A Day That Changed in a Second

On Friday morning, I was driving to St. Thomas for a therapy appointment. It was just before 11 am, a sunny, crisp and dry day. As I crested the hill on Sunset at the edge of Port Stanley, a big, orange truck came into view.

It was heading into town as I was heading out. My father’s company trucks were orange so I had a momentary happy memory. This one was big and shiny, obviously freshly washed or fairly new.

A mid-size gray car was pulling a U-turn on Roberts Line ahead of the approaching truck, on the same side. Before I knew it I was yelling, “Noooooo!” The car pulled in front of the truck and the force of impact pushed them toward me. The sound of metal going 80 km/hr hitting metal passing in front of it is indescribable. For a split second, I thought I might get caught in the crash as broken glass flew overhead.

The truck finally came to a stop with the car crushed into its grill. I parked on the right shoulder and checked for traffic before running to the wreck to see if I could help. The truck driver was already out of his cab and pulling open the passenger door of the car. The woman was unconscious. I yelled, “I’ll call 911”, as he continued to try to rouse the woman without touching her. We both knew better than to handle someone who’s hurt when we’re not trained for it.

The driver’s side half of the car was simply gone up to the seat. What was left was crushed above the roof line or down below the floorboards. The truck driver could see the woman was breathing, which was a relief. I realized my phone was still connected to my car and ran back to find the 911 operator yelling. I got inside, apologized, and told him what happened. He had already dispatched police and now added an ambulance, and fire rescue. The car was leaking fuel.

Meanwhile, another man leaned into my car and started to bark at the 911 call. “There’s a fire station just behind us! Why isn’t anybody coming from there?”

At this moment I remembered a time, long ago, when I called 911 and was as panicked as this man. It’s not helpful. I was kind but firm when I said, “That’s not our call to make. They said they’re on the way.”

He vanished and I didn’t see him for the rest of the 40 minutes or so that I was there.

As we waited, I walked over to the truck driver again. We were both saying things into the car like, “help is coming.” He was clearly shaken up. I put a hand on his shoulder and said, “I saw the whole thing. You didn’t have a chance to avoid it.” He relaxed like the air coming out of a popped balloon. He said, “Thank you. You’ll stick around, right? I feel horrible. Look at this lady. It’s just awful.”

It really was awful. We were helpless to do anything. OPP officers arrived first, followed by firefighters and the ambulance. It took a half dozen men working together for at least 15 minutes to free the car driver. She was unconscious and bleeding. Other firefighters coated the fuel spill with a suppressant. They had fire extinguishers, brooms for the broken glass, and everything else for any scenario. Officers were going around to figure out who among the onlookers was a witness. It ended up being just me.

An officer took my statement. Later, he took the statement of the truck driver. They were exactly the same, of course, because we both told the truth. The woman, sadly, was clearly in the wrong although we don’t know why. Did she have a medical event? Was she panicked and just didn’t check for traffic? None of that matters now, really. Unfortunately, she died on Sunday.

Dashcam would have been helpful but I don’t have it and neither did the truck. At one point the driver said to me, “I know how this goes. Blame the big truck. It’s what ends up happening.” I said, “It won’t. You didn’t have a prayer. I’ll talk to your insurance company or whatever you need.”

After giving him my contact info I decided there was nothing more for me to do. I went back to my car and started it so I could warm up. I also realized I was shaking.

Another officer came over and tapped on my window. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Me?” I said. “I wasn’t even involved. I only saw it happen.”

And then I burst into tears. Adrenaline. Empathy. Fear. It all must have mixed in an emotional stew because I didn’t feel okay after all.

The officer asked if he could refer to me to Victim Services. I almost wanted to laugh because I wasn’t a victim. Was I? Surely, the drivers were the victims. But I said, sure, and thanked him. He was so kind. Then he told me about an accident he was in and how it traumatized his mother and girlfriend. “It’s what Victim Services is there for.”

He made me promise I wouldn’t drive until I stopped crying and shaking. The road was still closed but he told me how and where to drive out. “I’ll be in that SUV so just give me a wave to let me know you’re okay.” About ten minutes later I got out and picked up a mirror that was in my path. An officer came over and retrieved it. I waved to the other officer in the SUV as I left.

Obviously, I missed my therapy appointment but I had called to let them know after calling 911. The truck driver texted me later with a couple of questions. He mentioned again that he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman and he felt guilty. That’s only natural, even if you haven nothing to feel guilty for. Victim Services did call but I told them I had lots of people I could talk to. They said I could call again any time. Everyone was so respectful, calm, and professional. No egos or cynicism or assumptions. They kept the road closed until the evening to, I assume, reconstruct the accident. Follow the skid marks on the road. Make sure it happened like we said it did. It’s their job.

It’s amazing how the mind works. There were things I wasn’t sure of when I gave my statement. Did the truck driver hit his horn? Maybe. The noise was just one big mess of sounds. How fast was the truck going? I have no idea. Normal speed, is how it appeared. Some questions are impossible to answer. Sometimes, telling the truth means saying, “I don’t know.” It’s not comfortable, but it’s not about comfort. Especially in a time like that.