Beep Beep

On the night of April 5th, 2012, I almost died. I should have died. Had anything gone differently, even by a hair, I would have died. It was the single most traumatic experience in my life and shaped who I am today. Here, let’s take a trip down memory lane. Don’t worry, it’s safe, but you might want to buckle your seat belt.

Allow me to set the scene. In April of 2012, I was working two jobs and completely stressing out on a daily basis. During the day, I was a tax preparer at Jackson Hewitt. At night, I delivered pizza for Papa John’s. Glamorous, right? Not so much. At the time, my boyfriend and I were living with my mother until we could get more financially stable. And since her house was 45 minutes away from my second job, I was burning a lot of gas every time I went to work. On to April 5th…

I had worked both jobs that day, so I was happy to finally get home. It was around 11 o’clock at night, so the roads were fairly deserted as I made my way through the suburbs. The route to my mother’s house took me over three bridges. Where I live in Virginia, you’re lucky to get somewhere that doesn’t take you over a bridge or through a tunnel. Of the three bridges, one was rather sizable. It was one lane each way with no median, and you could not see oncoming traffic until they crested the top of the bridge. As I was approaching the bridge, I was talking to my boyfriend on the phone, letting him know that I was on my way home. I got near the bottom of the bridge and let him know where I was so I could get off the phone. There’s a dead zone that spans about twenty to thirty feet somewhere on that bridge. Calls would drop randomly, so it was best to end the call ahead of time. I remember saying “okay, babe, I’m about to go over the big bridge. So, I’ll see you when I get home. I love you. Buh-bye”. After I hung up, I put my phone in its trusty pouch at my waist and put all my attention on the road.

About halfway up the bridge, I noticed that the car coming in my direction seemed off. By the time I realized that he was in my lane, I only had enough time to lock my arms on the steering wheel (muscle memory from previous martial arts training kept me from locking my elbows, which probably saved me from a lot of damage). I couldn’t swerve, because I was on a bridge. Besides, there was no time. I don’t know how fast that guy was going, but I know that I was in excess of 55 mph. I don’t remember the actual impact, or hitting the airbag, or locking in my seat belt. Because of this, I’m pretty sure I blacked out.

My senses came back one at a time. I remember looking through my blurry, yet spider-webbed windshield and wondering what happened. Ticking. Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick. It was the only sound I could hear, all that existed in my life at that moment. Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick. Oh. My hazard lights were on. Did I do that? I didn’t remember putting them on. My vision cleared and I was able to see outside my car. I saw the other car. The only light outside my window was a single headlight. Nothing else was moving, and I remembered that I was on my way home. Oh no, Gods no. Tony. I had to tell Tony. My hand went to my waist for my phone in its pouch, but it wasn’t there. Panic started to rise in my chest. Where was my phone? I looked around me, saying my boyfriend’s name like a mantra. My voice climbed with my panic, and I think I was screaming by the time I found my phone in the passenger floorboard. I leaned over to get it and felt a pull in my back, but I didn’t care. I needed to hear his voice. I picked up my phone and turned on the screen. I had a direct dial button to call him, and I pushed it.

The phone didn’t even fully ring once. My panic had turned into hysterics. Before he could even ask why I was calling him so soon, I screeched, “I’m not okay!” Side-note- Now in previous situations where I had been in a car accident, I would always tell the loved one on the other end of the line that I was okay. It was like my signal that something bad had happened, but I had survived, and they shouldn’t worry overmuch. But that night was different, and I knew it. In previous car accidents, I never had an airbag go off. That, and I could immediately get out of my vehicle and assess any damage, but not that night. I knew I was hurt, but I didn’t know how bad. I also didn’t know how bad the other guy was hurt. Back to my phone call…

“I’m not okay!” *sobs*

Tony, my boyfriend, asked me where I was and what had happened. I remember giving some sort of disjointed answer, because of the fact that I surpassed terror and panic and had fully graduated into hysteria with full honors. I don’t know how he did it, but Tony managed to calm me down enough to where I could speak properly again. That was when he found out that I hadn’t called the police yet. He told me not to move (too late) because I didn’t know if anything was broken. I was still sitting behind the wheel with my seat belt on, so I promised to stay there while I called 911.

Somehow, I managed to verbally direct police and rescue to my location (GPS wasn’t really a “thing” on cellphones back then) and the dispatcher was able to keep me calm (-ish). Once I heard the sirens heading my way, I got off the phone with dispatch and called my boyfriend back. Talking to his dulcet and beautifully bass voice was more calming to me than any medication, and he knew it. He talked to me and kept me calm while I was being put in a collar and prepared to be lifted out of my car and onto a backboard. He didn’t get off the phone until he knew which hospital I was being taken to. And thanks to the dopamine boost caused by Tony’s voice, I was able to handle the ride in the ambulance, which I shared with the driver that hit me. Yes, you read that right. I shared an ambulance with the man that just crossed into my lane and rammed into my car. My thought was that he was probably hurt, too, and therefore it was just as important for him to get medical help.

After I got off the phone with Tony, I remained in good spirits and was able to make a few jokes here and there. For example, once I was firmly strapped to the backboard and the paramedics were lifting me to put me on the stretcher, I made a comment. “Light as a feather, stiff as a board”. Remember that game? I had never personally played it, but I knew the concept and had seen it done on TV. Anyway, I surprised the paramedic near my head when I said it, and he almost dropped me. Oops. But he recovered and everything else went smoothly. Once I was secure in the ambulance and we were on our way, I joked that people would pay good money for roller-coaster rides like the one I was on (we were going over another bridge, and it rippled up and down smoothly, almost like it was trying to lull passengers to sleep). My humor was lost on the mostly incoherent passenger strapped to the stretcher next to me, but the paramedic smirked so I felt better. Until I found out that the guy that I was sharing an ambulance with was intoxicated.

What? My good humor left me like a deflated balloon. He was drunk? One of the paramedics looked at me (there was one for each of us) and commented that yes, he was drunk, but they didn’t know how drunk he was. Supposedly, the entirety of his car smelled of alcohol. Supposedly, he smelled like he had spilled a bottle of liquor all over his body. That was how it was described to me, but I could not confirm any of it. I found out the hard way that when you get a face full of airbag dust, you can completely lose your sense of smell for a couple of days. That would explain why I did not smell alcohol on the guy on the stretcher next to me. I looked over at my paramedic and told him that if he wanted the other guy to live, they should assign a policeman at his room door. Tony lost his brother to a drunk driver the year before I met him in high school; this would likely put him in a rage.

Not long after that, we arrived at the hospital and my adrenaline was wearing off. I could tell because pain was starting to rear its ugly head and I was losing my hyper focus. The dopamine high went away, and terror had returned; this was really happening. Just when I thought I was going to lose my cool, I saw Tony standing next to a police officer. I was so glad to no longer be alone that I started crying. The officer thanked me for being alive and that he was glad to see me.

My memory gets a little spotty on this part, and I think it’s because my adrenaline was wearing off. I remember seeing the police officer and briefly talking to him. I remember the ER doctor checking my hip and pelvic area because they were trying to find the source of the pain. I vividly remember the same doctor tapping on my spine with what felt like a ball ping hammer (though it was probably just his finger) after a CAT scan and diagnosing me with degeneration in an area unrelated to the car wreck. Right afterward, the doctor also told me that I had broken my L1 transverse process on my left side.

For those like me that don’t have a medical degree, allow me to explain. On the spine, there are little wing-like bones that connect the spine to the surrounding muscle. These bones do not break often. Fortunately, when one does break, it usually just takes about six weeks to recover. Unfortunately, the injured person is in way more pain than thought necessary for such a tiny little bone fragment (that person being me). What the doctor did not tell me was that I stood a chance of suffering muscle spasms at least until I was healed; and that I also stood a chance of suffering back spasms for the rest of my life if the fracture did not heal perfectly. Oh goody.

As one would expect, the back injury was not my only injury. It was, thankfully, my worst physical injury. Yes, I had whiplash. Yes, I had the tell-tale “crossing guard” bruise that came from wearing my seat belt. Yes, I was sore from my hairline to my toes. Yes, that concludes the list of my physical injuries. Pretty amazing, huh? Especially when you look at how my poor car fared in the wreck.

What I was not counting on was the list of psychological injuries from the wreck. Let’s make a small list, shall we? Okay, here we go. First and foremost, I was afraid to drive. Considering I drove for a living delivering pizza, this was the first thing I had to get over. No big deal, I just forced myself to drive. Second, I became afraid of bridges. Though I have gotten better, and it is manageable, I’m still not fully over that one. The third one was unexpected. For at least two weeks, I was terrified of the dark. Not a twilight type of dark where you could make out shapes. No, pitch black type of dark. Back then I was a smoker (don’t judge, I’ve gotten better). We didn’t smoke in the house, so I would go out to the garage. A few nights after the wreck, I couldn’t sleep, so I headed out to the garage to have a cigarette and read a little on my kindle. Now, my mom’s house was out in the country, so the garage was nothing but complete darkness. I wasn’t thinking anything of it until I opened the door to the garage and got thrown straight into hysterics because all I could see was a pair of headlights bearing down on me. I remember dramatically slamming the door shut like you would see in a cheesy horror flick and curling up in the fetal position while I tried to calm my breathing. I understood that the headlights weren’t really there, but I saw them, nonetheless. Let’s give a hand to PTSD! (I did mention that I use humor to help cope with stressful situations, right? Yeah…)

Time passes, and memories of my wreck remained fresh and a little raw. Part of the reason why was because the drunk that rammed into me never saw justice. It took nine months for an arrest warrant to get served. When they finally found him and arrested him for drinking and driving (at a 0.16, mind you, when 0.08 will get you a DUI), he skipped arraignment. What’s that? Why did it take so long? Could it be that his mother was a correction’s officer at the local jail? Nah, that couldn’t be it! Corruption like that is only seen in big cities and television! *eyeroll* And let’s not even mention that when he was pulled out of the vehicle he was driving, he had gun in his pocket. But that was never mentioned when he was arrested, either.

I wanted to do something. I wanted to stop the process somehow. I didn’t want there to be more people like me that had to suffer. I didn’t have a mind for medicine, and I lost the dream of becoming a lawyer when I was a teenager. I became a member of MADD, but that didn’t seem to help in the process of preventing drinking and driving. Besides, I got more of a headache than anything else from the daily emails begging for money. I thought long and hard of what I could do. What was in my skill-set that could help?

That answer did not come for almost two years. It was once again tax season, but that year I was working at Liberty Tax as a manager. I was still driving for Papa John’s, too, but we were no longer living out in the country; so that was a bonus at least. I was looking through Craig’s List, trying to find another job. I had decided that I was not going to continue doing taxes after that season ended, so I needed something to fill the financial void. One of the ads caught my eye, and it seemed a little too good to be true. I can’t remember the exact wording of it, but the ad was for a company called “Uber” that was opening up in my area of Virginia. It was a new concept to me in August 2014; I thought the cabbie union had the monopoly on the market. So, for about a month or two, I did research. It was still a fairly new company, as was its rival, “Lyft”. Both had started in California (there’s a surprise…) and had spread like wildfire across the nation and in some countries around the world as well. I read articles and discovered that MADD was praising Uber because it made rides more affordable. I also found the rigorous process of signing up to be a driver for Uber. I fit all the criteria, so I signed up. I didn’t even discuss it with anyone in my family; that was how strongly I felt about what I was doing.

It took a month to get approved to drive, and suddenly I was my own boss. Yes, I was still working at the other two places. But whenever I had a night off when I didn’t have to be in the tax office the next morning I was driving for Uber.

I was finally fulfilling my desire to help prevent drunk driving. I was a designated driver for hire. It certainly helped that I was a night owl. I remember nights when I would come home and cry, knowing that I was doing what I was meant to do. I went through life-altering trauma so that someone else did not have to. It felt good. Granted, it proved to be interesting conversation whenever a passenger got in my car. There are the usual pleasantries, of course. Then the real questions come up. What was my funniest story? Scariest? Did I ever have to kick anyone out? Etc. When the question gets to “why do you do this”, I tell them that I was almost killed by a drunk driver. Suddenly, the air would change, as if nobody knew how to react, and they come to the realization that my reason for driving was legitimately to make a difference. It sounds like a Hallmark card, but it’s true.

I’ve been driving for Uber now for almost 7 years. Up until four years ago, I only drove part time while I worked a “r-e-a-l j-o-b” because I lacked a certain amount of discipline. It also didn’t hurt that I was making decent money in the other job that I had. Four years ago, that job and I split ways. Yes, there is a story there. No, I won’t tell it here. What matters is that leaving that job allowed me the opportunity to drive full time for Uber. I’ll admit, this was not something I was originally intending. I didn’t think I had the mental and emotional fortitude to drive around random strangers on a full-time basis. But I had bills to pay, so I gave it a shot. And believe it or not, I loved it.

I will be the first to say that this job is not for everyone. There are days when driving is truly a thankless job. But seriously, doesn’t every job have bad days? Because then I will have days when I feel like I should be wearing a cape. Yes, granted, I’ve gotten calls from bartenders and police officers to take people home. I’ve picked people up from the emergency room and taken them home. These are all par for the course. Then there are the times like when I get a ride request that has me driving across the state to take a woman’s son back to rehab because he recognized that he was falling back into his old routine and didn’t like it. Or the time when a young lady dove into my back seat and begged me to drive because she didn’t want to be seen by her stalker. And I can’t forget the time when I pulled up to a house and four college girls start getting in (amidst the protests of the two older and kind of creepy guys that they should stay). The girls tried to play it nice (as all young women are trained from birth to do), but I could feel the tension from where I was in the driver’s seat. I could tell that one of the guys was trying to hold a girl back, so I made some noises that I had to drive off and managed to get the girl in the car. All of the girls told me how grateful they were that I was a female driver, and that they were starting to feel afraid for their safety at that house (which was why they were leaving).

When I first started driving for Uber, I was under the impression that I would be driving around a bunch of drunks and that was it. And while I do drive around a bunch of drunks (this is a military town, after all), it is way more than that. I get the people who are terrified of driving and never want their license. I get the people that are “between cars” and just need to get to work. I get the paranoid first-time parents taking their sick baby to the hospital because the other parent has the car. I get the recent car accident victims, some still with visible bruising. I get the elderly people that can no longer drive and take them to the doctor’s office. I get thanked. And yeah, it feels good.