Four years ago today, I survived a six-rollover car accident in a remote stretch of Northern British Columbia. At the height of my post-crash insomnia, I realized the only way I could purge my experience was to write it down.
Here is the result, a first-hand account of the most defining moment of my life so far--as well as a 2014 update about everything that has changed since this day.
OCTOBER 23, 2010
The hard left swerve of the first fishtail.
The paralyzed feeling of helplessness as I bolt awake to see our truck sliding into the lane of oncoming traffic.
Ice. Patches of water. Ribbons of snow swirling across the spruce-lined highway like dim grey snakes or threads of tape ripped from the underbelly of a cassette.
Beautiful. Looks like dancing.
Michael. My dirty, adventurous mountain man. The love of my life.
He is tensed at the wheel, blue eyes wide in panic.
Attempting to correct us, he flings the wheel hard to the left, then hard to the right. His knuckles are clenched--white as paper--and they are stretched too thin around our sun-faded steering wheel.
A ship’s captain in the throes of a thunderstorm.
Relax. Don’t panic. This has happened once before. Everything will be fine.
Fleeting thoughts of a harmless skid back home in Anchorage, that afternoon we drove from the Hillside. Watching with a mixture of dread and fascination as our Toyota Tacoma did a ballerina’s pirouette and came to rest at the corner of Lake Otis Parkway and Northern Lights Boulevard. Didn’t leave a scratch.
Flawlessly executed. A judge’s Perfect Ten.
This time will be just like that.
Some sort of talking. Michael’s frustration and fear, my words of encouragement. Trying not to panic.
Don’t freak out. It will just make him freak out more.
Angling toward the ditch. Wide and soft-looking, with blades of prairie grass folded to the ground by the winter’s first snowfall.
Launching off the asphalt and realizing the road is a few feet higher than the shoulder. Watching the ground rise to meet us and clutching the “oh-shit” bar without even realizing it. Socked feet—the same pair I’ve been wearing since we crossed into British Columbia two days ago—braced against the floor’s rubber mats.
This. Is. Happening.
Just noise now. Shattering glass, the screeching of metal upon metal. Plastic and steel and tires tearing into the earth, ripping through the ground like a heaving, angry claw.
The smell of dirt, the chill of ice. Lights and darks, and the realization that we’re flipping now. Over and over and over. Tiny and insignificant, like lottery balls in a wheel.
My head is suddenly hanging out the window. Resting sideways on the door frame like the night we got engaged and I celebrated by drinking too much Bushmill's.
But this time I’m mad.
Furious. Totally unfiltered in my rage.
THIS ISN’T FAIR… YOU CAN’T DO THIS… LET ME GET MY HEAD INSIDE THE WINDOW FIRST…
GODDAMNIT, LET ME GET MY HEAD INSIDE THE WINDOW!!!
There’s dirt everywhere. In my mouth, in my eyes. It tastes raw and silty, dark and fertile. It’s good soil.
In the midst of the chaos, I feel something hard against my chest—Michael’s arm?—and I hear a voice yelling. Screaming, actually, and I understand with a start that it’s my voice I’m hearing.
Didn’t even realize I was speaking.
One. Two. Three. I lose count of the truck flips after four, and I realize with detached amusement that my obsessive-compulsive tendencies aren’t even filtered by car wrecks.
And then suddenly, there’s silence.
Distant, detached, uncompromising silence.
Mother Nature doesn’t really give a shit about you.
We’ve stopped. The truck is right-side-up, and our twisted front bumper is angled downward into a drainage ditch. We’re teeter-tottering in mid-air like kids on a seesaw.
Thank God for this drainage ditch.
I pause for only an instant and then swirl sideways to take stock of the truck’s passengers.
There’s Michael. Eyes wide. High cheekbones drained of color and face skewed with shock. He’s okay.
I look backward into the truck’s extended cab and lock eyes with Bridger. Our floppy-eared, vulnerable pound dog Bridger. Black bandit’s mask and that beautiful tan face. His eyes are wide, but he’s sitting up, and those lanky sled dog legs are fully intact. He’s okay.
The question tumbles from my mouth as I lock eyes with Michael again. It’s the first words I’ve spoken.
Naia. Our radiant, vivacious, black German Shepherd mix. Our heart and our soul, and the glue that keeps us all sane and balanced. The most fearless member of our blossoming young family.
Michael and I move quickly, nodding in silent understanding as we turn from each other. Our hands and arms move on autopilot, unbuckling seatbelts and flinging open car doors we later won’t remember opening.
I’m outside before I know it, leaping with socked feet into the waiting drainage ditch. Bands of ice shatter beneath my toes, and I shudder as my legs sink into a freezing, muddy creek. Sulfur, vaporous and rotten, surges into my nostrils.
Shit. Now my feet are all wet.
I feel like I’ve stood in this creek for days, but I realize it has probably only been an instant. Clambering up the embankment on my hands and knees, I scuff my palms and tear the knees of my favorite pair of jeans. Those way-too-expensive Seven for All Mankind jeans I bought last year at Nordstrom because Michael said they made my butt look cute.
Up the hill, our belongings—suitcases, clothes, gasoline cans and blankets—are scattered through the prairie grass like leaves in the wind.
And then there’s Naia.
Tossed amongst the luggage like a crumpled rag doll, she’s awake, and her golden eyes are trained on us. Her silly, oversized bat ears stand erect like satellite dishes.
Michael has almost reached her—with Bridger bounding like a terrified jackrabbit behind him—so I make a beeline for the highway and wave my arms as a minivan pulls to a stop on the road’s shoulder. My vision seems to be flickering as an older truck slides in behind the minivan, and then Naia is suddenly howling.
She’s running with her tail down—short, compact and panicked--and her legs beautiful in their musculature. Her stance is the same one we saw two days ago at that rest area in the Yukon Territory, the one where she chased pebbles and bounded through the black spruce forest with the speed and grace of a panther. Clipped and measured in her movements.
Like a police dog. Like a big girl.
She isn’t even three yet.
She’s bolting into incoming traffic now, and I’m yelling something about not panicking, but Michael already has her, and he’s leading her back across the asphalt. He’s holding her by that beautiful, 'girly, but not too girly' collar he picked out last year for her birthday.
His injured hands are spilling blood all over it.
There’s a family—a wholesome Canadian family—and now they’re rushing us inside the minivan. Two wide-eyed daughters stare from the backseat as the mother spreads a bedspread over the middle seat for us.
It’s cute. Pink and cartoonish. Fluffy and decorated with maybe the Powerpuff girls, but I hear myself saying, “I can’t… I don’t want to get blood on your blanket…”
I’m inside now, and Bridger is cowered on my lap. Naia is crumpled in knots on the floor, and Michael is staggering back from the truck. He’s clutching my wallet and the new Canon camera I bought last year so I could 'take a picture every single day of 2009.' The base is swinging crazily from its straps, winding in figure-eights like the loose seat of a swing set. The lens cap is missing.
What a funny thing to save.
The van door closes, and now we’re pulling away from the accident. We swirl back toward Fort Nelson, where we stayed at that chain hotel and ate Dominos pizza last night. Looked at our map of Canada and studied that battered copy of our Milepost magazine. Tried to figure out our itinerary for this crazy move from Alaska to Colorado.
I watch our truck fade in the distance, its nose face-down in the drainage ditch and its back wheels suspended in mid-air like a child’s toy. Our camper shell has been ripped off, and our things—all our things, each one lovingly packed in preparation for this trip—are scattered in tangles like the wake of a tornado.
That’s our LIFE out there.
I catch a stray word and repeat it—“Totaled?”—and I feel the wheels inside my head laboring to process the notion.
But that’s not possible. That’s our truck. We’re driving to Colorado in that truck.
Michael’s hands are on mine, and I realize I’m covered in blood, too. Dark blood, thick and viscous, spills from wounds on my hands and face.
“You’re bleeding. I’m… so… sorry.” He pauses on each word for emphasis, and he runs his hands up and down my sides to check for injuries. “I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?”
I don’t know. Am I?
I drag my fingers through my hair and pull free tiny bits of glass—beautiful, raw diamonds that shine like stars. My right hand is beginning to swell, and my left jaw is aching, but I think I’m remarkably healthy.
“I’m fine. How about you?”
I touch his arms, his face, that sandy beard he insisted on growing special for the trip. His beanie is smudged with streaks of dirt and blood, but I can still see those two campfire ash stripes he accidentally wiped across its brim during our weekend trip to Seward last spring.
I turn to Bridger and repeat my inspection, cradling his bony shoulders against my chest and feeling my heart break as I watch his back legs tremble. Naia is crying, howling out in pain whenever she twists herself on the floor of the minivan. We can’t find any wounds—not even the one I thought I saw on her hamstrings just before she ran into oncoming traffic.
The thought strikes me with the weight of a wrecking ball, and I do my best to convince myself I’m mistaken. “She’s probably just sore,” I say, patting Michael’s knee after I palpate her spine and the bones of her back legs. “Everything seems to be intact, and she’s letting me touch her everywhere. That’s a good sign.”
But what the hell do I know? I’m not a vet tech.
As we drive, we thank the Canadian couple more times than is reasonably necessary, and we ask them their names over and over only to feel their answers drifting away moments after they form.
Duane is the dad. I try my hardest and finally commit him to memory, but I feel my mind battling the word like an out-of-control kite in the midst of a hurricane.
Duane. Remember the name Duane.
He's beefy and good-natured, with a gap between his front teeth and meaty, flushed sausage fingers. He and his wife—who I will later only remember as an ash-blonde blur—were on their way to Fort St. John this morning. They’ve been living in Fort Nelson for the past five years, and Fort St. John is the next town over; it’s a three and a half to four hour drive, and one of Duane’s daughters will be getting her braces tightened there on Monday.
“We’ve been driving behind you the whole way south from Fort Nelson, about 40 kilometers,” Duane says. Same speed. Following at a safe distance. These straight roads will get you, he says. Your tires get away from you on that ice, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
“Forty kilometers is a long way to backtrack,” Michael says.
“I feel terrible we’ve ruined your day,” I say, and I watch the windows fog up from the heater and wonder why Duane hasn’t fixed that hairline crack spreading like a spider web across his front windshield.
“You’re all alive,” Duane’s wife says—or was that Duane? “If you weren’t, that would have ruined our day.”
“It would have ruined ours, too,” I say, and I smile because I’m being clever.
Get it? Because we would have been dead.
“I’m sorry ma’am. You can’t bring your mutts in here.”
The nurse looks shocked when we arrive at the Fort Nelson hospital, staggering out of Duane’s minivan as his wife calls the police and says help is on the way.
“We don’t have anywhere else to go,” I answer, and clutch Bridger’s collar and track wet, socked footprints across the linoleum. Michael sways in behind me, and he holds Naia to his chest with wide eyes and bloodied hands.
I bet we look like those people you always hear about. The crazies.
A room suddenly opens for us in an unused portion of the hospital, and we spend the better part of the morning sitting on the floor in stunned silence. We give a police report to an officer named Katie, and we force-feed Naia and Bridger dry crackers and lukewarm water.
It will cost $500 per person to be seen by a doctor, so we forego medical exams for now. And Fort Nelson doesn’t have a veterinarian—what the fuck kind of town doesn’t have a veterinarian?—so Michael and I skip deliberation and make the only decision we feel is reasonable.
Give us a rental car, because we need to get Naia to a Fort St. John vet hospital right now.
Fast-forward four hours, and Michael and I are in the middle of nowhere on that same God-forsaken two-lane highway in the middle of a snowstorm. I am sitting in the back seat of our rental Kia Sorrento, and Naia is crumpled in a little black heap at my side. She shifts to get comfortable amongst the avalanche of belongings we’ve stacked to the ceiling around her, and this tiny movement sends a stab of pain coursing through her already weak body.
“How’s she doing?” Michael asks from the driver’s seat.
I don’t know how he’s doing this; driving through this snowstorm in the middle of this fog. He's dodging stray elk, and he's flicking on and off his high-beams during those heart-stopping moments when visibility drops below twenty feet.
It’s pitch-black out here. Black as an abyss, as a wormhole stretching across the frozen void of space. The steady stream of snow tapping against our windshield reminds me of that Windows screen saver that makes you feel like you’re flying through the solar system.
Only now I’m afraid we’re going to spin into another accident, and this time, I don’t know if I will be able to keep myself together afterward.
It’s a statistical improbability, a mathematical unlikelihood. I probably have a better chance of being attacked by a shark and then being trampled by an elephant. But there’s always that one little anomaly, that one weird guy in Texas who’s been struck by lightning more than 60 times.
Some times these things just happen.
Why not twice in one day?
Naia’s golden eyes are rolling in her skull, and her breathing is raspy. I’m trying to get her to drink water, and I’m doing every trick I can think of to distract her from her panting.
Got your tongue. Hahaha, look at me, I’m gonna get your tongue if you don’t put it back in your mouth. I know she has this gross little habit of always wanting to eat her eye boogers after I’ve wiped her clean, so I try that, too. Don’t you want to pause for a second to eat your eye boogers?
I watch her struggle, and I suddenly feel my chest closing. Those golden eyes are so beautiful, and her ridiculous bat ears are perfect.
She’s going to die. Naia is going to die right here sitting on my lap, and there’s nothing I can do to help her.
A swell of anger spills itself into tears, and I clench my eyes shut, fighting the pain and clutching Naia so tightly that I imagine my arms have the power keep her together.
The power to keep her here.
This isn’t fair. This isn’t the way things are supposed to happen.
We are all supposed to move into a new house together. We are supposed to have babies, and Naia is supposed to be their nanny. She is supposed to snuffle their ears and sleep beside them every night.
We can’t say goodbye to her yet. We can’t leave her here in this god-forsaken place, broken and extinguished like a snuffed candle.
She isn’t even three yet.
This isn’t how this is supposed to happen.
Oil refineries tantalize us for hours, gleaming red and warm in the distance. They camouflage themselves as the town of Fort St. John only to mock us when we approach. Their wicked flame smoke stacks glow like beacons, and we feel like we’re traveling through time as we steer past them into the abyss.
We have been on the road for more than five and a half hours by the time we finally reach North Peace Veterinary Clinic--a square metal box illuminated by street lights and outfitted with a squeeze cage in the front for handling large livestock procedures.
My socks are gone now, so I carry Naia barefoot through the snow as Dr. North waves and pulls her glass door open for us. She’s small and athletic, coffee-haired and tan-faced, with kind eyes and rock climber hands. She can’t believe we’ve come to her vet hospital before seeing a doctor ourselves.
Her office is warm, and the air smells like antiseptic and metal as Michael and I struggle to place Naia on an exam table. She cries out in pain, and her insides heave. A trickle of blood begins dripping in dark rivulets down the base of her tail.
I take one look and suddenly think I’m going to vomit.
Her insides. Her insides have turned into mush, and there’s nothing I can do to help her.
A wave of heat rips through me, and I collapse in an exam chair, tearing off my favorite chocolate vest and that pink American Eagle hoodie I put on this morning because I knew Michael would think I looked pretty.
It’s ripped. I ripped the sleeve of my pretty pink hoodie, and Naia’s going to die here.
The flecked tile floor feels cold against my back as I slump to the ground, and Dr. North brings me a water-filled mug. It’s old and white, stained with coffee and chipped at the handle, but the water tastes good, so I share with Naia.
“It’s good if she wants to drink, right?”
“Maybe, but we don’t want her to drink too much in case we need to sedate her.” Dr. North attempts a smile and explains that she’s going to take her now and do x-rays. We should make ourselves comfortable in her waiting room.
Bridger and I pass the time by walking laps through the fluorescent-lit reception area while Michael sits slumped in a corner, eyes watery and hands shaking. Dried blood is caked to his knuckles.
I decide to make up a new game.
1…. 2… 3… 4…
20… 21… Twenty-two steps to make it from one end of the room to the other. Gotta beat that pace next time.
1… 2… 3… 4…
Six steps to get all the way around the corner.
1… 2… 3… 4…
18… 19… Only twenty steps to get all the way back. Let’s try it again a little faster.
Eukanuba, Science Diet... Dry treats, chewy treats, cute little cans of cat food…
Bridger loves keeping pace with me. This whole thing is his idea, actually. He’s named Bridger Pacey Boop Chickos thanks to his propensity for walking laps around our bedroom at 4:00am. His black and clear toenails always click-click-click against the lacquered wooden floors when he needs to go to the bathroom.
“He’s a morning person,” we would always laugh, grumbling as we unfurled ourselves from our nest of blankets. “The rest of us are night owls, but Bridger Pacey Boop Chickos is a morning person.”
Dr. North returns to the reception area and peers at us with a tentative smile. Her words are blurs, and the x-rays she presents only serve to accentuate how beautiful Naia is, even when she’s just bones on a screen.
“See that?” she asks. “That’s her bladder. I was afraid it may have ruptured when she started bleeding earlier, but it turns out her kidneys are just badly bruised.” She points to the bones, the wispy, smoke-colored bones all lined up like Lego blocks on the flimsy plastic sheet, and she smiles again. She explains that everything looks great, and that Naia probably only has a hairline fracture on her pelvis.
“A hairline fracture,” she repeats, “so she’ll probably be a good candidate for arthritis when she gets older.”
I’m stuck on the word, and a surge of tears suddenly pours down my cheeks. I lean into Michael for support, and I pat Bridger on the head as I repeat it: “Arthritis? Naia is going to get arthritis? Michael, did you hear that? Naia is going to get arthritis because Naia is going to get old. Michael, Naia is going to get old.”
Air whooshes from my lungs, and a swell of pure joy fills my ribcage, warm and inviting as a sunrise.
Memories spring to life and dance like a film roll before me—wrestling matches, hikes in the sunshine, fire lit nights—and then suddenly I’m seeing pictures of things to come. Dancing in the kitchen, Christmas trees, blanket-wrapped babies and a little black, bat-eared nanny. Dog bones, snowflakes, soccer games in the park… Bridger, Naia, Michael and me fighting for space on our always-too-small queen-sized bed.
The four of us. Our blossoming, young, four-member family.
We all get a second chance.
Foot Note (10/23/14): I have to tell you something that isn't pretty. Bridger passed away less than one year after this accident, and Michael and I ended our marriage almost exactly one year after that. I had to say goodbye to Naia when I left my life in Colorado, and I have not seen her since.
I tell you this, not because it's pretty, but because it's real. Life punches you in the face sometimes, but the beauty and richness of our experiences never stops mattering, even when things don't work out the way we expect them to.
Michael, Bridger and Naia will forever hold a place in my heart. And no matter how things ended up unraveling after this day, this experience will always exist just as it occurred: terrible, tragic, beautiful--and ultimately filled with hope.
As the song goes, "I'm glad I didn't know the way it all would end, the way it all would go. Our lives are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance."