I’ve always found that reflecting on a tragedy or any unforeseen life circumstance helps with processing the reasons why and lessons learned as a result. Below is a reflection of a trauma faced and how writing through it helped me heal.
The car was spinning in circles and a few thoughts ran through my head. One: I’m definitely going to flip. Two: I wonder if that man is dead.
It was a normal day for my life, really. I woke up and went to the gym to workout with my trainer. When I was finished, I stopped to get a peanut butter and banana protein shake, then went to the soup kitchen to unload the food delivery truck with several teenagers from our summer program and a few of the summer interns that we hire. They were meeting me there that morning. The kids worked hard. My close friend and fellow youth worker Jeff ordered pizza for them for lunch, and we began to shuffle the kids home in shifts using my car and another car. I took the first load home — four people — Jeff in the front and three students: Ryan, Tim and Andrew in the back. Andrew was sitting directly behind me as I drove. When the gas light came on, I asked if anyone would mind if I stopped to fill up.
I must have gone in 100 figure 8’s in the gas station parking lot because people kept stealing the pump I was trying to get to. Andrew thought it was hysterical; Jeff was yelling at me to make a move; Tim was asking if we HAD to stop; and Ryan was yelling at Tim to calm down. The perfect picture of a dysfunctional family, though we aren’t related.
When the gas attendant approached, I asked, “Can you please fill it up with regular?”
“Regular?” he asked. “Uh…yeah…” I respond.
“Full tank?” He asks. “Yes, yes, yep, yep — full tank of regular please,” I respond. Jeff rolls his eyes. Tim says he’s tired. Ryan yells at Tim. Andrew still laughing.
Finally, we’re on our way, and I drop off the boys in town and head back to Asbury Park to pick up the next load of kids.
I don’t know why I took the way I did. I’m not quite sure I’ll ever know. It didn’t make any sense at all. It took longer, and there was nothing more to see. As I drove, I looked over and saw a blue car and instantly thought, “I’m going to get hit.” So, as would any good, small-town, busy-life girl who’s mother taught her how to get from one end of town to the other — I gunned it. I put the pedal to the ground, hoping he wouldn’t hit my body, only my car. I never will forget that sound. It entered my dreams for days after my accident: SLAM. My body jolted, and I thought, “I’m going to flip” and “Is that guy dead?”
Once I stopped spinning around, I could only muster this word: Jesus — repeatedly. I was out of breath, felt as if someone was stomping on my chest, had stabbed me in the stomach and had ripped off my left arm. I said repeatedly between short breaths, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” then I opened my eyes and looked out the window. The man’s head was on his steering wheel. He wasn’t moving. I screamed. I was just sure he was dead. I said out loud, “Lord, breathe life into that man if he’s not breathing. I will not look at a dead man today.” The man got out of his vehicle. Thank you, God.
Three Spanish men appeared and stood staring — everyone staring at me. “Someone call 911,” I screamed. There was a series of events that happened within the next half hour that I barely remember; details have been filled in by friends who arrived on the accident scene. I apparently was screaming in pain — at my friends — and sobbing.
I went to the hospital in an ambulance that day. My eyes were shut, but I could hear the sirens. The only thing I remember from the ambulance ride is taking my headband off because I felt like my head was going to explode.
The triage nurse apparently pushed on my abdomen, causing me to scream. Right to the trauma unit I went.
I don’t remember much after that…lots of needles and me lying flat on a board with a neck brace. I remember thinking, “I know where I am. I know who I am. I know what happened. I know where I am. I know who I am. I know what happened. I know where I am. I know who I am. I know what happened…”
Someone asked me to open my eyes and talk. She said her name was Nancy. She introduced Maxwell and said they’d take care of me while I was there. They asked if I knew what day it was. I replied, “I never know what day it is, but I know my name’s Megan, that I’m at the hospital, and I had an accident.” She said, “That’s good, Megan. Do you know which hospital?” Well, I didn’t. I knew where I hoped I was, and I don’t think the ambulance ride was that long, so I asked, “Jersey Shore????” They both laughed. “Yes, you’re right…Oh, and it’s Wednesday.” I knew that. Really, I did.
I closed my eyes again because there were lots of things happening around me — needles, lights, flashes, screams of, “Are you pregnant? We’re taking an X-ray,” and “Don’t breathe; OK, breathe,” to which I replied, “It’s hard to do that anyway,” a few giggled, Maxwell in particular.
The rest of the day was filled with normal ER things, but let’s just talk for a minute about how it’s nothing like “Grey’s Anatomy.” That show lies. I was in the Trauma Unit; there are no hot doctors; I was also on morphine; and it was freezing cold in there. Once they were done taking X-rays, they wrapped me in warm blankets like a burrito and told me to rest.
I had never felt so alone while being surrounded by so many people in my entire life. Once wrapped, I asked if anyone came with me. They said there were two people in the waiting room. I didn’t know what time it was. I didn’t know if the trauma unit was connected to the emergency room. I don’t know how of my friends were going to find me. What seemed to be 100 tests and six hours later, they finally let two people in the room to see me. They took the stiff board out from under me and sat me up in the bed for the first time in what seemed like days, although it was only hours. I saw my friends. I cried. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even try. Although Maxwell was doing a really good job that day of bringing on smiles, it just didn’t seem right to smile when my friends walked in. I was scared. Nancy and Karen’s faces contained hope. They didn’t really ask many questions. Nancy rubbed my head, and Karen looked at me and smiled. It’s like God knew exactly who I needed to see…Oh, wait, He did.
My Mom had been called several times by then, and Nancy suggested I call her myself so she could hear my voice. As soon as she picked up, I started to cry. She cried. Then I told her about how I was in an accident with a pirate (the man looked like a pirate!). She asked if she should come, but I told her I knew I’d just get home and sleep and come in the morning. I was surprised she listened to me.
The next few hours in the hospital contained several doctors with crazy looks on their faces and sentences such as, “You’re one lucky girl,” and, “Someone must be looking down on you,” or, “Someone’s not finished with you yet.” I attributed that to Jesus, but I think my credibility was shot once I was given morphine.
I got to go home that day. The diagnosis: concussion, whip lash, bruised pelvic bone, bruised elbow. That’s it. Bruises. I walked out of the hospital. No one goes into the trauma unit and walks out of the revolving glass doors the same day. I did.
I was couched for over a week, and I learned a new lesson from God each day — lessons in losing. Each day I learned of a loss that really equaled a gain. I learned that losing really means gaining. Losing my ability to stay awake for more than three hours meant I could learn what good solid rest was. Losing the ability to use my left arm meant that my right arm gained strength. Losing the ability to drive meant I gained dependency on Jesus for provision and my friends’ help. Losing the ability to run the biathlon — an event for which I’d been training since February — meant I gained trust in the God who kept me alive on July 7, 2010, to give me more strength to run another one sometime in the future. Losing the ability to work for a few weeks meant I gained the ability to prioritize my life. Losing the time I would have spent training meant gaining time with Jesus, which means more for this world and the world to come. My physical training is only for this world. Each day, a new lesson; each day a new set of tears to cry to the One who breathed life into me from the moment of my conception, the One who kept me alive more times than I’ll ever deserve, the One who is Mighty to Save, the One who is and who is to come, the beginning and the end, the One who convicts and changes my heart, the One who prioritizes my life for me as I can’t do that by myself, the One who spoke me into motion and is slowly bringing me back to it, the One whose strength is made perfect in my weakness. Losing hurts, but what I gained far outweighs anything I’ve lost.
