the time I tell three stories at once…

When we bought our car, we bought used.  My Husband had just received his license and we didn’t want to go new for our first car.    We had visions of backing into posts and dents and scratches and we didn’t want to do that with a brand new car.  What we weren’t expecting was being run over by a 53′ transport truck and dragged 1.5km’s (1 mile) underneath it’s trailer along the highway.

The day we picked up the car, my Husband brought it to be detailed.  That was my request.  I was fine buying used, but I didn’t want to drive with someone elses dirt in it.  So, it was scrubbed and vacuumed and cleaned for just over three hours and we drove out with a brand new to us, squeeky clean car.

Right after the accident, when the Emergency personnel showed up at the scene and I was pulled away from the car by some by-standers, the firemen got to work.  The wheel of the truck ended up on top of the car, trapping my Husband under neath it.  They lifted the trailer off and then got to work with saws and jaws of life and cut our poor car into pieces to free him.  When they were pulling him out of the car to the waiting stretcher that would take him to the ambulance and then helicopter, they brought me over to the car.  At this point, I had been sitting in my own ambulance for just under two hours not knowing what was going on and too afraid to look.  When I got out and saw the car sitting there I was confused.  This wasn’t our car, this car was a convertible.  It honestly wasn’t until the next day that I realized it had been cut down.

The next day, while my Husband and I were still in the Emergency room waiting for his first of many surgeries, my Brother in Law went to the wrecker lot to rip apart our trunk and get out all of our belongings.

A few weeks ago, when my Husband was finally released from the hospital, we went for dinner at my Sisters house.  My Brother in law pulled my Husband aside and told him that he found something in the cab of the car that may be special to him.  It was a 50 cent piece.

50 cent pieces haven’t been used for currency in Canada for quite a long time.  Before my lifetime at least.  But, they still float around.  Used more for nostalagia, collectibles, a cute little present to give a kid to hold onto.  For my Husband,  a 50 cent piece has more meaning.

Many moons ago when the surgeon walked out of surgery to talk to my Husbands parents, he explained that the hole in his heart was much worse then they had thought.  The surgeon said that he had no idea how my Husband had lived for the 15 years that he did with it.  The hole in his heart was roughly the size of a 50 cent piece. 

Nobody ever forgot that.  50 cent pieces are very special to his family.  They symbolize what he went through and how strong he is.

But, that 50 cent piece that my BIL found in the car did not belong to us.  Nor did it belong to my Father In Law who was sitting in the passenger seat during the crash, or my Mother In Law who was trapped behind my Husband during the ordeal.  We have no idea where this 50 cent piece came from or how it ended up in our car after the crash.

But, it just proves to me how important a 50 cent piece is to my Husband.  That’s twice that his life was saved and twice that a 50 cent piece played a part of it.


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