Explore unscripted accounts of survival and newfound perspective
It was a late summer night on a rain-slicked road when the driver in front of me stopped suddenly. I was in the C230 my parents bought as a high school graduation gift in anticipation of the move to college a few months later, but the car wouldn’t make it past that night. I went right into the back of that other car, the airbag deployed, and Tele-Aid activated immediately. The operator asked me if I was alright, if I needed an ambulance, or if he needed to call my parents, but I told him that I should call them myself and let them know what happened.
The next three minutes were spent in search of my cellphone, which had gone flying into some other part of the car during the accident. Three minutes of flashers blinking, lights on full and the kind man from Tele-Aid assuring me that help was on the way. And that’s when a young girl plowed into me from behind at 50 mph, for some reason not having noticed the wreck or the 18-wheeler and three other cars that had stopped to check on us.
My car was flung into a spin, ricocheted off a telephone poll, and eventually settled in a ditch. When the police arrived, they remarked on how well my Mercedes had handled not one, but two severe impacts. They were amazed at how the roof didn’t buckle and at how the front end didn’t cave — sparing my legs. In fact, other than a bruised eye, I was fine.
When my parents bought that C230, they did it because they believed it would keep me safe. Little did they know how soon they’d be proven right.
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