Memories Best Left Forgotten

I remember that I was in a great mood that night. The football game had gone our way, and we had celebrated. I had eaten a wonderful dinner with my parents, and I was high on life. Life at university was good. Making decent grades, living on my own. I had a part-time job that was going well, and I had a ton of friends to spend time with.

I remember that it was cold that night. Not the biting cold of a Chicago Winter that freezes you through to your bones and actually hurts…not just on the outside but on the inside too, but the more subdued cold of late November in Alabama. The kind of cold where you walk outside without a jacket and think: Damn, it’s cold.

I used to enjoy being cold. Just cold enough to sharpen the senses. I used to love the way the cold felt when the wind blew across my skin and made me clench my teeth together and tighten my muscles in an attempt to steel myself against the onslaught. Not bitter cold, but cold enough. I loved the way it cleared my sinuses and allowed me to breathe deeply, and how it sharpened my vision. I loved how I could hear better, smell better, see better…the cold made all of my sensory inputs stronger in a way that is hard to explain.

Being cold made me feel on edge, aware. These days, the new agers call it being present, but back then I didn’t know anything about that. For me, it was a more primal feeling…I felt like a hunter…like a predator. I felt like I was one with the natural world around me. I felt alive.

That’s why I drove with the windows down and the radio blasting. That’s why I was going a bit too fast, and why I was acting a bit too carelessly. That’s why I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been. That’s why I was breaking the rules by going into town instead of using the safer back roads. Because I felt so alive, so unstoppable…immortal even. Nothing could hurt me, nothing could stop me.

Until something did.

A drunk driver, trying to pass someone coming the other way around a blind curve.

Suddenly, headlights. In my face. I swerve, avoid the head-on collision but get thrown into a spin. Jerking the wheel back the other way to avoid hitting a house. Spinning out of control. Blackness. Nothingness.

And then later, a blinding flash of white light, broken into a million tiny pieces. Those pieces falling away, and reality rising like a tidal wave behind them as they fell. Lots and lots of pain. My leg pinned underneath a tire, my arm crushed against my chest by the front bumper. The fire ants biting me all over my neck and back. Lying in icy mud and water, unable to move. Not breathing properly. The urge to vomit so strong it couldn’t be resisted, and then the smell of the vomit mixed with the muddy water, bathing me, washing in my ears, my nose, my mouth. Spitting it out again, wanting to vomit more, but having to settle for dry heaves instead.

Being scared. Not knowing where I was, or what had happened. Crying out for help and not receiving an answer. Wondering how long it would take someone to find me, or even if they would find me at all. Letting out a primal scream just in case they were searching for me. Struggling against the weight of the car. Willing myself to become strong enough to push it off of me, but failing. Trying to wiggle free from the entrapment. Feeling the circulation being cut off from my hand, wondering if they would have to amputate it.

A friendly voice. Dear God, Jay, what happened? Stay still, the rescue crew is on it’s way. We’ve called your parents, they’re on their way, too. A whispered thank you, and then sliding back into darkness.

Awakened by the sound of the torches cutting me free. Several grown men try to pick up the car, but drop it on top of me again when they slip in the mud. They try to jack the car up, but the jack slips and the car falls on me again. Lots and lots of pain. The tow-truck can’t move the car without ripping me in half. What to do, what to do?

Finally, a plan. A wedge, a forklift, someone pulling me out when someone else yells “Now!” Freedom, at long last. But don’t move! Secure him to the board. Stable, stable! Into the ambulance now, easy!

In the hospital. We can’t help him, his injuries are too severe. We need to send him to a bigger, better hospital. My brother kissing my hand, praying for me. Me telling him that I’m alright, that he’s not lucky enough for me to die. Trying to assure everyone that I’m ok, or that I will be ok. Trying to tell jokes so that people will smile, or at least understand that I’m ok. My mother in tears, my father in tears. A hallway lined with my friends, most of them in tears, too.

Surgery, more pain. A rock embedded in my shoulder blade, which nobody realized was there until after I yelled at them about it. A broken leg, screws going through my skin, through the muscle, through the bone. Cuts and bruises, and a collapsed lung. No spinal damage, no internal bleeding. You’re a very lucky young man.

A long recovery that in some ways is still going on.

Why? What does it mean? Does it mean anything? Or is it nothing, just something that happened once upon a time?

One thing is for sure. I don’t like being cold anymore.

Tweet This! Delicious Digg This Post Reddit Stumble This Post