Current mood:

numb

in the words of Joni Mitchell: "you don't know what you got 'till it's gone"
... or as a more apt paraphrase "you only realize what you've got when the possibility of losing it is even suggested."

So that was, hands down, the most terrifying experience of my entire life.

The weekend started out (and continued along) incredibly. We (Becca and I) were given a weekend at a Niagara-on-the-Lake B&B called the Weatherpine Inn for the weekend and a gift certificate for dinner at The Pillar and Post as a belated (and incredible) wedding present, and we had been looking forward to it for a long time.

When we got there, everything was fabulous. Our room was amazing, the breakfast served to us was delicious, the Buttefly Conservatory was amazing, and the dinner Saturday night was absolutely unbelievable. Sunday morning we went to this neat little Anglican church called St. Saviour's Queenston for their morning service, and then we were going to look for a winery run by Becca's relative before getting some lunch at this little pub we found in town and then going to the Shaw play we had purchased tickets for.

We were driving up a country road enjoying the sunshine and generally awesome weather, trying to look out for signs for Coyote's Run Winery (tuns out we were in the wrong area entirely). We stopped at a stop sign at the corner of Line 3 and Four Mile Creek Rd, and let a green sedan drive past. Then, checking the road and not seeing anything, I pulled out to go along our way. Becca yells "look out! Watch out!" and I turn to see a red Buick Century driving at what I would guess to be about 70-80 km/h (based on the road he was on) about a foot away from Becca's door, and closing fast.

It's amazing how everything goes into movie-slow-motion mode at times like that. I can remember the entire scene like I was looking at a snapshot. There was becca staring at me, horrified, there was the blue, partially cloudy sky in the background, the yellow/green spring orchards and fields, and the front end of a Buick, a fraction of a second away from hitting us.



The next snapshot (I didn't black out, but the rest was in real-time, so it was too quick to catch) was equally surreal. We were facing the direction from which the Buick was driving, which amounts to about a 270 degree spin for us, about 50-100 feet down the road, both airbags were deployed and deflated, there were wisps of foul-smelling smoke coming from the airbag casings, the windshield was smashed, both passenger-side doors were dented and twisted, and Becca was completely unresponsive, kinda looking around but not seeing anything, not responding to anything I was saying to her, and letting out positively the most terrifying painful moan I've ever heard in my life.

this is the picture I see every time I close my eyes now.
that last thing is also the sound I hear.
every time.

you have no idea what it feels like to be the cause of that much pain to the person who means more to you than anyone else on Earth.

Considering it was on a relatively isolated country road, help was there almost instantaneously. There was a guy on a motorbike, who was driving behind the guy who hit us, turned out to be an off-duty firefighter, conveniently with a radio on his jacket. So he radios for help while assessing the scene quickly. While he's doing that, someone comes running up from somewhere to help out too, and by the time I look up, there are about 10 people around and cars stopping and checking to see if they can help. Within 10 minutes, there were two ambulances on the scene, one firetruck, about 10-12 firemen and the paramedics who accompanied the ambulances.

(near as I can tell, the guy in the other car was doing alright. I think he just had a bit of a leg problem - possibly broken, but definitely not that serious, since I was told that they only took him to the Niagara Falls hospital)

While we waited for the third ambulance, one paramedic and a few firefighters set to work on Becca and I. Two guys in the back seat supporting our necks, and a paramedic intermittently checking on the two of us. While that's happening, some firefighters set to work on the outside of the car. Someone covers Becca with a blanket and puts in place a plastic shield, and they smash the door windows: front, back and vent. Then they cut the window frames off the doors and pry them open/tear them off. Then the jaws of life come in and cut the beam separating the two passenger-side doors. Now my car has no side.

Becca and I get neck braces put on, and about 5 people get Becca onto a spinal board and onto a stretcher. Now she's gone. All I know is that she was able to squeeze my right hand with her left, tell me she loves me (but nothing much else coherent) and identify that there was a cut on her head somewhere.

Next, a bunch of people reposition me, hoist me onto a spinal board and get me into a separate ambulance. At this point, I'm told that they've specifically arranged to have Becca and I both taken to St. Catherine's General Hospital, which makes me feel the slightest bit better.

the ambulance ride on a spinal board was both painful and nauseating. Spinal boards suck. Big time.

I get to the hospital, "meet" a couple different nurses who take information from me, and then get wheeled into a different, more serious-looking room, and get positioned next to Becca, who reaches out, takes my hand, responds to my tearful apology with "You know what? I love you so much." and a short prayer.

Best. Person. Ever.

(on that note, the only other thing I remember hearing was Becca giving the doctor an earful cause he was talking too fast for her to comprehend and shoving a thermometer in her mouth. He was put in his place so fast. It was awesome. best. person. ever.)

Then I get taken away and told that she's being airlifted to Hamilton General Hospital cause she's having trouble feeling all of her limbs and they're better equipped to test for/treat spinal injuries in Hamilton than they are in St. Catherine's.

I was fine. I was on a spinal board, which hurt, but other than the discomfort caused by the board/collar itself, I knew that I was going to walk away with only a couple bruises and some achy muscles. Miracle #1.

The next few hours are irritating beyond description. Pacing in an unknown section of the E.R. of an unknown hospital for hours is like that. A visit from a cop who has the unenviable task of serving me with my careless driving citation, and collecting some pertinent insurance information. A couple visits from sympathetic nurses who promise to check in at HGH to ask about Becca's condition, and a couple stop-ins from the attending physician to order a blood and urine test to make sure that my kidneys aren't totally screwed. They aren't.

So a bunch of breakdowns, and a crap-load of prayer, later a doctor whom I've not yet seen walks in, asks if I'm the guy whose wife is at Hamilton General, and tells me that she's fine. She is going in for neck x-rays just to be sure, but they're all 99% sure that there's nothing seriously wrong. I choke out a "thank you" and she smiles and walks away.

I don't know that I've ever been knocked over by gratitude before, but it happened, and it was amazing. A nurse with whom I had had no real contact was watching the whole time the doctor was giving me the news, and finally came over, put a hand on my shoulder and asked if I was okay. I couldn't even talk, I just nodded and shook my head when she offered to get me a drink or something. She asked if I was sure and then carried on her way. Nice lady.

Anyway, by this point both my parents and Becca's have been called and are on their way. 2 hours later I'm driving to the wreckers to clean out my car (which is a total write-off) and then off to Hamilton.

Using my dad's cell phone to talk directly to Becca when we were just inside Hamilton was the single greatest phone call of my life. 6 hours after the whole thing started, Becca and I walk out of Hamilton General Hospital, get in my parents' car and drive back to Oshawa to meet her parents.

I've got neck muscles that can only be described as quite tender and sore, and Becca's got a bit of a lingering headache, but the point is that she's fine, and currently sleeping soundly in our bed.

She's the most amazing, strong, supportive, encouraging and courageous person I've ever known. I can't stop apologizing and feeling indescribably guilty, and she just smiles, tells me she loves me, reassures me that we're both fine and that God's still looking out for us, and tells me not to worry.

Best. Person. Ever.