The Fright of my Life (Part I)

This last week has been probably the most stressful week of my life, and that's saying something when you think about all we have done to get where we are.  When I began writing this post a few days ago, I hoped that once the story of what happened was out of my head and on the screen, I would be able to stop thinking about it, turning it over and over in my mind and worrying over what I might have done differently, what could have happened "if only."  Some of that constant reliving of the events started letting up over the weekend ( I saw my therapist on Saturday and it helped to talk to her about it), and now I just want to write out the story, share it with you, and move on.

I'd like to make a small disclaimer here that the following contains some talk of blood and fluid, so if you're squeamish, you might want to skip to the end of the post now.  And so you don't worry, I'll tell you that as of right now, both the baby and I are doing fine--shaken, but otherwise fine.

It happened on Monday, October 24th, at 6:32PM by the police report.  I was on my way home from work, then Costco where I picked up my thyroid prescription, then Whole Foods, where I picked up the fixings for chicken stew.  I was driving southbound on 185th in Beaverton, less than five miles from our house.  It's a fairly busy street with two lanes going in each direction and the posted speed limit is 45MPH.

I was in the left lane and noticed that the car in front of me was stopped.  I'm pretty sure there was also a car stopped in the turn lane.  I wondered what was going on, then saw the figure of a person standing between the two cars.  It looked like they were encouraging whoever it was to continue on across the street.  It was then that I thought to check my rearview mirror . . . someone was coming and for a split second I thought they were going to stop.  Then just as quickly I realized that the headlights were coming on way too fast.

It took the next three or so seconds for me to a) honk my horn trying to signal the driver behind me that we were stopped, b) take my foot off the brake and c) close my eyes and bend my head forward, bracing for the impact I knew was coming.

He hit me hard, going what we guess was between 35 and 40MPH.  I didn't hear him hit the brakes and Michael tells me there were no skidmarks on the pavement that might have indicated he was trying to slow down (although that is something he apparently told the police from what Michael overheard).

I think the first thing I did after the impact was bury my face in my hands and begin sobbing.  I could see the driver behind me just sitting in his vehicle.  I'm sure he was stunned.  Then I started hunting around for my cell phone so I could call Michael.  Funny how my first thought was to call him and not 911.  I dialed his number but it went to voicemail and in the back of my mind I thought that that just proved how we really need to get him a new cell phone because his is notorious for running out of juice just hours after being fully charged.  And I've worried before about not being able to reach him in case of emergency.

I hung up the phone and searched for my mom's number.  It was about this time that the other driver came up to my window.  There was also a man (a good samaritan who hadn't seen the accident but must have been driving by and stopped) in a white t-shirt holding a cell phone.  He asked me if I had called 911 yet.  I told him that no, I was trying to reach my husband.  He said he would call the police and also an ambulance.  I was still crying and right on the verge of hysteria about this time.  The other driver kept asking if I was okay and I yelled at him that no, I was not okay.  I was pregnant.  I also asked him (okay, yelled) what the !@#$ was he thinking (meaning when he wasn't paying attention and plowed into me).  It wasn't my finest moment, but I was beyond worried about the baby and very angry and scared.  I can't remember how he responded . . . I think it was something like, he didn't realize we were stopped, which in my mind was pretty ridiculous.  Even if he wasn't sure we were stopped, he should have started braking and kept watching to see what happened.  Apparently he was off in La La Land, or maybe he was texting.  I'll never know for sure.

My mom answered her phone and I blurted out what had happened and that I couldn't reach Michael.  I have to hand it to her how well she held it together given the circumstances.  She told me everything would be okay, and to just breathe and that she would stay on the line with me until Michael got there. 

I saw emergency vehicles coming toward us and then a police lady came to the window and asked me to hang up the phone.  She asked me for my license and for my version of what happened.  After she left, I was finally able to reach Michael.  I told him that I'd been rear-ended hard and that I neededhim to come.  He just asked me where I was and said he was on his way.

After that a young firefighter named Brandon came over to the car.  He opened my door and squatted down so that we were eye level and talked to me slowly and softly.  I kept saying that I was pregnant and he kept saying that I would be fine.  He took my blood pressure and told someone next to him that he couldn't get the bottom number but the top was 120.  The systolic (top) number for me is usually in the 90's, so I guess my blood pressure was amped up a bit from the stress of the accident. 

Brandon asked me slowly and carefully if I wanted to go to the hospital in the ambulance, but I told him that I didn't think I needed that--Michael could drive me in our truck.  I had been wondering why Michael wasn't there yet, so I called him to ask what I should do about the ambulance.  He answered and then I saw him jogging over to the car from the side of the road, still talking to me on his phone.  He told me later that he'd been talking to police officers and firefighters and that they had seemed like they didn't want him to go over to me yet.  Michael agreed that we could probably go to the hospital in the truck, although he told me later that I should have just ridden in the ambulance because the other driver's insurance would have paid for it.  At the time though, I really didn't think I needed it.  I was upset and shaken, but physically I seemed fine.  There was no mark on my belly from the seatbelt and no part of my body that I knew of had hit any part of the car when I was hit. 

It was dark by the time we got ready to go.  A different firefighter helped me pick the contents of my purse off the floor and figure out what I needed to take with me.  Someone else grabbed the groceries from the backseat and carried them over to our truck.  Then traffic in the right lane was stopped for us so we could safely cross to the truck.  The lady police office whom I had first spoken with (what stands out in my mind is that she had tattoo "sleeves" on both forearms) gave us our copy of the accident report and told us that we would have to file another report with the DMV within 72 hours.  If we didn't and the other driver did, my license could possibly be suspended.  I told her quite emphatically that we would be sure to report it.  I got teary then, worrying about the baby.  She saw my tears but thought they meant something else.  "It's just a car," she said.  I just nodded, not bothering to correct her, as I was quite anxious to get out of there.

We drove directly to St. Vincent hospital, groceries in the back and all.  It wasn't until we had parked and were trying to find the emergency room that I started to feel some wetness between my legs.  I tried to brush it aside, as I had been having some heavier discharge that day, but it seemed to become wetter as we walked.  By the time we reached the ER lobby, I was telling Michael that I thought something was wrong, that maybe I was bleeding.  There was quite a line of people waiting to check in to be seen and he suggested I go sit while he waited in line for us.  I did and tried to hold it together, but prayed they would hurry. 

When it was Michael's turn at the counter, he told the two ladies there what was happening.  One of them asked me to come talk to them.  I stood up and walked the few steps over to Michael.  I felt more wetness slipping out of me and tried pressing my legs together.  I can't remember now if I told them I thought I was bleeding.  I must have because they told Michael he could get me a wheelchair and he was bringing one over to me when I felt a great wetness spreading and soaking through the front and crotch of my pants.  I started crying and told Michael that I was bleeding, lifting my sweater so that he could see my stained pants.  He told the ladies behind the counter and they said one of the nurses would see me right then.  She was in a little nook next to the registration counter.  She took my temperature and my blood pressure and listened again to what had happened.  I guess there was some debate about whether I should go upstairs to labor and delivery where the OB doctors were, or if I should be seen by an ER doctor.  Then a volunteer wheeled me away through the waiting room.  It seemed like I could feel everyone's eyes on me.  I kept mine on my lap, which I'd covered with my sweater to hide the blood. 

Soon we'd made it to what I figured out was the pediatric section of the ER.  We were taken to a room that had no bed or examining table in it.  A nurse came over and sheepishly said that she was sorry but a special table had been ordered.  Maybe they had a smaller one in there that would fit a child, but not an adult.  So we waited, I in the chair and Michael next to me, holding my hand tightly, scared to death about what was happening and what was still to come.