screaming tires, busting glass

How I hate being a statistic.

Sunday night, 10pm. LilBro and I are on our way to meet up with Nish downtown. We're on the road for less than a Linger, when we get smashed into by an SUV. My little baby goes sliding, almost into the cars who were waiting for their red to turn green. I was driving through a major intersection, I had a green. The SUV was driving on the same street, opposite, waiting to make a left. She decided she could beat us through the intersection, gunned in through and plowed right into me. Good thing I caught her in my periphery and braked, or she would have hit me square on my door (and not just taken off the entire driver-side front of the car). Pain, blood, hard to breathe. LilBro asking me if I'm okay. I watch as he gets out and starts going ballistic on the teetering blonde who gets out of the SUV. I try to ask ask him to get back here, but I can't catch my breath. I put my arm out of my open window and grab his forearm. She attempts to get back in her vehicle and move her car; LilBro tells her in no uncertain terms to get her ass on the curb. I tell him to call 911. Before we can tell the operator where we are, a police cruiser is there and an officer is telling LilBro to calm down. Fire show up next and ask if I can move my legs; I say yes, I think so. They ask me to climb out the passenger side if I can; my door is too mangled to open, but they will cut it out if they have to. I climb out and the fireman says I'm lucky, a half-second further into the intersection and I wouldn't have walked away. I'm still digesting that when EMTs show up and scoot me into an ambulance. The officer asks me for my ID and stuff; I hand it over and ask about the other driver, I can't see her. He says not to worry, he'll get all the info from her and give it to me.

Mike the Russian, as he introduces himself to me, asks me about my injuries; I tell him my head is sore (but no headache), my right-hand thumb hurts and my stomach really hurts. He says: "head's fine, you just bounced it off the door frame, no blood; thumb, you probably dislocated and relocated it, it will be very sore, ice it; stomach, bruise, seatbelt burn, no internal injuries. Your left arm has a lot of glass, but we'll remove it, you won't need stitches ." ..what? Left arm? I look down and I can't see anything wrong, except that the pan below it is a dark, sticky red. He pours a gentle saline solution and the pan becomes a diluted pink. He tweezes a few of the larger shards out of my arm and fat drops of blood pour into the pan. All on the other side of arm, the side I can't see. Then I remember I put my arm out of my window... and I hadn't had it rolled down when we left. All that glass was somewhere in my car or on my person. That's when it hits me and start to cry. LilBro says I'm done the worst of it and now's not the time to start crying. It's a verbal slap. I stop. Mike asks if I'd like to go to the hospital: I have no concussion, no life-threatening injuries, but if I want to speak to a doctor, they can take me. I say no, it's okay (I'm remembering another trip to hospital, and I want to avoid that). They drive us to the police station, which I suddenly realise is right at the intersection. No wonder the officer had been there in less than thirty seconds!

We wait for almost two hours at the station, give our statements twice. I keep finding bits of glass everywhere: in my hair, on my clothes, in my mouth. They let us go and we go out to the parking lot, where my wrecked car is hooked up to a tow truck. I'm a little nauseated by the sight of my blood coagulating into stiff rivulets on the driver's door. He says we have to pay him $210 in cash to take the car in; I don't even have a my bank card with me. He drives us to my place to get my wallet, to a bank to get money and drops us off at my place again, before heading out to put my car at a collision place. LilBro sits me down in the bathroom to tweeze the last of the glass out of my arm before he applies polysporin and reapplies the bandage wrap. Little splashes of blood drip into the waste-basket. i still don't know what this arm looks like. Sleep.

I feel awful the next day: bruises like an upside-down seven cross my entire torso, my neck, left shoulder and back are too stiff to move; my right hand has swollen to double its size and is a mottled purple; an accidental brush with the pillow to the bump on the left side of my head results in stars exploding; my feet are bruised; and the lacerations on my arm are clearly still bleeding, I can see spots through the wrap. I'm taken to my parent's place, where I get to see the extent of my injuries for the first time. it's not pretty. Mom checks over all the injuries, applies appropriate salves, plies me with anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxants and painkillers. I sleep a lot.

Next, we have to deal with the administrivia of injury: insurance, doctors' reports police reports, lawyers, work, ... *sigh* I plan on sleeping a lot over the next few days.

BTW: this post took over two hours to type.