I was wracking my brain just now, trying to decide what to write about today. And then I glanced at the calendar.
November 20, 1993, was one of the biggest days of my life. And not necessarily in a good way, though the events of that day later helped me gain real adult perspective, independence, and a sobering and honest view of mortality.
1993 in a Nutshell
Before I describe the events of the day, I have to give you a little context.
I had come down to the Milwaukee area in July of ’92 and moved in with my idiot boyfriend and his (female – platonic) roommate. I landed a job within 3 days, and within several months, idiot boyfriend and I found our own apartment. Through a rather strange set of circumstances, I quit the aforementioned job (SOOO not smart). I had to make money somehow, of course, so I started waitressing nights and checking (grocery store clerk) days.
In late spring of ’93, I figured out that idiot boyfriend was hooking up with a girl from his workplace. I was completely blindsided by this, and I did not handle this betrayal very well at all. Luckily for me, idiot boyfriend’s former roommate still didn’t have a new roommate, so she invited me to move in with her. I will be forever indebted to her for that.
I quit the cashier day job and started doing double shifts at the restaurant. I couldn’t eat anything. I couldn’t sleep. I started running 3 – 5 miles/day (every single day), and biking about 40 miles/week, all in an attempt to get myself tired enough to sleep. Throughout that summer, I slowly re-built my confidence, my self-esteem, and quite frankly, my health, in no small part thanks to the encouragement and support of my new roommate and her friends.
A Fresh Start
Come early November, I decided it was time for me to re-join the professional workforce. I applied for a tech/marketing writing job through a placement firm, and I was offered the position on 11/11. I gave a week’s notice at the restaurant and planned one last “big” weekend before I was supposed to start my new job on Monday, 11/22.
The Friday night before I was to start the new job, I stayed in Whitewater with my best friend from college. Bleary-eyed after a night of bar-hopping, I drove back to my apartment Saturday morning. My roommate, her friends, and I were to leave about noon that day; we were going to meet some other friends up near Shawano, visit the casino, and stay overnight at one of my roommate’s co-worker’s cabin. The plan was to come home Sunday afternoon, ready to dive into the new job the following morning.
The Weekend Get-away that Turned into the Weekend from Hell
A couple hours into our drive up north, we stopped at a bar. (Though I must confess I don’t remember much of that visit.) I don’t think I had a drink, but I might have. I do remember that as we got back in our friend’s new Honda Civic, it was starting to spit snow. I was chilled, and sleepy, and I asked how long it would be until we got to our destination. I remember someone saying that we were pretty close, that it wouldn’t be much longer. I crawled into the backseat, behind the driver, and decided not to buckle my seat belt. I used my black wool coat as a blanket, snuggling up a bit, wondering what gambling at a casino might be like. (I had never been to a casino, and I was wondering, among other things, just how far the $15 I to spend there would take me.)
As we continued to drive, the snow worsened. In terms of Wisconsin winter weather, it wasn’t horrible, but visibility was definitely compromised. We were on STH 29 a few miles from Shawano (at that time still a two-lane highway), and we were going up a slight incline where you couldn’t see the oncoming traffic for a few moments.
As we hit the crest of the incline, a car travelling in the opposite direction was in our lane, coming almost directly at us. The front seat passenger of our car yelled something, and our driver gasped and straightened her arms against the steering wheel, as if to brace herself.
If you’ve ever been in a crisis- or accident-type situation, you’ll know what I mean when I say everything was happening so fast, but it was also happening in slow-motion. I watched the other car speeding directly at us, heard the impact of metal on metal, saw the car crumple in on our driver, watched the windshield crack in the shape of a gigantic spiderweb, and heard the deafening squeal of brakes. I watched out my side window as the other car flew off from the front of our car and slid down the highway. I looked forward again, and just then our car started to tilt as it slid sideways, hitting the gravel shoulder.
And then we rolled.
I remember two rolls, but I think there were three. I think I briefly blacked out between the second and the third roll. Somewhere in there I remember my whole head being smashed against the headrest in front of me.
And suddenly, we were at a stop.
And it was so terribly, horribly quiet.
I looked up toward the road: nothing. I looked in front of me: our driver was completely unconscious. I looked to the front passenger seat, and I vaguely remember that passenger moaning and fumbling around, though clearly not fully conscious. And then I looked to my right, where my roommate had been sitting next to me.
She wasn’t there.
But then I saw her foot against the side window, and I followed it down her leg, to her body. She was lying on the floor (where her feet should have been), wedged tightly between the passenger seat ahead of her and the seat where she had been sitting. She was whimpering, and I knew her well enough to see in her eyes just how scared she was.
I leaned over her, thinking I could comfort her, but all of a sudden big splotches of deep-red-blue blood were on her face. It took me leaning back and forth a few times to realize that I was the one bleeding. I was dripping my blood right on to her face. As she tried to move a hand up to her face to wipe my blood off herself, I realized she wasn’t able to move her arm properly. I went to reach down to take her hand. I kept thinking I was moving my arm, I kept visualizing doing it, but nothing was happening. It was then that I realized my own arm was broken.
I glanced back to the front seat. Now our driver was very softly moaning. And all at once I realized our friend in the front passenger seat was no longer there.
Oh my God.
Oh My God!
OH MY GOD!!!!
We needed help, and none of us were in any shape to give or get it.
Relying on Strangers
I looked back up toward the road. What I saw then still reminds me of a scene from a movie about aliens: about 7 – 8 people were standing up on the shoulder, staring down at us. Looking utterly horrified.
In that moment, I knew if anyone from our car was going to speak for us, get us help, it was going to have to be me. I remember that I called out, though I don’t recall what I said.
And then, a tall, thin woman in a light beige trench coat cinched tightly around her waist came forward and started picking her way down the hill. She was trying to hurry, but she was also trying to avoid tripping over rocks and stepping on pieces of our car. As I watched her, she looked right at me, and said something calming. I glanced at the road behind her and realized that all cars had stopped.
No wonder it was so quiet.
The woman reached me, and she told me her name, though I have no idea to this day what it was. She said she was a nurse. She was kind, and sincere, and I reached my left arm out the window so I could hold on to someone who was not hurt. I wanted to feel someone who was still whole, who had freedom of movement, who was completely conscious and aware.
I asked her to please pray with me. Together we said the Our Father, and I, for one, had never felt the words quite the way I did that bleak late fall afternoon. As we started to say it a second time, I registered that there were more voices up on the road, and I could hear the whine of sirens in the distance. (Remember that this was a decade before everyone had cell phones and could instantly dial 911.)
That day began a four-month journey for me that could best be described as two steps forward, one step back. I spent the next two weeks in St. Vincent’s Hospital in Green Bay, recovering from quite a collection of injuries: broken left humerus, broken right femur, two cracked ribs, broken carpal in my right hand, and broken C1 and C2 vertebrae. I had also split my forehead open and smashed my nose flat, leaving me with a laceration from about an inch into my hairline all the way down to right between my eyes. Oh, and two of my sinus cavities had been crushed.
Lessons Learned
I didn’t know I could feel so alone. So separate from the world of normal, functioning people, who could walk in my hospital room to see me, and walk out whenever they deemed necessary.
I didn’t know how incredibly stupid it was that I did not have renter’s insurance or any health insurance (I was 2 days away from medical insurance – how’s that for irony?).
I didn’t know how critical the care of good nurses and support staff could be to one’s recovery.
I didn’t know how it could be that one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the state just “happened” to be on call that night. Dr. Richard Horvak worked over 11 hours straight to put us back together, to set all of our broken bones.
I didn’t know how it could be that an extremely talented plastic surgeon just “happened” to be in the hospital that night, checking on another patient. He scrubbed in with the Dr. Horvak to work on my face while the ortho put a rod in my leg and a pin in my hip.
I didn’t know that home health care professionals could be so nurturing, so instrumental in helping a person get through each day.
I didn’t know that my entire hometown, where I had to return to recuperate, would be so supportive. I must have received over a dozen visits from friends and acquaintances, and close to 150 get well cards.
I didn’t know how it felt to have been stripped of daily conveniences and worldly accouterments — from my favorite shampoo, to the ability to put on make-up, to the ability to go to the bathroom by myself — and face the world literally broken and naked but for a hospital gown. Which was all I could wear for quite some time.
And I didn’t expect that my future boss would hold that job for me.
The Importance of Remembering
On November 20 of each year, I try to remember how close we all came to dying. How modern medicine saved my life, so that I could go on to work at that great job that I had landed. Where I met my future husband, the father of my three beautiful girls.
I don’t think about these things with any pity or sadness.
Instead, I try to remind myself of the humility I learned during that period of my life.
I pray the Our Father again, trying to match the conviction and connection to God I felt on that late afternoon, down in that lonely ditch.
And I remind myself to be truly thankful that I made it through alive.
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