So all day I’ve been thinking about how I could best break
my blog silence and write a post about the fact that in less than two weeks,
I’ll be moving to Cambodia.
On my drive back to Knoxville today, I thought of all the
ways I could sum up such a random and unexplained move. I thought of opening
with an inspiring story about the day I first realized I was capable of
traveling on my own (it was a beautiful day in the foothills of the Indian
Himalayas and I found my 19-year-old self staring at hundreds of paper kites
that had gotten trapped in a tangle of power lines).
I thought of explaining all the thousands of intimate
reasons that had been building over the last year that radically shaped my
perception of what is most valuable in life and what should be prioritized. I
thought of simply saying that though I had many reasons, at the same time I had
none at all and that was the beauty of it.
While I was thinking all of these thoughts and driving
peacefully along the interstate, suddenly a huge cloud of thick dark dirt
engulfed the road. A tree came crashing down in the lane next to me, nearly
hitting my car. I rolled to a stop on the left-hand shoulder, along with a few
other cars. A handful of people jumped from their vehicles and ran to the
right-hand shoulder, peering down into a densely wooded ditch. It quickly
dawned on me that something, someone was in that ditch.
I scrambled from my car and ran to the guardrail next to two
other bystanders. About ten feet down the hillside lay a flat-bed semi-truck,
the cab twisted and buried in the undergrowth. My heart was racing. I saw a man
in a yellow shirt halfway down the hill, on the phone with what I assumed must
be 911. Everything I learned years ago in a Wilderness First Responder course
came flooding to my mind. My certification had long since expired but weirdly I
call out in a strong calm voice, “does anyone here have any sort of medical or
emergency training?” Two guys look at me like I was either an angel or insane.
Please say yes, someone please say yes. Surely I can’t be the only one who has
any training. My training was years ago and was a joke compared to most WFR
courses.
No one answers. No one moves. It’s clear that someone needs
to check on the driver. Yellow shirt man climbs back up the hill, so without
any clear plan, I take off down the hill, wading through poison-ivy-galore to
get to the cab. Quickly, a scrawny guy in a blue shirt follows me. As I make my
way to the passenger-side of the cab, I see someone disappear around the front
of the truck, trying to get to the driver-side. “He’s moving!” mystery man
shouts at me. I relay the message to the yellow shirt on the phone. I can see
the driver sitting upright in the cab, faintly moving his head. I knock on the
window but he doesn’t respond. Then his lips move and I see mystery man emerge
by his door, talking to him through the glass.
Behind me, a husband and wife from the farm nearest to the interstate
peek through some barbed wire to ask what happened. They heard the crash from
their house. I watch as mystery man talks to the driver, who is alert but not
quite coherent. He shouts for the driver to unlock his door.
Immediately I start running through the ABCs of emergency
care. A: Airway, check. B: Breathing, check. C: Circulation, I guess. After all
the driver is moving. D… crap, what was D?? My flip flop slips and I realize
I’m standing in a growing pond of gasoline. Beside me, some strange round piece
of debris is smoking ominously. E: Environment. I might not be the best judge,
but again, my voice shouts out without me, “unless this truck is in danger of
catching fire, DO NOT MOVE HIM.” Mystery man grunts his acknowledgement. “Ask
him his name, keep him talking.” Who is this strangely calm person inhabiting
my body, standing in a pool of gasoline at the bottom of a ditch shouting
clear-yet-unqualified emergency advice for a wounded semi-truck driver? Surely
not me. Blue shirt is still standing beside me, helplessly.
We can’t get around to the driver-side, so eventually I
decide to climb halfway back up and relay messages to the police who just
showed up. “Yes, he’s alert, he’s moving, they got the door open.” An ambulance
pulls up and I decide to climb back up to the roadway and watch.
About ten more bystanders have gathered by the guard rail,
swapping equally pointless stories.
“Did you see it? I didn’t see it. Is he ok? I heard he’s
moving.”
“I didn’t see it, I pulled over though!”
“We were going the other way and had to stop! Is he ok?”
I watched as the police, EMTs, and a crowd of good ole boys
(ball caps, boots, and some even shirtless) carried the driver up the hill on a
backboard and loaded him into the ambulance.
Afterwards the men all shook hands, clapped backs, and congratulated
each other on their great work of standing around. One guy turned around and I
caught a glimpse of a handgun sticking out of his shorts. Who in the world
brings a gun to an accident?!?! Two other guys (one shirtless for no apparent
reason) shook hands and concluded the event with a hearty “great to see ya
again! See you at the rodeo!”
I quietly slipped past the ambulance and crossed the highway
back to my car, shoes still soaked in gasoline. I drove home absentmindedly
scratching what I’m sure will be poison ivy. What a Thursday.
So there you have it folks. I’m reviving my blog. Oh yeah,
and in two weeks I’m moving to CAMBODIA!!!!!
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