What are friends for?

I've been stuck lately.  Sometimes I just can't seem to stop going over and over in my head the problems in my life.  I turn them around and around until the rough edges are gone and all that remains is a smooth stone of misery.  I've been stuck in that rut for far too long, feeling miserably sorry for myself and being wretchedly selfish.  It took quite a shake up to dislodge me from that rut, but I'm thankful all the same.

On May 5th I very nearly lost someone very close to me.  One of my dearest friends, Brigette, didn't show up to an exam.  That isn't like her at all; she's fairly studious and that exam was important to her.  Several people were late to the exam because of heavy traffic due to a terrible accident on the interstate.  We all assumed that she was stuck in traffic.  I didn't know until 12 hours later that Brigette was the traffic.

Her car broke down on the way to the exam.  She pulled over, parked on the shoulder, and turned on her hazard lights.  She did everything right.  What must have been only moments after getting off the phone with her mother, someone hit her from behind.  A woman- a mother of four, four children between the ages of 2 and 6, none of whom were restrained - was driving on the shoulder.  She hit Brigette's car going highway speed, at least 60 around here.  Her car spun out across four lanes of heavy morning traffic.  I have no idea how, but every car managed to avoid smashing into her.  She lost consciousness at the moment of impact, thankfully.

Her poor mother was on her way to pick her up and take her to the exam.  As she approached the area where she knew Brigette's car had broken down, ambulances and fire trucks began to pass her, sirens screaming.  I can't even imagine the panic that must have gripped her in that moment.  Mother's intuition doesn't miss cues like that. 

Her mother told me later that as she approached the scene, she already knew.  She knew, but she didn't want to believe.  It wasn't real to her until she saw that fan of curly red hair.  No one has hair like that.  It's ethereally beautiful, absolutely unreal...copper colored ringlets.  They were cutting her out of the car.  The horrible twisted metal didn't want to let her go.

I didn't know about the accident until that evening.  I had an uneasy feeling, but I put it out of my head, dismissed it as hopeless cynicism.  I had promised an out of town friend that I would come up to see him in a play that evening.  When I found out about Brigette's accident, I was already a hundred miles from home and driving further from her every second.  I fought the urge to turn around and speed toward her.  I wish I hadn't.  I should have turned right around and been there for her.  But I was shocked and confused and could only continue driving away.

Instead of spending the night out of town as I had planned, I headed home at midnight.  I got home at 3:30 AM on Saturday morning, but couldn't sleep.  I lay in bed feeling empty until 6, then had to babysit a neighbor's two kids until 10. 

The moment I was free, I raced to the hospital.  She was a little out of it, full of morphine.  She was cheerful, though.  Her brain was bleeding.

I felt so selfish crying there at her bedside.  She was so brave, so strong.  I sat in that hard hospital chair, holding her hand and crying. 

I stayed there all day Saturday.  So many people came and went.  So many people rushed to her side when they heard.  So many people cared.  A few of her best friends were there all day.  When I got up to leave Saturday evening, I couldn't do it.  Her mother shooed everyone out at 9 PM.  Even though I barely knew her mother, I think she could feel my need to be there.  She let me stay the night, and I thank her for it.  I pushed three stolen waiting room chairs together, right up next to the bed as close as possible to my sleeping friend, and slept there.  Every two  hours the nurse came in to check on her.  And every two hours, I awoke, confused and disoriented.  I started feeling very sick, some combination of hospital food and sympathy pains.  My head throbbed, my neck ached, and I spent half the night throwing up - the very same symptoms of a sprained neck and concussion that Brigette had been fighting since the accident.

I was there all day on Sunday.  I did whatever I could.  I held her bucket when she thought she was going to be sick.  I helped her use the 'potty chair,' all modesty forgotten on both parts.  I arranged her pillows, filled her ice pack, and shifted her heating pad.  I held her neck steady when she needed to sit up.  I spoon fed her when she couldn't bend her arms because of the IVs stuck in each.  And when there was nothing I could do, I held her hand.  I watched her sleep.  I stayed.

I'm sure she didn't mean to say it.  She would never have said it in a lucid moment.  It was the morphine.  But I'll never rid myself of this memory.  We were alone.  I was sitting on the edge of her bed, holding  her juice to her lips.  She smiled the crooked smile of someone pumped full of opiates.  "At least you weren't in the car with me.  We were supposed to carpool."

Oh.  Oh god.  No.  We were.  I was supposed to have picked her up.  We live just a few miles apart, and the exam was on the other side of town.  We had talked about carpooling, but I forgot.  I was going to pick her up, but I forgot.  If only I had remembered, if I had called, if I'd shown up at her house that morning and taken her to the exam. 

For two weeks that tormented me.  I haven't said a word to her about it; she doesn't remember most of what happened in the hospital.  She would feel absolutely horrible if she knew what she had said.  She would hug me and tell me not to blame myself.  And I don't, anymore.  I've come to terms with what happened.  The important thing is that she will be fine.  What's done is done.  I'll never stop wishing I had remembered, but wishing isn't regretting, so I think it'll be ok.

She got out of the  hospital Monday, the 8th.  I was at her house every afternoon for as long as I could.  Some days it was only half an hour or so.  One day I went to visit and we both ended up asleep in her bed the entire afternoon.  I hope my presence meant something; I hope she could feel my love, even when I couldn't find the right words to express it.  I can't change the past, but I can be there for her in her recovery.  And that's what matters, right?