Blue Sky Faded To Gray

                         Blude Sky Faded to Gray

               Traffic was stopped down the street due to a massive construction site. Stuck in it, I snaked my way behind a beige van. It was only 2:30 p.m., and I had eighteen minutes to pick her up. When my car was moved from behind, my foot was between the gas pedal and the brake. My brain and body separated. The ice in the lemonades tinkled.

               Nothing is moving. The digger is paused in mid-air. Vehicles are frozen. Everything is grey. Even though I pass by this street several times a week, nothing seems familiar. Everything has changed. A bright-vested person comes closer. Her mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out. 

 I can’t grasp or feel anything. I try to slow my air gulps. My face is wet. I can’t find my phone. The oldest would worry if I didn’t show up. I need to phone Michael. Where is my phone? I remember putting my purse in the backseat and trying to grab the handle. I remember that I have Bluetooth in my car. I use two hands to press the buttons on the steering wheel. 

It's hard to breathe. ‘Call Mikeh.” I say. Thank goodness, Siri understands. “I. car. Git. Git. Ala..” Michael’s voice fills my car. “Woah, slow down. Where are you?”

I look around. “By fire pace.”  

There is a stranger at my window. “I was only going 15,” I hear from behind. She moves my car from behind. Michael talks to her. “I love you, Danielle. I will get her. Keep me updated.” He ends the call. Then, she appeared in my passenger seat. She holds my wrist and looks at her watch. “Where are your insurance papers?” She is serious. I can’t stop shaking.

The siren shrieks. Paramedics pull up in front, and a fire truck is behind us. Uniforms and voices are everywhere. People are in my car—too many noises. Someone behind me touches my neck and shoulders. I didn’t feel the plastic collar around my neck. I can’t answer because of the oxygen mask on my mouth. I don’t remember that going on, either.

An older paramedic replaces a fireperson in my backseat. He asks a lot of questions. The plastic shield is removed. They are going to get me out of my car and put me on the stretcher. I’m instructed how to get out. Five people surround me and help me move to the next lane, where the stretcher waits.

“Wait, is her car still on?” They leave me crouched in a contorted step away from the stretcher. The car is turned off. The ground comes forward. I am on the lane. They turned around and helped me up onto the stretcher. 

“rse...?” I ask.

“Wait, what is she trying to say?” I know I was clear. “Grweenn.” My left arm aims it towards my purse in the backseat. I need my phone. I try to mime a telephone. I can’t lose my lifeline to Michael and the kids. 

“Why do women care about their purses? You want your phone.” I know the paramedic thinks he is joking. I am strapped onto the stretcher and wheeled into the ambulance. The street comes back to reality. The door closes. The ambulance moves. The other paramedic asks me questions. It is so bright in here. 

The ambulance rocks back and forth like we are on a ship in stormy seas. Something is jabbing my head. I open my eyes. Nothing is jabbing me. Feel sick. The body feels hot. “You are in shock.” He says. The paramedic asks a lot more questions. I keep the oxygen mask on, fighting to calm my nerves. My blood pressure is at 165. I don’t think that is good. We stop. I am waiting for a director to yell, “Cut.” Like in the movies. The door opens. 

 I am rolled into a waiting area and left alone. Shadows dance on the wall. A nurse approached the paramedic and came over to me. “How are you doing?” Can’t see her face because of a blue mask. I use my left hand to go up and down. The shaking slows down. I’m gaining some control over my body again. My body tight. I need to go to the bathroom, but I can’t speak. I don’t know how to move my body myself. The walls are a vomit colour, so it is probably easier to hide stains.

The younger paramedic helped me into a wheelchair and wheeled me into the ER’s general waiting area. “Someone will be out to get you. Good luck, " he said. He then left. The bathroom on the other side of the waiting area is miles away. 

            The TV is too loud in the waiting room, and more people are arriving. With my left hand, I text Michael about where I am. He replied that my sister and her husband had just arrived to stay with the girls, and he would be on his way. This gives me a trickle of relief. A stranger sitting a few spaces away asks if I need the nurse. ‘No,’ I whisper. My pain isn’t the worst here today. I wait.

            People are coming in with blue masks on, and there are concerns that a virus is creeping worldwide. My phone beeps, but I do not have the strength to open it to see a notification. Nothing seems or feels real. The pain is alive. I am burnt out.

“My wife...” breaking through the ER volume, I think I hear Michael. Struggling to look around, “Michael...” I don’t think he heard me. “Here.” I warble. The same stranger sees me looking in Michael’s direction, holding their arm up to point me out. 

Michael leans over to give me a gentle squeeze. He hooks a black tote bag on the arm of the wheelchair. “Has anyone seen you?” I shake my head. “Update me about the girls.” He told me that Michael would get her after he got my call after the youngest’s bus arrived. He filled her in on what had happened. Michael arranged for my sister and her husband to stay with the kids. He knew I needed him. 

They packed the black bag in case I’m here for a while. It is a familiar habit in our house to ensure the patient is settled. He showed me they packed my journal, five pens, magazines, air pods, phone charger, and a gluten-free snack. I can’t pee, but it is comforting. I want to sleep. I hope I don’t pee my pants. My husband has seen me in a lot of states of nakedness but never for an essential human function. I don't want to miss my name being called, either.

We are silent until my name is called. I have never loved hearing my name more. Michael wheels me in behind the nurse, who directs us to the same spot I was in the stretcher over an hour ago. I need a distraction. “What about my car? My license?” My car is only three years old. I am overcome by needing to know where it went. I felt lost without it. He told me that they had returned to the accident site after he had gotten them. My car was about to get towed. Michael was able to get my valuables from it. 

I know it will be a while before I can drive. That reminds me that the kids still have school tomorrow. No car. No, I'm driving. It is all on Michael. The control of planning tomorrow distracts me. It didn't occur to Michael. We devised a plan to reach out to a friend to arrange for her to be picked up and dropped off. Michael gets the bus driver’s info from my phone. He alerts another dad that he is dropping his youngest off at that bus stop in the morning. This feels like something normal. The girls will be all right. Michael can still go to work in the morning.

My name is called again. It is at 7:00 p.m. I hope I can be home to see the girls. Others are waiting in the following area. I know I can't eat or drink in case of tests.

“Did you eat?” Michael shakes his head. 

“We are close to the coffee shop. Go.” He looks up and sees the sign for food. “I will be back as soon as I can.”

 The room starts to empty. I hope I will soon be checked. A doorcrasher comes into the space and makes all kinds of noises.

My hopes for leaving here soon are deflated. The crasher is called into a room. Michael returns from the coffee shop with a wrap and an iced tea. I am called into a room with the gate crasher. The smell of Michael’s dinner makes me nauseous.

It looks like we are in a giant hospital closet. Minutes later, I heard voices approaching the other guy. It's not fair. He was not in the waiting room ahead of me. My words are stuck in my throat. The guy thought he could bypass being triaged because he was in the ER last night. He still had the bracelet on, so he was sent back to the waiting room.

The doctor and a nurse come over to my side of the closet. He confirms the details of the accident, checks my blood pressure (140) and runs a pen up and down my spine. “Yup, whiplash. I will give you pain meds for the night and morning.  You can fill this out for her in the morning.” He rips off a prescription and hands it over to Michael. “Rest, ice packs. Going to be rough for a few days. Take care.” He left as he handed off my file to the nurse. 

It is 8 pm. We can still make it home for bedtime. Seeing the kids is the most important thing to me. I know I should have felt annoyed by all that waiting for a five-minute diagnosis, but I knew I couldn’t leave because of the pain. Michael wheels me back through the ER waiting room to get his truck.

The waiting area is now overcrowded with masked people. There is a box of blue masks on the triage counter. It wasn’t there before. He parks me outside on the curb to get his truck. The fresh air makes me cry with relief. Michael parks in front of me. I look up at the passenger door. It will be tricky or even a miracle to get me up there.

“We got this, " he says. Step by step, he helps move my limbs and pushes me up with care so I can sit and move my legs forward. He buckles me up and closes the door. Michael returns the wheelchair. Everything in my body is on fire. He gets in and drives cautiously. The streetlights are poker sticks through my eyes. I close them for the drive. 

We pull up in front of our home. It has been six hours since I left here, and I'm excited to share my news. Now, I am run over with pain and need help to get inside. It took three of them to help guide my muscles to go up the front stairs, enter and sit on the bench in the hallway. Everything inside me screams. I still can’t take a deep breath. My urge to pee becomes more urgent to get upstairs to the bathroom. 

In what feels like an hour, I am at the bathroom door, declining Michael’s offer to help. He closes the door behind me and stands on the other side, ready to help. Thanks to the high counter to lean on, I can pee alone and get back up to pull my pants up. I lean over the sink and maneuver the taps to wash my hands. I didn’t think my body could get tighter, but it is. 

“Okay, I am ready.” Michael opens the door. Vicky and Michael helped me cross the ten feet to the recliner in the living room. I grimace and smile. “Hi, kids.”

There is a massive amount of action around me. Michael takes the girls upstairs to get ready for bed after he gets me set up with a snack of cheese and crackers. “Say goodnight to Mommy. Remember, she has an ouch.” 

“Goodnight. Good night.  I love you.” They both lean over for my half-hugs. I watch them go upstairs with Michael so he can tuck them in. I can’t remember when I didn’t tuck them in their bed. I want to be angry, but I can’t. I’m very sad.

Michael comes back down with my PJs. It takes a lot of grunting and groaning from me as he helps me shed off the purple tie-dye shirt and pants. I never want to see that shirt again. Michael leans me back into the chair and hits power to the TV.

“What would you like to watch?” I try to respond with a shrug, but it is too tight. “I don’t care.” I am talked out. The screen is static and painful to focus on.  It is almost time for the next pain med. I will be staying overnight in the recliner. I can’t imagine going up another flight of stairs and lowering myself into a bed.

Michael mutes the TV and helps me back to the bathroom to brush my teeth. He then helps me back to the recliner and tucks me in. He adjusts the pillow and places a glass of water with my pain medication and phone just in case I need him. Michael has his phone to take to bed, our bed.

“Goodnight. I love you.” “I love you too.” I watch him go upstairs.

            Every movement pulls and aches. I stare at the TV and press the mute off, hoping to steady the wrecking ball inside my body. I lean over to the pill and try to place it in my mouth. I lift the glass of water to wash it down. I miss part of my mouth—water pools around my neck. I put the cup down and try to dry up the water with my PJ top.

            I hope the med kicks in soon. I don’t know how to process it all today. I woke up today worried I was sick like mom. I had such a high that I am recovering. Now, I am here, hours ago, being rear-ended. I can only grasp how grateful I am that the girls were not in the backseat at the time of the accident. I was minutes away from getting my first baby. 

            As the darkness creeps in, I spy the full bookshelves in the living room. The drug makes the edges go fuzzy. Before sleep takes over, I can only imagine how a writer could not make up this scene in my story.