I’m starting to forget that night, even though it was only a week ago. I remember what I told people, the story of how it happened, what I heard, but the actual memory is slipping away.
I remember the screaming, I remember the blonde woman who pulled me out of the car and refused to leave my side. I remember the site of my car, underneath the search lights as I saw the firemen cutting out my husband. But I remember very little more then that.
I do remember the phone calls I made, standing there at the side of the road, watching in disbelief as I realized my husband was trapped. There was nothing I could do, the firemen and ambulance hadn’t shown up yet and I called my Sister screaming. I don’t know what I wanted her to do, what I thought she could do, I didn’t even know where we were. I just screamed and cried and sat on the highway as people swarmed around me, covering me, offering me water.
An hour or so later, I called a friend, very calmly asked her to please go to the hospital because Jason was being airlifted their and I didn’t want him to be alone and we were being sent to a closer hospital. I don’t even think I told her what was wrong, what had happened. At that moment, the obsurtity of it all made me unable to repeat. It just didn’t seem like it could be real. I thanked her for going to the hospital and then I hung up and sat back in the ambulance waiting for someone to tell me if my Husband was dead or alive.
Three hours later when I finally made it to the same hospital, she was there waiting. I’ll never be able to thank her enough for that.