This week, my friend Amy’s business partner had a car accident. Which sucks. But is especially scary since she is 6 months pregnant. She is fine, but is now on modified bed rest. Send her good thoughts.
But what was freaky for me, upon seeing Amy’s tweet about the incident, was how quickly MY experience whooshed over me. Something very similar. I’ll describe it as the gigantic funny crazy clusterfuck that it was, because in the end we were fine too.
Let’s see, I was 4.5 months pregnant, summer of 2002. I was driving east on 6th Avenue Freeway, minding my business, when – basically – a bumper came flying out of nowhere. OUT. OF. NOWHERE. Literally 4 cars in front of me smashed into each other like accordions all crushed and compressed. Because, let’s not forget, other than I-70, this is the ONLY main east-west artery in Denver. And if you look at the link above, I was just about to hit the I-25 intersection, which is the ONLY north-south highway. ONLY. Translation? A fuck-load of traffic.
I managed to stop my car within INCHES of the car ahead of me. My hands went round my swollen belly and I crouched forward as cars blurred all around me. Then BAMMMM! A Jeep trying avoid a Semi who was coming around the pileup on the shoulder swerved and slammed into my right side.
The whole car moved left as I slammed into the window.
The entire freeway, it just stopped.
My hand shook as I immediately grabbed my cell phone and called 911. Then Bryan. He was close, he was coming.
One of the vehicles in the blur had stopped. It was a delivery truck from American Family Furniture. He was running from vehicle to vehicle and tapping on windows, checking on people. One awesome thing I can say about that dickhead Jake Jabs, he employs good people.
He got to me. I cracked my window and whispered, “I’m pregnant.”
He told me he was an EMT and asked if he would check me out. I felt fine. I really did. But I let him check me. He said the police and others were on their way. He agreed with me. I felt fine. But I wasn’t allowed to move. Not one inch.
Then the sirens came. All around. All because some asshole had duct-taped his bumper to his car. We knew this because they found it about 5 cars behind me. We won’t talk about the time in college I tied my bumper on with a rope because the manly men in my life made sure it was totally SECURE and it certainly never fell off on a major highway and caused a massive pileup.
The paramedics got to me, checked me out, thought I was good too. But wanted me to come to the hospital – just in case.
By this time, Bryan had arrived. How did he get there, you may ask? By driving up a side street and CLIMBING DOWN THE EMBANKMENT ONTO THE HIGHWAY. Don’t ever think my hubby don’t love me to pieces, kay? Cause he proved it that day.
And off I went. To the hospital in a roaring ambulance. Trying to remain calm. Leaving Bryan behind with the mess of cars piled up on the highway, mess of police to talk to and mess of traffic lined up all the way back out to Golden.
As for bumper guy? He could have totally gotten away clean. But he loved that damn bumper so much he came back for it. OH YES HE DID. Right in the middle of all those mangled cars and ambulances and tow trucks and police cars, he tried to retrieve his stupid duct-taped bumper. One of the witness looked over and said to the police officer, “Hey! That’s HIM!”
The most beautiful two words in the whole world? Instant Karma.