Trauma

There was a program on NPR on Sunday afternoon in which they were reading pieces written by people involving people dying and how they dealt with the occurrence. The particular reading we were listening to involved a young man who was driving his car at the end of his senior year in high school when a young girl in his class drove her bicycle in front of his car, the young girl dying in the accident. The police investigated and found that the accident was not caused by anything the young man did while driving. It appeared that the girl simply veered into his path by mistake. There was even the suggestion that the young girl may have wanted to end her life.

The reading went on to discuss the things that happened to the young man as the school year progressed. He attended the funeral of the young girl. He encountered his friends and the friends of the young girl. He visited her parents. He even discussed the accident with someone he was dating and got involved in an argument with her in which his date confessed that she had considered suicide and almost veered into traffic in an effort to effectuate the suicide.

As I listened to the reading on NPR, my mind drifted, as it is want to do, to an episode in my life, involving a traffic accident. When I was seventeen, my family drove down to St. Petersburg, Florida for the wedding of my cousin, Cicely. I had recently returned from a trip my friend, Graham Gardner and I had taken in which we drove around the southeastern part of the country, visiting colleges in which we had an interest. The trip we took went from Atlanta to Clarksville, Tennessee and my grandmother's farm, to Vanderbilt University, to Danville, Kentucky and Centre College, to Knoxville, Tennessee and a ride with a young blonde coed in her blue volkswagen beetle. After escaping a kitchen fire in our hotel and exploring Cumberland Avenue, we drove over the Smoky Mountains past Cherokee to Durham, North Carolina where we visited the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill and Duke. After an unpleasant encounter with a bigoted admissions director from UNC, we drove up into Virginia, where we almost got stuck in the mud during a rain storm, only to be rescued by a number of young men who pushed us out of the bog. Finally, we drove on to Charlottesville, where we stayed with Graham's aunt and uncle, finishing our trip with a Sunday morning tour of UVA and Monticello. The last day of our trip was spent inspecting the serpentine brick walls of Mr. Jefferson's college and a tour of his mountain retreat.

It was during the ride back home from Charlottesville when my mother asked me if we had visited W&L and VMI and sent me on a journey through our college directory which would ultimately lead me to college in Lexington. We stopped in South Carolina near Greenville and bought four large, round watermelons for a quarter each. I remember taking one with me to Florida when Frank and I drove on the trip to the wedding.

When I arrived in Dunwoody, Frank and I immediately drove down I-75 to Valdosta and stayed at the Holiday Inn on the north side of town for the night. The next morning we drove on to St. Petersburg and the small motel on Fourth Avenue which had been suggested by my great-uncle.

That night, we went through the rehearsal for the wedding with the wedding party and then Frank and Ed and I followed the other groomsmen up to a place on the north side of the county where they were celebrating the last night of freedom for my cousin's husband. That night, Frank, Ed and I ended up on the beach in Clearwater, wandering around until the wee hours of the evening came and sent us home.

The next morning, we woke up and as the day progressed, my father sent Frank and myself out to find some lunch. There was a Lum's restaurant several blocks down the road, so we drove down to get something to eat. After our lunch, I headed the Ford Pinto on a back route back to the motel.

As we navigated the streets of North St. Petersburg, I noticed that some cross streets in the area had a stop sign and others did not. As I proceeded down the street, I began to cross through an intersection and just happened to notice a stop sign out of the corner of my eye. The last thing I remember was the thought, "Oh well."

There was an immediate sound of popping metal as the front end of the Pinto slammed into the front end of an older Buick Lesabre. The Ford hit the front wheel hub of the Buick and immediately turned into an accordion shape from the collision. As the front end of the Pinto slammed into its ultimate final shape, the car pivoted and slammed again into the side of the Buick. Finally, the momentum of the car lead us into the front yard of the corner lot.

The first thing I remember after the accident was the smell of power steering fluid which had sprayed into my nose. The smell stayed with me for a long time. When the impact occurred, my arms had hit the steering wheel at the bottom, leaving bruises just above my elbows on both arms. I looked over at Frank. Frank had hit the dashboard with his forehead, even though he was wearing his seatbelt, his glasses splitting in two from the impact with the dash. When the car spun on its axis, Frank's shoulder hit the passenger door. His head and shoulder left two large dents in the dashboard and the cardoor.

I asked Frank if he was ok. He grunted affirmatively. I tried to open my car door, but the metal from the misshapen front of the car prevented me from opening my door. Fortunately, Frank's car door would open.

We crawled out of the wreckage and looked around. I walked over to the other car and talked to the driver. He had hit his forehead on the visor above the windshield. He had a small cut on his forehead. Otherwise he said he was fine.

At this point, I sent Frank down the block to go get dad. As I waited, some large man in a van started asking questions about the accident. When he found that I was 17, he informed me that no one of my age should drive and that his children wouldn't drive until they were twenty-one. I sheepishly and quietly listened to his tirade.

Finally, my dad arrived and sent me back to the motel to dress for the wedding. Frank and I hastily dressed in our tuxes and rode with momma, dad and Susan to the church for the wedding. I don't remember much of the wedding. No one other than our parents and Susan knew about the accident. After the wedding, Frank and I sat on the stairs of a stairwell in the church and tried to catch our breath.

There is a picture of Frank, Susan and myself in our wedding finery after the wedding. When I look at the picture, it is clear to me that my eyes and the eyes of my brother are quite glassy. I don't remember much from the wedding. The only smell I have is the power-steering fluid. The only sensation is a pulling in my back that I can still feel today.

After that weekend, I would have to say that my driving was very careful. Much more so than before. There has never been a month, probably, in which I haven't reflected on that weekend. It is a memory which I will carry to the end. No one died and there were no serious injuries to the people involved. Thank God. I still remember.