Life, Interrupted

"Ma'am? Can you hear me? 9-1-1 is on the way. Are you injured? Can you hear me?"

The world is off its axis. Or perhaps I am off of mine? Right is down. Left is up. There's a hissing sound. Airbags. My phone dangles from the charging cord. Grab it, dial 9-1-1. The call won't go through. WFT? Isn't this the one call that's always supposed to go through?

Wait, there are people here. They are shouting at me through the windshield. Am I OK? I think so. Am I injured? Not that I can tell. Do I want water? That's an odd one. "Can someone call 9-1-1?" I ask. They already did. Good job, people. The bods in blue are on the way. And I won't die of dehydration before they get here. You fine folks have this handled. My head feels weird, like being suspended sideways is taxing for my brain.

The dog? Must be OK. I can hardly hear the men shouting through the windshield over her mad barking. I turn awkwardly, the locked seatbelt restricting. "Baby girl? You OK?" I can't see her, but I can touch her fur. She's moving, making a racket. She's good enough.

I'm good enough. Good enough to worry about her. Good enough to remember another accident, in another vehicle, with another Border Collie. I'd been so worried about him that I quickly released my seatbelt, then wondered why I tumbled onto the passenger door, landing atop his furry frame. Learned my lesson, I did. I grasp the steering column with my left knee, bracing my right hand against the console below me. I use my left hand to unfasten my seatbelt and maneuver myself into the passenger side of the truck with surprising grace. Blessedly, the list of surprises continues. Down here (which used to be over here) I find my wallet, ID. My prescription glasses. The keys to my truck are in my pocket. Trailer keys are here, along with the remains of my lunch. Avoiding the edibles, I gather these vital scraps of a life interrupted.

Someone opens the rear driver's side door. They help me out. They want to help the dog out. She's not nice, I tell them. She bites. We'll help you bring her out in the crate, they say. I go back in, begin to lift her up. The man helping puts his fingers through the wire grate on the door. I correct him before any fingers are lost. She is out. I am out. We are on the ground. So is the passenger side of my truck. My trailer, too. My house. Laying on its door, the front end split open and oozing pink streamers of insulation, looking like nothing so much as an underwhelming Halloween play on intestines.

The EMTs, they want to talk to me. The man with water gives me two bottles. Am I injured? No. What about the dog? I don't think so. I can't take her out right now. She bites. Do you have a blanket I could put over her crate? They do. I cover her up and it makes it easier for me to focus, to talk to them. No, I don't believe I am injured. Do I know where I am? What day it is? I do. No, I don't want to be transported to the hospital. They tell me I can keep the blanket. It seems the greatest of gifts.

There are already so many police officers here. And none of them are talking to me. Some are busy directing traffic. Some seem to be here to catch up with one another? The bystanders who helped me drift over, one by one. They say goodbye, they are glad I am not hurt. They say God bless me. They leave. Lights and officers mill around me, but I feel invisible. It's cold here. I haven't been cold in weeks. It's almost September in Montana. The nights are cool. I wish I had a jacket.

My things, from the bed of the truck. I have clothes there. The things are remarkably unscathed. The lids are still on the plastic bins with my clothes in them. I put on a sweatshirt. I retrieve the bag of dog food, top still folded over neatly. I sit in the gravel, by the dog's crate, the blanket covering it like an add parody of a birdcage. Don't pet the parrot. She bites. She cries softly, confused. I talk to her, tell her we are going to be OK. It's like baby talk, nonsense. We are obviously not OK. Uninjured, perhaps, but most assuredly not OK.

I drink the water. It makes me colder, but I can't seem to stop drinking it. No one talks to me. I can't decide if I am relieved or annoyed. I call my family members, tell them what happened and that I am OK.

A tow truck driver arrives. Young, husky. He seems kind, says a few words to me. Is the truck in Park? It is. He shows me the special compartment in the dash where he...I don't remember. He has a tool. It brings a part forward from the compartment. Something to do with loading the truck onto his flatbed. He hooks a chain behind the front tire on the driver's side and pulls the truck upright.

An officer speaks to me briefly, gives me a card for my insurance, tells me another officer will be along. And so he is. He also speaks to me briefly, asks questions. Was I drinking? So tired that I might have nodded off? No. No. I don't know what made the trailer start whipping, but once it did, I couldn't get it back under control. The truck and trailer turned sideways, we skidded into the median. In that moment I was sure terrible things were about to happen. The far side of the median features a parade of vehicles, traveling over 80 miles per hour in the opposite direction. I remember tensing, sure I was about to make contact with them.

Instead, the gravel interrupts our momentum. The truck and trailer turn on their sides, almost gently. My tonneau pops, spilling the contents from the back of my truck with amazingly little force. The thin wooden basket that I keep my laundry supplies in is undamaged. Everything here is oddly fine. And utterly not fine. I continue to sit by the crate while the men around me do uninterrupted things with my interrupted life.

The report the second officer gives me lists the time of my accident as 9:10 p.m. Around midnight, the officer drives me to the nearest town. The tow driver meets us in the parking lot of his yard. Can I just get a few things out of my trailer? My toothbrush, some clean underwear? Everything in my head swirls like the emergency lights that have surrounded me for the last three hours, but some part of me understands that I will wake up tomorrow (later today) and need to do uninterrupted life things, brush my teeth, change my clothes. Of course, they say. The flatbed carrying my truck and towing what's left of my trailer is parked outside of the locked yard. He and the officer stand by as I unlock and open the door to my tiny home.

I am anticipating a mess. I could not have fathomed what waited beyond the door. The odd white splash across the pebbled, obscure glass? Perhaps flour. Whatever it is, it covers everything inside. And everything that is inside is all piled up, together, a jumble of books and papers, rice and lentils, bicycles and clothing. It starts at the threshold and is piled higher than my waist. Broken glass is everywhere. The cabinets are ripped from the walls. The table has been torn away and sits at an odd angle atop the pile, its single leg twisted skyward, a wounded narwhal floating uneasily in a sea of garbage. Garbage that, 200 minutes ago, was my entire life.

I step gingerly onto the mess just inside the door, looking deeper, towards the cabinet where my toothbrush would be, the bed above which I could find clean underwear. There is no path from here to there. The feet-deep pile of rubble runs the full length of my home. I place my hand on the small cabinet to my left, wondering if I can lever myself up onto it to avoid the mass in front of me, get me closer to the bed. The bed. The mattress is lifted, laying atop another pile of violently interrupted life. Beside the bed I can see the impossibility of reaching my toothbrush. Or anything else. This makes chaos look orderly.

I step back out of the trailer. I close and lock the door. I begin to cry.

It is nearing 12:30 when I arrive at the hotel. They have no rooms, but they do have a guest house. It is expensive, says the woman at the desk. Do you have any memberships? Yes, AAA. Is your dog a service animal. No, I snort. Unless biting is a service. I don't say that part out loud. "You could have lied," she says. Could I? I don't have enough capacity to thing of things like that just now. "You look like you have had a very hard day," she says. Was it the police car that dropped me off that gave it away? Or do I look like a shell-shocked GI? Maybe a little of both. Either way, she discounts the room because I am alone and she is kind. She gives my dog a promotion to service animal, saving me a pet fee. People are good.

I arrive at the guest house feeling utterly devastated and overwhelmed. I need a shower. The dog has not eaten. I badly want someone to hold me and tell me what I need to do next, but no one is here. They've given me a toothbrush at the front desk. I find a bowl in the cupboard and give the dog water. She drinks. I put food in another bowl and she stares at it. She has never eaten from a bowl; she has an interactive feeder that she pushes around to release kibble. I feed her a piece. It's food, I say. Eat it. She stares at me. I pour the food out on the floor and she immediately begins to eat.

I go around opening doors. There is a laundry set here. I cry. I have only the clothes I am wearing. They are filthy. I was planning to wash my underwear in the sink and just suffer through the rest. I put my clothes in to wash. I take a shower with endless hot water. There is no need to turn the water off while I soap. I don't hit my elbows on the ceiling. I stand in the water and sob.

It is nearing 1:30 a.m. now. Four hours have passed since my world exploded in the middle of Interstate 90. The dog is fed, my clothes are clean. The door is locked. My family knows where I am and that I am safe. I can go to bed now, and I have never wanted a novel so badly. How will I fall asleep without something to focus my shattered mind? I cast around and find the entertainment center full of books. I cry again. I take a book to bed. The dog sleeps with me.

I sleep for four and a half hours. When I wake, I make calls to insurance companies. I feed and walk the dog. I contact the tow company to ensure that I can come to the yard. I text my mom. I realize I haven't eaten in a long time, and it's past the hours of the hotel breakfast. Google assures me there is a café about a mile away. I secure the dog in her crate and start walking.

When I sit down for breakfast, my phone announces a text. The tow driver. Do I need a ride anywhere? Have I eaten? I cry again. I feel so alone, but Source is watching out for me. This human cares if I have eaten. I tell him I am doing that now. He offers to call the mechanic he recommended the night before to determine if my truck can be driven. I accept. There is a couple at the next table. They seem to be traveling. They are engrossed in conversation with each other. I call my mother while they eat. They are gone when my breakfast arrives and the waitress tells me they have paid for my meal. I cry again. I am not alone. I am being care for, by the Source Of All That Is, through the hands and hearts of strangers.

I am exhausted, but my belly is full and kindness swirls around me like the breath from angels' wings. I walk to the tow yard, where I walk around the trailer taking video for the insurance company. The awning is ripped off. The intestinal insulation blows in the wind. A clipboard is sticking out of the front corner. The whole vessel sits at a canted angle, a drunk passed out in a doorway.

I stand before the door, gathering my courage to open it and face the carnage inside once again. It was this image that haunted the little sleep I'd gotten the night before.

There is nothing to do but begin. I have purchased gloves and contractor trash bags. I have a few boxes from the store where I got these items, reconstructed with duct tape. I open the door and start with the pile of broken glass and ruined food closest to me. I begin pulling out broken cabinets, the twisted wreckage of the table. When I find something salvageable, I place it in a box. There is one unbroken plate. Here are some files. The dog's feeding toy. She will be happy to see that. The pots for both of my plants have survived. The plants are roughed up, I will need to buy potting soil. But they, too, have survived.

By the end of this first day I have rescued most of the items I was hoping to find immediately. I am still without my own toothbrush and have yet to unearth my deodorant. None of my skincare has surfaced. But I've found my prescription thyroid medication, along with the dog's supplements. I have my clothing, and can begin washing it when I return to the hotel. I've been able to open the refrigerator and freezer and have rescued the food that was there. The inside of my truck is stuffed with shoeboxes and filthy clothes. The truck bed is packed with random containers, all full of equally filthy jars, bottles, and cans. Boxes of paperwork mixed with spilled pantry goods and potting soil round out the day's spoils. I am filthy, gritty with flour, tea, spices, and run of the mill dirt. I can feel every hour I have been awake and living in fight or flight. I return to the hotel, still needing to unload the truck, start laundry, and walk the dog. In the shower, I sob again.

I will scream, long and ragged, a sound to make banshees cower, if one more person says "You're OK and that's all that matters." Mind you, it matters. One of the few things less appealing than this devastation is being hospitalized, or worse. But being OK is not all that matters. My dreams matter. My hopes, my peace, my progress, these matter. They are shattered no less than the mounds of broken glass inside what had been my home. That matters.

Further well-intended words that slip beneath my trauma thinned skin, piercing and festering: they are only things, they can be replaced. This is something humans say only in reference to the things that belong to others. Because when your things are destroyed, you understand. Yes, new things can be obtained. But your things cannot be replaced. Humans are faulty creatures. Our memories are like modeling clay left out on the table in the kindergarten room. With each passing day and each set of hands that moves through, they are reshaped. Objects, supposedly so easily replaced, are the repository of our memories. The most robust Amazon order could not replace what has been lost here. No, I did not die. But the strongholds preserving my treasured memories were destroyed. Memories died. That matters.

I sleep a little more this night. When I take the dog for a walk in the morning, I find I cannot recall which street we came down. I wonder if I have a concussion. I call the walk-in clinic, but they have no appointments open. Just as well. It is Friday and I need to get the rest of my things from the trailer before the tow yard closes for the weekend. Concussion or no, there are things that must be done here, and I am the only soul doing them. Many of the largest items are already out of the camper. Today I sift through piles of glass shards, torn paper, potting soil, lentils, and rice, searching for small items like rings and earbuds.

Flies are thick in here. They crawl over me constantly, as if the stench of the life so recently expired is oozing from my skin. I grow tired of batting them away and let them treat me like a corpse. I cry continually as I fill the truck again. The interior of the hotel guest house looks like a hoard. Every available surface is covered. I try to clean some things, but sense this is a losing battle.

Facing the enormity of moving all of these items again in the next 24 hours is too much to bear. I call a friend. She will come tomorrow, to help me load my filthy hoard into a rented trailer. When she arrives, she tells me she is proud of me for asking for help. I can't recall whether or not I debated with myself over it. I wonder again if I have a concussion.

Having another human, one who is not shattered and has slept soundly sometime in the last week, is immensely helpful. I had been feeling like a ghost, floating untethered among the bags and boxes. I would often stand and cry, unable to fasten my mind onto what needed to be done next. She grounds me, making decisions with an ease unavailable to me in these moments. She brings things I need: a tarp to cover the load, a cooler. We pack everything up and settle it in the trailer. She takes my bicycles in the rack on her car. My plants hitch a ride with her.

I am driving back to Butte now. I set my cruise control on 65, even though the speed limit is 80. I feel unsafe without my seatbelt, which is locked into position after the accident and won't go around me. The rented trailer lurks in my rearview mirror, the shadow of a dangerous stalker. The truck still occasionally belches smoke from the exhaust, a fragrant memory of the oil spilled as we lay on our sides in the highway median. I am exhausted, uneasy, overwhelmed. The last five days have been an unrelenting parade of urgent tasks, barely broken up by hurried meals and fitful sleep. I stay focused on the road and on what lies ahead--the last home I knew, a place filled with familiarity and friends.

As I crest Pipestone pass, I cry again. I will pull into a familiar parking lot in 10 minutes. I will reach out to people I know. They will help me find housing, healing, answers to the unanswerable questions. In this town, there is nothing I could need that I cannot lay hands on in an hour. Here, I am loved. Here, I am safe. Here, I can begin to pick up the pieces. Here, I can rest. Here, I can begin to reconstruct the life that has been interrupted.

To be continued...

Photo credits, in order of appearance: Osman Rana, Mathurin Napoly Matnapo, Benjamin Lehman, Max Fleischmann, Matt C.