I told the young female officer when she reported to the scene I’d have to tell her it backwards, because it was more and more hazy the further back I went. The recent things were the most vivid. Both of my boys screaming and crying. Nathaniel’s windows smashed, his cuts bleeding. Aidan still strapped in his car seat, which was overturned and between Nathaniel’s seat and the front passenger seat, trapped on the floor. Trapped. On the floor. Even backwards, I don’t know that I recreated it for the officer well. “It happened so fast” is such a cliché, but it’s also so true. The insurance form I submitted online asked me to “Briefly describe the accident.” Maybe what I told them will help you understand. Maybe not.
"Something happened that suddenly caused me to pull too far to the left. The female officer that assisted me on the scene assessed it to be a blown rear tire. I corrected right, then left, but the swerving quickly "fishtailed" out of control. I slowed down, but I was worried we would be hit by other cars from behind. At one point I was sure that we would roll over, and I just wanted to avoid that and hitting any other vehicles. We smashed into the right guard rail, which caused us to spin 180 degrees around facing north at the south bound traffic."
I’m not sure the dry, matter-of-fact language captures the sheer panic of the situation. It sounds like there was calm analysis going on. There was not.
“Hi, my name is Angela. Let me help you get the baby up,” says the voice of a kind bystander who had stopped to help, also known as my favorite person on the planet whose last name I don’t know. She holds him until I make sure paramedics get to Nathaniel and stays with us until the firefighters arrived. Wherever you are, bless you Angela.
Another man who had stopped was on his iphone. He’s already called 911, and he’s looking at the map trying to get a location so I can tell my parents. (I was driving the boys there for our usual track out visit.) I settle Nathaniel down, because he’s pretty upset. Now that he’s upright, Aidan is eerily calm, which also makes me nervous. “Aidan, are you okay honey?” “I okay Mommy. Are you okay?” Bless you, you little, adorable boy. I smother him in kisses.
During the time we get the boys secured and realize Nathaniel’s cuts are likely minor, traffic has resumed slowly around the left lane, and that’s when I see it. The red and yellow bag that Mallory Loehr handmade for me six years ago. It’s under the wheels of an 18-wheeler, and I see papers flying south down the highway up to twenty yards down the road. When we hit the guard rail the windows smashed, and then we spun around, and it must have literally flown off the floor and out the windows in that spin. My bag, with everything I was bringing that was ‘important’. (Yes, I know that what is important was standing there with me on the side of the road, but since I’d ascertained that they were okay, this was my next thought. Judge me if you must.) The stuff in that bag. Images flash in my head. Oh no. Important paperwork for Nathaniel. Both medical and kindergarten registration. And...my stomach drops. Our tax stuff. All of it. And a colleague’s borrowed brand new smart pen. Shit.
With Angela watching the boys, another good Samaritan helps me stop the slow moving traffic and grab things. For a moment, like an idiot I am excited when I grabbed the maroon covered Smart pen notebook. Then, I realized that was not helpful without the pen. Duh. Wait! The pen! There it is! I saw it and grabbed it out of the middle of I-95. It still felt cylindrical. Mostly. I had hopes that it would still work. I wouldn’t know until later that night that those hopes were futile.
I snatched several books, both my own and borrowed, which had also been run over but had fared better than technology. That’s when I spotted the envelope that had some of our tax forms in it. I grab it, and most of the identity theft scenarios playing in my mind dissolve. Enough. Back to the car. The good Samaritan ran over and handed me what he’d retrieved, and I stuffed it all in the bag. “God bless you, and good luck to you honey,” he said. I think him profusely and quickly, anxious to get back to my boys. We get out of the road and traffic starts rolling slowly again.
In that quick grab, were unable to find Aidan’s shoes. This means, as I need my hands to get my driver’s license, sign things, etc. he’s being passed from Angela, to paramedics, to firefighters, etc. He goes quietly to about seven or eight total strangers in uniforms calmly. However, he hits about number nine, and I realize he has not been calm but in shock, because his panic sets in. He clings to me, and won’t be set down. Many thanks again to that same state trooper, who, upon seeing this, got my registration and insurance card out of my glove box herself so I can cuddle him.
The tow truck FINALLY arrives. I’ve been explaining to Nathaniel that we are waiting for a truck like Mater the Tow Truck from Cars. (I think he may have actually been looking for bucked teeth.) When the tow man attaches the cable to the van to load it on the pivoting flat bed and Aidan is still in the open side door with me, Nathaniel absolutely panics. “No! Don’t take Homer with my brother in it!” He grabs Aidan around the neck and starts to drag him for dear life. I have to soothe him and convince him to let go. “Of COURSE we are taking Aidan.” His hysterical tears over the idea show how real it was to him, despite it being so ridiculous. If I ever have doubts of their brotherly love when they are fighting again, I will conjure the memory of this moment.
The tow truck brings us to the exit where my parents have arrived well before us and are waiting to pick us up. (This is where I took the picture of the car that you see.) We got back to their house safe, and that is the bottom line. Both of my boys were assessed by paramedics who arrived on the scene and the car is likely totaled, but no one was brought to the hospital. And I don’t care how old you are, there are some times in life where you really need a hug from your mommy…especially if you are the mommy who has been giving out all the hugs on a hard night.
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