Lucky to be Alive...

My twenty-two-year-old niece is recovering from a badly sprained back suffered during a car accident.  Forced to stop  in rush-hour traffic on a Southern California freeway, she was promptly rear-ended by three cars.   My sister's descriptions of her daughter's painful recovery and therapy sessions have been rather heart-breaking, but my niece is finally able to walk and needs a wheelchair only for long distances.  We have been assured she will make a complete recovery for which we are all grateful.

Of course, as a compulsive empathizer who automatically seems to need to subliminally experience other's pain, I couldn't help thinking about the accidents in which my daughter and I have been involved.  The most serious one for her was when she crossed an intersection during a yellow light and a very elderly woman, who later admitted to being lost but denied responsibilitiy, T-boned her.  It was horrifying when she called us from the scene of the accident and wanted her father to come and bend something back so she could get to her appointment.  All I wanted to do was hide her away and protect her from another fiendish old lady.

She was not hurt, but that was the extent of her good luck.  The Perpetrator who hit her was a large donor to the political candidate for whom my daughter then worked.  Although my daughter was not considered at fault, there were no witnesses and therefore the insurances paid for their respective policyholders.  She was restrained from insisting the woman accept fault because of the awkwardness of the situation.  Okay, so reiterating, she was physically fine, but she's an honorable person and the Perp not taking the blame p*ssed her off.

Then a few years later, luckily without her toddler in the car, she parked to get a Starbucks coffee.  A tow truck took a left onto that one-way street and took her driver's side door off.  Luckily she had leaned back into her car to get money out of her very heavy briefcase, and noticed in the passenger rearview mirror that he was coming way too fast.  She stood up and pressed her body against the car just in time.  As my husband (who has never been in an accident of any kind) pondered how she could have two accidents that were not her fault in such a short time, I remained mute.

Let's face it.  There are some people who attract negative energy, regardless of how careful they are. Eventually even their honor is impugned when one hears their distressed relatives passively proclaiming, "It was just her time.  No one could have prevented it." 

I say, bullcrappy.  It was somebody's fault.

In the spirit of Yin and Yang there are also the others who survive the most incredible odds.   My old friend was one of those.  He grew up in the Italian section of Boston and although a small man, managed to develop an amazon's reputation among his peers.  Later he was fortunate enough to survive a plane crash at Logan Airport.   When he called home to tell the family he was fine, his Italian mother scolded him.  "Mama Mia, you again!  Your middle name should be trouble, Anthony!" 

Of course we call these people 'lucky' and well we should. 

And then there is the third category.  You could consider me lucky, but not so lucky either.  Putting aside my mother's violent psychotic episodes when I was a child, some might declare me a bit more than accident prone and I wouldn't argue.

I'll admit horseback riding can be a dangerous sport, particularly on horses that have one burning motivation, to return to the barn for dinner.  Did I mention that meant without a rider? They didn't care that I had spent an exhorbitant amount of money merely to ride them for two blessed hours and still be required to groom them after my ride. 

You've heard the expression 'horse sense' I'm sure, but do you really know what that means?  Methods which are really clever and often entail (1) trying to knock me off my saddle by galloping into the woods and making sure to run under giant oak trees with thick lower branches above their heads but not mine, (2)  rubbing me against a barbed wire fence so that my boots or pantlegs would catch and pull me off and I'd also catch hell at home later, or (3) bucking like a bronco in a movement we called a 'sailfish'.  This consisted of rearing up on its hind legs, then immediately kicking up his rear legs while throwing its head down, then spinning while alternating between the two.  Anyway, I don't care what anyone says.  Horses are not that dumb.

As parents of cowgirls learn, once their sprites lose interest in the great beasts, it is because they have discovered boys, or more accurately, the boys have discovered them.  I must admit my first boyfriend was so handsome I didn't notice any flaws for years.  Beautiful brown eyes that seemed almost dripping with longing for... my companionship.  My week was supposed to be spent on family chores, working part-time and studying so I wasn't allowed to go out for more than four hours at a time.   This was also restricted to once a week,  as it was my parents' viewpoint that four hours was enough time to eat dinner out and see a movie. 

Hampered by the limited time we spent together, our ill-fated romance lagged on for years.  For a high school girl,whose main objective was to secure a husband so she wouldn't need to find one in college, I was lovesick but content.

However, I began to suspect that First boyfriend and I shared poor judgment.  We met up one fine summer day without my parents' permission and he took me out in his speedboat.  Catering to my concerns about sharks and whales on the open ocean, we puttered up and down a salt river that ran through our Annisquam neighborhood.  We were both enjoying the warm sun on our faces and bodies, coupled with a peaceful blue sky and fluffy white clouds.  Sailboats were fluttering all around us as the summer tourists were at their greatest height of the season.  Suddenly one of the larger yachts came much too close almost capsizing us. 

I'd never seen First boyfriend so angry before, but after his adrenalin began to flow, he starting speeding around the yacht like a mad man.  Trying to make the point by showing them how irresponsible it was to boat as if you were entitled to the right of way without concern for others.  To this day I don't know how or why an experienced sailor would abuse a new outboard motor by tangling it in the line of a lobster trap, so if you're wondering too, maybe you should ask him. 

We both went flying out of the boat, which was by then flipping in circles while the propeller wrapped itself around the buoyed line attached to the trap.  I can still remember coming up to the surface and seeing white water as the motor missed my face by a mere foot.   It also seemed to take an interminable amount of time before the engine cut off.

First boyfriend, knight-in-shining-armor that he was, managed to swim to the boat and cut the line before he retrieved me and flung my terrified, water-treading, gasping body back into the boat.  I was a good strong swimmer, but knowing his priority had been his new boat was disappointing.   Luckily the dealer had thrown in a pair of oars, so we were able to row to the marina before the tide would have carried us out into open ocean.  I was too traumatized to speak, but I knew who the responsible party was and I wasn't happy.

Until he dared open his mouth again a few years later, I actually thought he had some smarts, but let's face it.  He had saved me second, which never quite set right with me.  Oh, I had lots of excuses when I sent him that Dear John letter, but was it my fault he got drunk and almost killed himself in a car accident that night? Well, if you intend to take his mother's side, I guess it was.

Candidly, the boating accident had me reconsidering anyway, but I had finally accepted I was not 'in love' just a few months before.  A slightly older family friend had taken me with her to Jamaica for three weeks, hoping I would see there was more to life than just getting married.  Might I add Don Carlos Lindo, our host on the island, was certainly persuasive in that regard.  Luckily, I was well-chaperoned or that unexpected kiss under the waterfall might have led to something more corporal.  Caught off guard at first I thought he was trying to drown me.  You can imagine how much I enjoyed the refresher course on what it feels like to inhale water, but had I been right, can you imagine that headline?  Teenage girl drowned in waterfall by local, spurned (although incredibly rich) land developer. 

Returning home and having missed a few weeks of school beyond our customary February break, I was eager to impress my gymnastics teacher with not only how tan I was but how fit I had become after swimming all day for weeks.  Overachiever that I was, I climbed the rope to the top of the gymnasium ceiling before I called down to her.  As the words, "Miss Flannagan, look!" escaped my ruby lips, the fixture came out of the gymnasium ceiling. 

Have you ever tried to fly?  Actually I wouldn't recommend it if the narrow padded mat is directly under the ropes.  When I landed on the hardwood floor, I was temporarily paralyzed from the fall.  The inability to move generally means you have done some serious damage which was true in my case, but I was luckily able to walk about a half hour later.  For some reason since then I've been a bit concerned about trails on the edges of cliffs, climbing tall ladders or living on the top floor of a highrise.

Years passed, and when I decided to fly to California to pursue fame and fortune, I was only a little insulted that my dad wanted to buy flight insurance on me.  Okay, so I was actually offended, but he was a practical man and Massachusetts didn't have a state Lottery yet.  Besides, with my history, the odds might have been in his favor.  I guess I should have felt a little hurt that he never tried to convince me to stay, but my mother and I were not what I would call close, and neither one of us was going to change.

So the boyfriend in California? He was a complete flake but kind enough to offer to drive me to work each morning on his way to his own gainful employment.  If you live in Southern California without a car you soon realize that a ten-minute car ride is the equivalent of a 45-minute bus ride.  There is no bus that goes anywhere that makes sense, so you have to transfer several times to get anywhere and that is assuming the bus doesn't drive by you because the bus is full or the societal equivalent, you are a tall, extremely fit African-American man.

One morning, like many others, my So-called boyfriend was late picking me up, and I was furious.  While he was attempting to remind me how lucky I was that he wanted to drive me to work, I became sullen.  I was busy contemplating my bosses' previous warning that if I was late 'one more time', even five minutes, I would be fired.  My old method of communicating displeasure, which slips in once in a while even now, was to stop talking.

Dropping the ineffective paternalistic tone, my So-called boyfriend started joking and trying to be charming and entertaining.  As he assured me I could get another job if based only on my lovely physique, it was obvious he was not paying attention to driving.  I found this even less amusing when he ran a red light and seven cars all came to a screeching halt while hitting us and each other.

My bosses were as impressed as you would imagine when I showed up not five minutes but two and a half hours late.  As proof that I indeed had a legitimate reason, I showed them the goose egg size bruises on my forehead and arms.  They tried to insist that I see a doctor, but as my job did not provide medical benefits, the subject was quickly dropped when I replied I couldn't afford it.  Then the engineer with the weird outward-splaying feet, the one whom I disliked the most, waddled over to have a heart-to-heart with me.

"You don't need to tolerate that kind of treatment," he began softly as he sat down backwards on a chair.  Still expecting to be fired, I contemplated his feet with revulsion.  White socks and black shoes, I thought.  Disgusting.

"What kind of treatment?" I asked innocently.

"Men who hurt women are not good husband material," he continued.  "Anyone who does this to you should be locked away."

Suddenly realizing the intent of the man who (1) had informed me that eating fried rice for lunch every day at the Chinese restaurant down the street from the office would make me fat, and (2) that I would be better off eating a can of water-packed tunafish without mayo, I was friggin' insulted.

"No one hurt me," I protested, "I was in a seven-car accident on the way to work.  That was why I was late." 

"You don't need to admit the truth to me, but at least admit it to yourself."

"There is no truth to admit to anyone," I insisted. All the while I remembered he was the one who insisted I lie to his engineering clients when taking orders. 

"Tell them delivery is two or three weeks," he would counsel.  "Then when they call back, wondering where their parts are, tell them delivery is now two or three weeks but you'll put a rush on it."

"I thought it was eight weeks," I had said, confused, to which he had replied quite arrogantly.

"You're not paid to think, just to answer the phone and take orders." 

Now I stared at this man who had the cajones to not only accuse me of being a domestic violence victim but also a liar.  I had hated few people that much in my lifetime, truly, but as he was my rent check, my bus fare, my utility payments and my grocery money, I sat there and took it. 

"It isn't worth getting a ride to and from work to put up with that kind of abuse.  You should call the police and have him arrested.  If you tell me his name, I can call the police for you.  You're a beautiful, smart girl and nobody has the right to hurt or exploit you."

My face turned purple with embarrassment and rage.  I thought about how little they were paying me and his hypocritical use of the word 'exploit'.   Actually, he was right about that so-called boyfriend.  He was a violent guy who acted that out later, but at the time I felt like one of those people who is telling the truth but nobody believes them because the circumstantial evidence is so damning. 

Okay, so I took the bus after that, called in 'sick' and interviewed until I found a better job.  Obviously I dropped the So-called boyfriend replacing him with new ones with better driving records.  Eventually that was too much trouble, so I bought my first car.  $500 in those days bought a 1969 volkswagen beetle that needed a paint job.  After that car was stolen, still a cash-and-carry gal, I graduated to a car that cost me $100, sight unseen.  My only condition was that it be drivable so the seller proved the same by driving it to my apartment. 

A woman of my word, when he showed up with the ugliest 1959 sedan convertible to ever sport fins, I handed him the cash as he signed off on the title.  Mere weeks later I was inspired to buy a real car and finance it, after a series of low-riders began stalking me around the city.  How could I tell them in that car that their attentions were not appreciated?  My six-foot-tall sister gladly took the green beast off my hands, never replaced the brakes and my destiny became hers.  She crashed it into a freeway off ramp in order to stop it when the emergency brake failed to do the job.  To this day she claims she opened the car door and rolled out to save herself, McGiver style, just before it hit.  It could be true.  We'd never changed the registration to either of our names, so we never saw that piece of scrap metal again or took any responsibility for it.   Somehow that bothers me a bit, but it was her car at that point.

The Ford pinto was paid for by the time the catering truck hit it going sixty miles an hour in a twenty-five mile an hour zone.  It pushed my front end up like a bookcase and knocked me out.  When I awoke at the hospital a few hours later there was a policeman looking for the woman who'd been in the accident.  To his great astonishment, other than a little teeth cracking when my chin hit the steering wheel, I was fine.  In disbelief he asked me twice if I was sure I was the one driving my newly-totalled car but still insisted on seeing my identification.

So I was on next to a slightly used VW Jetta with the insurance proceeds for a down payment, my favorite car other than the short-lived 1969 TR3, a long story for another time.  When the ambulance hit me I was changing lanes, but in my defense?  He didn't have the flashing lights or the sirens blaring and the insurance adjusters determined he was speeding without reason. That time I didn't even bother to go to the hospital, as I was sure the ambulance driver would have done something if I'd keeled over.

Of course, there were the earthquakes when I lived in California (the last three big ones), a few in Mexico City (we'd just moved away when the huge one hit), and a few little ones here in Washington, but if the entire earth has to move to get me, I'll have earned that plaintive remark, "It was just her time."

When my mother, gymnasiums, planes, boats, cars, ambulances, catering trucks and geological events couldn't manage to get me,  cancer tried.  Okay, so it was a pretty grisly, lengthy treatment, but here I sit, seven years and four months later counting my many blessings.  One cannot help but think building up my early survivor skills was a big plus.   Then again, I don't need no stinkin' television competition to claim the title  "Survivor" at my house.  Or you can just call me 'Lucky'.:)

© 2008 Elizabeth Madrigal