wore off, I realized how deeply sore and stiff I was. My spine had been forced to jiggle about in a vigorous manner for which it was not designed, so exercise of any kind was out of the question for a while. (For the surprisingly salutary effects of this, see my recent “marathon” post, 26.2 Levels of Gratitude.) Walking across the room without suddenly freezing in pain-induced rigidity proved a difficult enough feat.
I couldn’t drive for two weeks, and didn’t have a car in which to do so. I missed rehearsal, missed work, and generally had to be waited on and carried about for a while.
And this is where grace – the accidental grace – comes in.
In case you’re new to the blog or haven’t picked up on this yet from my previous posts, I’m a “get ’er done” kind of gal. My default response to “Need some help?” is “I’m good, thanks”. I’ve spent much of my life building up a fortress of accomplishments, hoping the walls would keep the monsters at bay – the monsters that lurk in the darkest corners of the soul, whispering – and, sometimes, howling – their infernal litany: “You are not good/strong/wise/beautiful/talented enough. You are a fake, and someday, everyone will know it. You are a burden and a nuisance, worthless and unloved, and you deserve to be alone.”
On that “normal” Thursday, my carefully built battlements came crashing down. My long-accustomed self-sufficient countenance shifted overnight into a pervasive mask of need. Suddenly, “I’m good, thanks” became “Could you give me a ride to work? To the chiropractor? To rehearsal? To my house?” In one split-second error of judgment, my internal mantra went from I’ve got this – I can do all the things! to I need someone to walk me to the bathroom so I don’t fall over.
And yet, with the walls of my useful productivity in shambles around me, I did not hear the howls of the monsters. I found instead that I was surrounded by a cheerful cacophony of love. My family called, Skyped, and even traveled to check on me. Friends brought me flowers and chocolates, sat with me in my housebound state, and swore that they really didn’t mind adding thirty minutes to their commute by giving me rides. My boss and coworkers found a sub for me, covered my extra duties, and urged me to take it easy, even after I returned to work. A friend at church connected me and my husband with a used car dealership that allowed us to purchase a car without draining our savings. (The new vehicle is named Edmund, after Edmund Mitchell Truman of Gatekeeper fame.) My husband walked me around our home, borrowed a wheelchair to help me get around at church, made meals, and kept reminding me that the financial stuff would work itself out and that it was all going to be okay.
I do not believe God causes things like accidents. What I do believe is that he can redeem anything and work it for our good – and, for me, one of the ways he redeemed that horrific November night was to teach me, through it, the beauty of receiving help and love that I could not possibly repay.
Not one of the friends or family members I spoke to after the accident gave voice to the monsters. I heard no messages of Wow, you’ve really messed up this time or How are you going to pay for all this, exactly? or You’d better be making good use of this “vacation” and get back to work quickly, considering all the trouble you’ve caused.
Not one.
The refrain I heard, over and over – when I was immobilized and helpless and not capable of producing anything valuable or effective – was I’m so glad you’re okay. Please make sure you rest. I love you.
And so, dear friends, as I reflect on this unfortunate event one year later, I am inclined to see it now as I saw it then: as an impetus for gratitude, a caution against mad dashes (or the circumstances that make them necessary), and a reminder to rest in the love and care of others, even – and, perhaps, especially – when I feel most unworthy.
A poem I wrote exactly one year, one month, and one day before the accident seems a fitting conclusion to these reflections. I wrote it whilst sitting atop a mountain, but its message is true and rings true anywhere – even here, standing at my kitchen counter, typing this blog that was supposed to be finished hours ago. May it ring true where you are, friend.
Happy Thanksgiving.
It Is Enough
It is enough
When silence blossoms out of speech
With much to learn, and none to teach
While clamor breaks upon the beach
Of solitude.
It is enough
To rest between the earth and sky
To cease from ceaseless care for “I”
To sigh to heaven this reply:
“Let me be wooed.”
It is enough
To linger in the sun’s embrace
While perfect plans and “just in case”
Return to vapor in this place
Of plenitude.
It is enough
To sit, and be, and not produce
To make with time a timely truce
To let your thankful thought-birds loose
Where angels brood.
Wonderful blog Ruth. Happy Thanksgiving to my sweet friends.
How did I not know about this???
Yet one more profound reason I have to give thanks this Thanksgiving!
Ok. Are me cry!! Happy tears, though!! 😍
A scary time indeed but one that taught us all a lesson- in God’s faithfulness ❤ love you forever