Everyone reacts to the idea of death differently. Whether it’s a tragedy on the news, the death of a loved one or acquaintance, even our own brush with the grim reaper; we all respond in different ways.
This past July, I was involved in a bad car accident. I was headed back from a friend’s home, a route I’ve driven so many times easily at night. I was coming out of the city limits; I hadn’t even reached the road sign telling me I could increase my speed on the highway yet. There was another vehicle in front of me easing along as I was, and for a moment, the night was calm.
In what seemed like a second, the calm was shattered. It is a paralyzing feeling when you see what’s about to happen and there is nothing you can do to stop it. For about 15 seconds the world seemed to move in slow motion. I saw headlights coming down the other side of the road at us, just like when any vehicle is coming from the other direction. As they got closer to the vehicle in front of me, the angle suddenly shifted.
I think I heard the crunch of impact before my eyes registered what I was seeing. As I watched the cars in front of me collide, one thought was registering in my brain: the oncoming car, it wasn’t stopping. As if acting independent of my brain, my hands jerked at the steering wheel, trying to get my car off the road. I wasn’t fast enough. When I saw the headlights coming through my window, I had about a second to brace for impact. I remember the squeal of tires, apparently from where I slammed on my breaks, and the sound of shattering glass and crunching metal. I remember pain, then tan everywhere, then darkness.
When I came to, I heard people shouting, running across the road. Over the ringing in my ears I registered sirens and doors slamming. I couldn’t push my door open, but someone from the outside wrenched it open. I climbed under the side airbags, the tan I had seen, and attempted to stand. The world swam and nausea rolled through me. I remember someone holding me up and then sitting me against the edge of the driver’s seat. From where my vehicle ended up, I could see neither vehicle that had been involved in the accident with me.
Shock is an amazing thing. Between it and the concussion I received, the rest of the evening was a bit like blurred auto pilot. The firemen, police, EMTs, even the hospital. Somehow I walked away with only an extremely bruised collarbone and a concussion.
In the week that followed, the severity of what happened would slowly sink in. The first hit was the police report. I got to sit at my desk at work and read the events of the night laid out in black and white. The women in the car that hit me had been blinded by the headlights from the vehicle in front of me. In her confusion, she veered into him. Instead of hitting her brakes, she hit her accelerator, slamming her straight into me. The impact spun both vehicles she hit around. The man driving the first vehicle had to be cut out because the edge of his door had been too damaged to open.
The second hit was when I went to clean out my totaled car. It was the first time I had seen it since that night. One of my back tires was blown out and the rear door on the driver’s side was demolished, most of it no longer connected. The edge of my door was bent in. Seeing the damage in the daylight was shattering. The police officer’s words when I was in the emergency room rang back to me, “If you hadn’t tried to get your car off the road when you did, you probably wouldn’t be talking to me right now.” Five seconds. That was the difference between life and probable death for me.
The first time headlights came at me after I finally scrounged up the courage to drive after dark, I was terrified. Each time after, it became I bit easier. Some nights I still flinch when they flash at me.
Why am I sharing this? Well, some things in life make us sit back and think. In my case, it was like I had woken up again. Somewhere along the way I had become complacent and comfortable, I was moving through the motions of life instead of living it. I made a promise to myself to refuse to be complacent, to fight for what I wanted. If I wanted to wear a size 8 pair of jeans again, I was going to do it, no matter how much work it took.
In the months since my accident I’ve fought to keep that promise to myself. I started tracking my food and refocusing on nutrition. Going for a run or walk most days and going to yoga class again. In November I started CrossFit. Since August, I have gone from a size 18 to a size 12. It’s amazing what happens when you wake up.
I’ve slowly been trying to step out of my comfort zone in other areas of life, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Existing and living are not the same thing. When you finally wake up to life, what you can accomplish is unending.