Sixty Seconds

Sixty seconds. That is all the time it takes for an entire life to change. It was how long it took for my life to change. One minute, and the life I knew, the life I had worked so hard to cultivate, was over.

One: I’m sitting at the red light, singing along to the radio. I feel good and enjoy the time I have to decompress after a hard day at work. I am thinking about what I’m going to fix for supper and what alcohol I have in the house. Everything is going so well that I have no idea what is coming. Anyone sitting with me in that car couldn’t predict the next minute.

Six: The light changes at the exact moment my phone chimes. I glance at the screen to see if it is important. I also hit the gas simultaneously, propelling myself into the intersection. The text isn’t important, not work-related, so I toss the phone onto the passenger seat.

Thirteen: Because my eyes were on my phone, I missed the headlights coming straight at the side of my car. The song has changed on the radio, another of my favorites. Or, it was. After tonight, I won’t be able to listen to that song without feeling the rage and grief for the life I had. I look back up, but it is too late to do anything. Still, I slam on the brakes, locking the wheels. “Shit!” My scream is cut.

Sixteen: Impact. My head is filled with the sounds of crunching metal and screaming tires. Adrenaline races through my veins even as I slam into the side of the car. My head bounces off the window, causing a large crack to form. The other window is already folded in, and the safety glass barely holds it from falling into the passenger seat where my phone was. I don’t see my phone anymore, and I assume it has fallen onto the floor or launched into the back. Instantly, I feel a sharp pain in my neck. I can’t be sure, but I think I hear an internal crack. It is hard to tell over the other noises surrounding the car and the high-pitched ringing in my ears.

Twenty-four: Steam pours from the hood of the other car, clouding my view from checking the other driver out. Whoever they were, they ran the red light. I am sure of that. I want to get out and check on them, but I can’t move. My head is killing me, throbbing each time I move my hand to try and find the seatbelt buckle. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to think. I want to close my eyes and sleep, but too much commotion surrounds me. Outside the car, I can see people running and rushing toward both vehicles to ensure we are okay.

Thirty-six: There is a knock on my window, and when I try to look, I realize I can’t turn my head. Panic rises inside of me. It is the first time I am afraid. It is also the first time I know something is wrong, something more than just my car being totaled. I think about paralysis, and tears begin to fall. I try to look down and realize I can’t move. While I thought I was trying to unbuckle my seatbelt, my hands weren’t moving. None of my body is responding to the commands my brain is sending. I cry harder, tears pouring down my face, but I can’t wipe them away. I can’t do anything.

Forty-seven: Reality is beginning to set in. I am paralyzed, at least for now. No matter how much I try to move, I can’t. I hear people outside of the car screaming instructions, but I can do nothing. I barely listen to what they say, my panic drowning out their words. I focus on my breathing to try and calm the panic attack threatening to consume me.

Forty-nine: I hear someone yelling that medics are on their way and to hang on. I’m not sure what else I can do. I can’t get out of the car on my own, and I know enough to realize trying to move might injure me more. I would probably laugh if I could move or if the situation was less dire. I suppose I should consider myself lucky the crash happened on the busiest street in the small town I call home. At least we won’t have to sit here for an eternity. Granted, it will be longer than a minute for paramedics to arrive and even longer for me to be transported to a hospital. That won’t be when my life changes. It already has. I know now, in the best-case scenario, that I have a long recovery ahead of me if I recover at all.

Fifty-one: I try to move my hand again, but nothing. It is then I know I’m not coming back to the life I had. I can’t explain how I know. I’m not trained in anything beyond basic first aid, but I know. I will survive, sure, but life won’t look the same for me. I don’t know at that time that I will be wheelchair-bound. I don’t know that I will have to learn how to navigate a world that wasn’t designed for wheelchairs with people ill-equipped to accept differences. I am stuck in the fear of the moment, unable to think of anything beyond getting out of the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other driver being helped from his car. He can barely stand, swaying slightly. I can’t tell if it is from an injury or if he is drunk. Later, I will learn it was primarily because of alcohol but that he also shattered his ankle, his only injury. I would also learn his name is Hunter Andrews, and he was a twenty-two-year-old bar-hopping with friends over Spring Break. He was in a rush to get back to campus, ran the red light, and then ended the life I knew. He will be charged with and plead guilty to Aggravated Vehicular Assault, be sentenced to a year in prison, a license suspension of two years, and court fees. His life will be ruined, too, but not in the same way. While trapped in the car, though, I can only focus on his face and hope his injuries aren’t too significant.

Sixty: The commotion is dying down, turning into a waiting game. I can hear sirens in the distance, making their way toward us. The immediate danger is over, leaving us all in limbo. Yet, everyone waiting and watching knows two lives have changed drastically and permanently. Hunter won’t graduate and will struggle to find work for the rest of his life. I will never walk again. Sixty seconds. One minute. That is all the time it takes for a life to change.