So… where do I begin?

How about with the accident itself? It wasn’t pretty. I don’t know of any accidents that are, but when you’re the one in the accident, it’s far more scary, far more horrific than when you’re read about one or see on on the news or in movies. A woman pulled out in front of me, and then stopped. At a green light. We weren’t in the turning lane, but I think she wanted to get in another lane. I totaled her flimsy, fiberglass car with my steel front end. Not that it’s anything to brag about. I had the signs/symptoms of a low blood sugar, and I was temporarily distracted while I was looking for some candy.

My head hit the airbag, and went through to the steering wheel. The center of the wheel exploded when the air bag deployed, and pieces of the wheel pierced my chest. Particularly my breasts. The top of my head went from the wheel to the ceiling of the car. My head cracked my moon roof! I lost consciousness, but I came to while the driver of the other car was cussing me out and screaming at me that I was going to ‘rot’ in jail. Of course when the ambulance got there, and the cops, she was ‘paralyzed’. Christ on a cracker.

As for me? I had blood streaming down my shirt. I wasn’t clear on what happened. I thought I was seriously injured, as in my insides were outside. I could not put pressure on my right knee. I didn’t know what had happened. I couldn’t shut off my car. I couldn’t get the key out. My glove box was locked, and I couldn’t get to my insurance and license. The cops here are royal assholes. They were very unsympathetic. Because I couldn’t get my key out of the ignition and unlock my glove box and get to my license and registration and insurance, I was ‘resisting arrest’. The asshole cop demanded that I get out of the car. He actually had a gun pointed at me! He was barking orders. I was confused and scared. I started crying. I was bleeding. I was feeling the pain. I had chest wounds. I could see pieces of the plastic sticking out of my shirt. The cop opened my door and yanked me out. He threw me down on the median and handcuffed me. Later I learned that he did this because the woman I hit lied and said I came at her with a knife, then cut myself and got back in the car. WTF? Bitch I didn’t even know my name at the time. My car was searched, and when no weapons were found in the car, I was un-handcuffed. No apology. I was given a breathalyzer test. It was negative. The EMSA worker did a blood sugar stick test. My blood sugar was in the 40s. I was shaking, weak and confused. I was scared. They took me to the hospital. My car was towed.

Once at the emergency room, things got fuzzy. I don’t remember what I told the triage nurse or the doctor or even the police who came back. I woke up around 8pm, being wheeled to nuclear medicine. I had a bracelet on, but it didn’t have my real name on it. I don’t know why I gave the name I did, but it wasn’t my real name. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was x-rayed several times. Then I had an MRI with the painful dye. I cried, I fought. They had to sedate me. I don’t do well with MRI machines. I had a brain MRI, a brain scan, more head x-rays. When my ex husband came in to give me the results, I was so out of it, I thought we were still married, and I asked him if he was there to take me home. I think I hugged him, too. All this time, I was snapping pictures with my iPhone and texting everyone I could get their number from. I was looking for my current husband’s number, subconsciously, while consciously, I thought I was still married to Sean.

The result? Minor head injuries, morphine was pushed. I got sick. I vomited in the trash can as Sean was telling me that in the morning they were going to drain part of my brain, breasts and abdomen. After I finished vomiting, he prepped me for a minor procedure: Getting the pieces of the steering wheel out. I was given more morphine. I was crying. I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t know what was happening to me. The nurse was trying to put an IV in, and I fought her all the way. She got one in on the third try, but only because Sean was holding me down at the time.

When Sean finished bandaging my breasts, I was taken up to a room. I just had my wristlet and iPhone. Nothing else. I had been stripped and a gown put on. I was sore. I didn’t understand why I was being stripped. In my room, I was given a third dose of morphine. I threw up. I remember jumping out of bed and grabbing the basin, dumping out the toiletries and vomiting into it. I don’t do well on narcotics. I was vomiting bile and green and blue stuff. The nurse told me that I wandered the halls after throwing up. She said I kept saying I was looking for my baby and husband. Sean found me wandering the hall, and I spilled the beans to him: “We have a daughter. I had her just seven months after you got mad at me!” Oh dear. That did not go over well. Sean took me back to my room several times that night. I kept getting up and wandering the halls. Searching. I was NPO, but I took money from my wristlet and bought chips, Red Bull and mints from the vending machine. I ate while staring out the window in the ‘hub’ of the floor I was on. For some reason, I didn’t try to take the elevator or the stairs. I was told the next morning that I pulled my IV machine behind me, and doing so I tore the vein. Before my drainage the next day, I had to get a new IV put in.

At 4am, the surgeon came in and I was a little surprised to see it was my friend from years ago. He joked with me that they were going to have to shave my head. We went through some physical exercises and I guess I passed. He told me I would be awake during the drainages and he would ask me questions. I tried to smile and asked for a cheat sheet. It turns out that because he recognised me, he called my husband. At this point, after my drainage, my family had no idea what had happened to me. I had gone to school on Thursday morning and never returned. The police refused to take a missing person’s report because I was over 18 and three days had not passed. I was awake during the drainages. I remember my friend asked me who was president and I accidentally said “Osama”. Ooopsie.

By 6:30pm, I had been fed a strange meal of a melted banana popsicle, a tiny can of Sierra Mist, and iced tea that the sugar wouldn’t mix into, so it was a bitter cup. I was given more morphine. Sean came in and cleaned my wounds, yanked off my bandages, and told me to ‘stay off the roads’. A few minutes later, my real husband came in and I was flooded with the memories of the last six years. I was happy, suddenly. I knew everything would be ok. We hugged and cried, and hugged and he asked me what happened, and I told him as best as I could. I had another MRI on my brain, more morphine, more vomiting, more Valium, and then I was discharged. My head injuries were somewhat serious; my blue eyes turned brown from the dilation of my pupils.

I have pictures and a video of some of the things that happened. There is one of my breast injuries, but it’s PG.

My car is permanently totaled. I’ll never get another one, by personal choice. I loved that car. I brought my boys home in it. I went to school in it. It was my first own car.

The airbag:

Close up picture. You can see where the steering wheel exploded:

Injuries to my arm:

Breast injury after the steering wheel piece was removed:

My IV:

X ray!

IV attempts:

My IV after tugging it around all night:

They covered it:

The view from my room, late at night:

The IV bag:

More injuries to my IV site:

My bed had a trapeze above it!

IV attempts and blood draws:

Banana popsicle:

Dinner!

New IV:

Blood sugar sticks:

New IV bag.

A long way to go:

Window view during the day:

My hand was in this position for 24 hours after my brain drain:

The nurses’ station from my room:

All that I got:

The city as I’m going home:

The courtyard:

Breast injuries, yesterday and today:

The video is in my journal. Add me there to see it.