When the spinning stops I’m crumpled in a heap like the lopsided contents in a washing machine. I try to twist around, but my legs are pinned under the steering wheel. The tops of redwoods are all I see through the windshield. The narrator of my audiobook drones on with another story from Smith’s “The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency.” I reach to turn it off and hit the wiper wand by mistake, causing pellets of safety glass to rain into my lap.
If I can get to my purse I could call for help, but it has fallen out of reach to the floor of the passenger side, next to my water bottle. I consider undoing my seat belt and realize I don’t know where the car landed. I had been driving through the redwoods on Highway 128. The Navarro River had been on my right. Am I teetering on the riverbank in danger of sliding in?
I close my eyes and breathe in the musty fragrance of the forest floor, inches from my face. I focus on calming myself by visualizing a peaceful place and reciting my favorite prayer. The view from the Mendocino Headlands floats into my mind as I begin; Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love…
Highway 128 is a familiar road for me, driving between my homes in the Bay Area and Mendocino. Though today was clear, it had been raining for days. When I maneuvered through one of the road’s many sharp curves, my rear wheels swerved. I thought I had it under control, but then, I was gone, spinning in darkness like Dorothy in her tornado-borne house. I know my head slapped hard against something metal, but I don’t think I lost consciousness.
“Hello?” I open my eyes and see a man stumbling over the brush in front of the car. He holds a cell phone away from his face, pausing, mid-conversation to speak to me. “What’s your name?” he asks, and then repeats what I tell him to the person on the other end. “Is anybody else with you?”
I tell him no and he walks out of sight. I breathe and continue, relieved that help is coming. Where there is injury, pardon; doubt, faith; despair, hope; darkness, light; sadness, joy.
The car lurches forward and I grip the steering wheel wide-eyed. What’s happening? A bearded man in a yellow jacket and fireman’s hat peers down at me through the passenger window. “What’s your name?”
I tell him.
“What day is today?”
“February 18, 2014,” I say.
“Are you hurt?”
“My shoulder, and I think I cracked a rib. I see some blood on my hand but I don’t think I’m bleeding now.” As I recite these minor injuries I realize how lucky I am.
“Can you move your fingers and toes?” I hold up my hands and show him what I can do. He nods and walks out of sight.
A different voice barks at me from behind. “We’re going to get you out of here, Catherine, What’s your worst fear right now?”
My gut tightens as I consider the possibilities. “That, in the process of rescuing me, I’ll be crushed in this car.” They’re the experts and I don’t want to insult them, but all I can imagine is sliding into the river or having the car collapse on me further. One wrong move and I’m toast.
“That’s not going to happen. The tow truck has a firm hold on your car. We’re bringing in the jaws-of-life.” I have no idea what a “jaws-of-life” looks like, but nod when he comes into view. He confers with others I can’t see. I twist again to relieve the pressure on my shoulder, pushing on the steering wheel confining my leg. My mouth feels like it’s filled with dust.
“I’m really thirsty,” I say. “Can you reach my water there?”
He glances down to where I’m pointing. “Not now,” he says and walks away. I guess he has more important things to deal with.
Another rescuer in yellow comes into view, smiles, and asks how I feel. He’s smaller than the other man and about the age of my son. “We’re putting a blanket over you while we work on the car. You might feel some debris, but don’t worry.” He shoves a folded cloth through the window and tries to tuck it around me, but can’t reach. I take the edges and pull the blanket over my head and legs. For the first time I feel less helpless, a partner in my own rescue. From under my flimsy tent I hear the gnawing on metal and small bits pinging the blanket. I breathe and focus on staying calm. Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love….
“Hi, Catherine, I’m Kyle.” From the open end of the blanket I see the outline of a woman, her yellow jacket showing through a space between the door jamb and the airbag curtain. Her kind voice sounds like my mother’s and for the first time I want to cry. I’m touched by all the people helping me and feeling sorry for myself in this predicament.
“It’s my job to keep talking to you, okay?” she says. “What day is it?”
I say the date again. I understand they need to check on my mental health and I hope I sound convincing. A wave of nausea rolls from my belly to my esophagus. I look around for a container, but nothing is within reach. I make a plan to aim down through the opening in the car cracked apart by the impact. “I’m feeling a little sick, Kyle. Any chance you can get me some water?”
“Maybe later. I don’t think we can give you water right now.”
Oh, they think I might have internal injuries. I focus on breathing, hoping to postpone the vomiting.
Popping and grinding continue out of sight, punctuating their conversations.
“This car’s built like a tank.”
“They should really lower the speed limit on this section.”
“It stays wet here all year round. We’ve had too many accidents along this stretch.”
I breathe and remember the last time I watched the waves, hoping to see the whales going north. For it is in giving, we receive, in pardoning, we are pardoned, and dying we are born to eternal life. This was taking a long time.
“Are you still with me, Cathy?”
“I’m okay, Kyle.”
The car shudders and creaks and the passenger side peels away. As the blanket is pulled off me, I see the young fireman smiling at me again.
“Give me your hand and let’s try pulling you out.” I undo my seat belt and try to stand, but can’t get around the steering wheel twisted on my leg. We struggle together and in the effort I knock my glasses off. “Will you hold these for me?” He folds them into his pocket and steps away to get advice from others gathered nearby. With the car opened up, I see a fire truck, an ambulance, the tow truck chained to the back of my car and at least a dozen people in yellow jackets and hats, hovering like extras in a play waiting for their cue.
My young friend returns with a contraption of dangling straps and clips. “How much do you weigh?” he asks.
I tell him and stifle an urge to apologize.
“We’re going to put these straps on you and pull you out with a winch.” He leans into the car and wraps the top strap under my arms. The bad angle of his reach causes him to fumble and stab my breast with the clip.
“I got it,” I say.
He hands me the rest of the straps and I fasten the clips around me. The winch yanks me up and around the steering wheel and I’m able to stand on the driver’s seat. Another tug lifts me onto a waiting gurney. A plastic collar is snapped around my neck. Now all I see is the sky and the tops of the redwoods. My hair is caught in the collar and the skin of my neck is pinched in its clasp. I tug at it, trying to get comfortable. A woman with a halo of white hair peers into my limited view.
“Hi, Catherine. I’m Kyle.” Her eyes are warm with concern as she smiles to reassure me. She squeezes my hand and I squeeze back.
Before I can say thank you I’m in the back of the ambulance. A paramedic tries to close the door but a sheriff’s deputy blocks the way.
“I need to ask her a few questions first,” he says. Without waiting for an answer, he turns to me and demands to know my name and what happened. He wants to see my driver’s license.
“It’s in my purse and I don’t have it, but I know the number.” I recite it for him, proud that I have my wits about me enough to remember it.
“We’ve got to get her to the hospital. You can talk to her later.” The EMT frowns as he pulls the door closed, forcing the deputy back.
“We’re taking you to a helicopter. Do you get air sick?”
“No, never did. I used to fly small airplanes.” Who am I trying to impress, strapped to a gurney, and wrapped in a neck collar?
He cuts off my jacket sleeve and examines the inside of my arm.
“I apologize in advance,” I say. “I have no veins.” I hate IVs and giving blood samples has always been an ordeal.
He pats my arm a few times and nods. “You’re right.”
Within a few minutes the ambulance stops and I’m extracted and carried toward a din of whirling blades. For a few seconds I see early evening stars, then I am shoved into the helicopter, with a ceiling view of straps, tubes, and metal boxes. The door slams and the deafening whirl of the blades increase, preparing for takeoff. The EMT shouts at me as he dons a headset.
“We won’t be able to hear you with these on,” he says. “Give me a thumbs up or a thumbs down if you need anything, okay?”
I nod and then give him a thumbs up to let him know I got it.
He checks my right arm again, hoping to raise a vein, and then he examines the back of my hand. “I bet you twenty bucks I get an IV in you before we get to the hospital,” he says.
I couldn’t help but laugh at his determination. He slaps the back of my hand over and over as if I’d been a bad girl. I give my chin a pinch to distract myself from the pain in my right fist where he inserts the needle.
“You owe me twenty bucks,” he says.
I give him a thumbs up as we lift into the night sky.