July 31, 2017, I was driving home from work on I-44. Not my usual route, but I-40 was packed. Came up on May Ave and glanced in my rearview mirror. I saw the orange hood of a pickup that seemed too fucking close.
It was.
Hit me and crushed in the back of my first new vehicle. I don't remember the crash. Fuck knows I've tried because I hate not knowing. I remember the firefighters leaning me back in the driver's seat because they had to cut me out the back. Putting some cloth over my face to protect it.
Then there was an ambulance ride with Mo.
Tried to put a collar on me, but I told him I was claustrophobic.
Then I'm going through a CAT scan.
That's how I remember.
Flash segments. From one to the next to the next.
There was an off-duty EMT guy who apparently came on the scene first. Took his spare t-shirts to put behind my bleeding head. And I guess I told him how to unlock my phone so he could call the Honey. All of which happened, and I don't remember a lick of it.
I was in shock.
Bad concussion.
Did a number on my body.
So on and so forth.
This year, I was going to let the day slide. I'm acutely aware of it. But 9 years later?
I still think about it.
And I'm glad I'm still here to spread love and snark.
