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mommy. wife. teacher. yogini. writer. coffee drinker. aunt. crocheter. reader. dog lover. scattered. methodical. rational. irrational. paranoid. annoyed. lost. found. content. searching. peaceful. i am constantly in search of my story. the one i have never happened. the one i've lived i cannot write.

18 February 2009

chapter 2.

chapter 1.

chapter 2.

there was smoke coming from the dash.
that put me a little on edge.
i had flashes from movies i had watched in which the car blows up.
i couldn't get out
i was stuck.
my leg was pinned between the door and...was that the dash?
the blazer must have been made from sturdier metal that i would have thought.
bill stood just outside my window.
his face was ashen.
someone was with him.
a woman. she was talking to him.
talking to me.
i wasn't listening.
i just kept looking around the cab of the blazer trying to figure out my next move.
i should have worn a heavier coat.
i started to shake.
then a man.
a funny little man with a trench coat and moustache.


the woman brought a blanket.
it had been knitted and used.
i often wonder if that ever got back to her or if it was left to ruin with the truck.
i tried not to get any blood on it.

a police officer came.
help is on the way.

bill's face.
i could see him on the phone.
with his mom.
he knew they wouldn't be far behind us.
they weren't.
within minutes, they were there.
i thought dayton was going to throw up.
i think i smiled at him. i don't know. he probably couldn't see it. i had the oxygen mask on.
theresa was in the back of the blazer.

theresa: amy, it's theresa. you okay? you okay?
me: yes, fine.
the officer: ma'am, i'm going to have to ask you to get out of the way.

me: call my mom.
bill: nodding. panicked. white. clinging to the camera bag (i had made him take it out of the car.)

how are you?
how are you?
how are you?

i kept hearing it.
i nodded.
i'm cold.
i'm fine.
just cold.
my leg.
i need to open the door.
it hurts.

i shook.
and shook.
and shook.
i couldn't get warm.
i couldn't stop shaking.

are they coming? where are they?
10 minutes out. 7 minutes out.
i just want to open the goddamn door.
it really hurts now.
something is pushing it.
squeezing it.

when the paramedics arrived, they tried to give me morphine.
i told them i didn't want it - not until we knew that it was okay for me to have it being 34 weeks pregnant.
more oxygen.
everything's going to be fine.
we're going to get you out.
i don't remember the firemen arriving.
but they did.
they surrounded the vehicle like bees to a hive and assessed the damage.
how are you?
how are you?
they tried to open the door.
the jaws of life came out.
i've never seen them up close.
they are big - huge needlenose pliers.

what we all soon came to discover was that it wasn't the door that was preventing me from getting out of the vehicle.
it was the large steel beam that had come through the engine block, through my leg and out the bottom of the passenger side door.
it was torqued in such a way that the would not be able to push it through.
it was steel and massive and cutting might be an option...

fireman: what's your name?
me: amy.
fireman: how far along are you, amy?
me: 34 weeks.
fireman: congratulations! is it a boy or a girl?
me: girl (oxygen).
fireman: amy, we're going to get you out. we have to pull the beam out. i want you to let me know if it hurts because we don't know how it is sitting on you. can you do that?
me: nodding. i felt so small. like a child getting a splinter removed.

scraping metal.
"you okay?"

more scraping.
me: STOP.
fireman: STOP - SHE SAYS STOP!
fireman: what hurts?
me: the leg.
fireman: what can we do?
me: get the door open.
fireman: you ready to go again?
me: nodding.

almost there.

me: FUCK.
fireman: what do you need, amy?
me: put the door back on!

they milled about me.
they fussed over my leg.
i still couldn't see...i think i had a piece of the dash laying in my lap.
or maybe it was just because all i could see was charlie's silhouette within me.
i remember sitting in the passenger side, breathing through a mask and looking down as the fireman looked up to the emt and mouthed, 'oh yeah, it's broken.'

that was the end of the brown dress pants.

there was little manipulation of my leg on the scene. i think at that point they wanted to keep it as in tact as they could until we arrived at the hospital.
a call came in.
i could have the morphine.
yes, give me the morphine.
the blood was coming out quickly now and my world spun.

a man was behind me.
emt: amy, how far along are you?
me: 34 weeks.
emt: boy or girl?
me: girl.
emt: we're gonna get you and your baby out of here. i need you to relax and just let me do the work.

i was pulled out of the vehicle through the back of blazer. they had me on a board and i remember feeling guilty that i was so heavy. i could see the gray sky.

where is my husband? where is bill? panic. where is bill?

he was there, in a flash. looking down at me and smiling.
i remember asking him questions:
did you call my mom?
did you get the camera?
did you call everyone in minnesota and tell them?
did you tell them i'm sorry i ruined their plans?
are you coming with me?
where are we going?

he patiently nodded.

"i'll be right up front."
and we were off.

it was the last time we saw our blazer.


Anonymous said...

This is like a drug...I want more!!! I love this style of writing from you.

Anonymous said...

WOW! I agree...more!


Meg Hill said...


Anonymous said...

so...i'm sitting at work reading this, and i am crying! you are doing a great job with telling the story...but i don't know if i can handle it anymore!! i love you and am so thankful for you!

katie jo

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