On Jaywalking 

Longer post than usual. 

New experience last Friday. I got hit by a car while crossing the street. 

I was jaywalking, which I now don’t recommend. 

A teenager was turning left into the street I was crossing. She looked left: clear. She looked right: a car coming, but waaaaay down the street. Plenty of time to get into the traffic flow if she didn’t dally. Watching left, which was her only traffic, she gave it gas. 

At that moment, I stepped into the lane she was turning into, having followed precisely the same mental process she had, verifying that it was safe to cross. I was looking right, away from her, to make sure the far lane was remaining clear. 

The next few seconds were kinda confusing. 

Why are my feet above my head? Why is my head on the ground? Why am I covered in [censored for the squeamish; if you’re not, and you want to see a really cool pic, click here]? 

I was EMT-certified years ago, after our first daughter was born, and one of the things I have known since then is that scalp abrasions and lacerations bleed profusely for a few seconds and then settle right down. They look a LOT worse than they really are. So I wasn’t particularly concerned by the ruby cascade, but of course lots of people would be horrified. 

Then began the screaming and crying. 

Not me, you knucklehead. Her. 

I’ve been driving for over 50 years, and I’ve been in multiple accidents, some of which I caused, but I’ve never hit a pedestrian. That must feel awful. 

And she’s just a kid. 

I feel terrible about that. And especially since she really didn’t do anything that a more experienced driver couldn’t have done. 

I spent some time trying to calm her down—”I’m OK,” that sort of thing. But she was having a really bad experience. 

I also feel terrible about the fact that it happened on an arterial to the BJU campus, at 7.50a, just when everybody’s showing up for the day. I started getting texts immediately. The whole institution apparently saw the newly retired Chair of the Division of Biblical Studies and Theology go, um, head over teakettle and bleed all over the street. 

Oh, great. 

A BJU staff member jumped out of his car to see if I was all right. Turns out he was my student 20 years ago. Thanks, Nick. 

The highly conscientious and effective and thoughtful city of Greenville sent everybody they had, in literally seconds. Ambulance. Police. Fire truck, for crying out loud. Back all the traffic up, so everybody can get a really good, leisurely look. 

Oh, great. 

They did a really good job. I considered refusing treatment—I really felt fine—but the EMT voice in my head kept whispering “Subdural hematoma, you bonehead,” and I acquiesced. 

Fun conversation with the EMTs in the ambulance. One of them was a sister-in-law of another former student. Fond memories, Drew. Fun conversation with the folks who greeted me in the ER. Fun conversation with the nurses who wired me up to the cardiogram and the sphygmomanometer and the little oximeter on my index finger.  

Wait for the doctor. 

Wait some more for the doctor. 

Fun conversation with the policeman who cited me for jaywalking. Just for the record, given the layout of that street, I had a perfectly good reason to be jaywalking, and I’m pretty sure I can argue for it if I need to. But I probably won’t. Need to, that is. The traffic judges here have a pretty good reputation for being reasonable. 

By the way, he didn’t cite the driver. I’m no expert on the law, but at this point I don’t have any reason to object. I wish her the best. 

Wait for the doctor. 

Initial consult. Doc says I’m in great shape for a guy my age, and that I’m “highest priority” for the CT scanner. 

Wait for the scanner. 

Fun conversation with the nurse, who asks if I need anything. I tell her I desperately need the C-collar to go away. She sympathizes, but there’s nothing she can do. 

Wait some more for the scanner, for which I am, ahem, “highest priority.” 

Several more conversations, over an unremittingly lengthening timespan, with the nurse, who is very attentive and eager, but she can’t remove the C-collar or bring me a decaf latte with half and half from the food court in the main lobby. I ask if I can just pop over there and get one. I think you can guess what her answer is. 

Fun conversation with the transporter who shows up to take my gurney and me to the scanner. 

Fun time in the scanner. It’s not as loud or scary or uncomfortable as I thought it would be. 

Fun conversation with the (different) transport person who takes me back to my cozy little alcove in the ER. I feel like asking him to take me by the food court in the lobby, but I’ve resigned myself to what I know his answer will be. 

Wait for the doctor. 

Wait for the doctor. 

Wait some more for the doctor. 

Here he comes. It has now been, oh, about 5 hours. 

He checks my neck. Says the scan showed nothing going on in my head. 

No kidding!? I’ve known that for decades. 

He and a medical student on rotation clean my head wound—that hurts, but within reason—and wash the blood out of my hair. I ask if he can add some body to my hair while he’s at it. The student laughs. 

Students are like that. 

The student tells me that one of her classmates in med school is a BJU grad. I don’t recognize his name, so I immediately feel sorry for him for going all the way through BJU, with all those excruciatingly difficult pre-med classes from Dr. Chetta, without taking a single class from me. 

My wife shows up. The nurse says I’m all ready to go, with nothing to sign or nuttin’. 

Limp to the exit. Hmm—starting to feel some pain in the hip. (I’m kinda surprised they don’t put me in a wheelchair; I’ve seen hospital staff insist on that when I’ve picked up other people to take them home. And I do have a yellow band on my wrist that says “Fall Risk.” I wonder if six months ago it would have said “Spring Risk.”) 

My beloved brings the car around, having to maneuver through the tight space left by a meal delivery person who took up the whole bloomin’ two-lane drive-through. At the ER. Now *there’s* a knucklehead. 

Home. 

Alive. Well. Sore, sure, but did you notice the alive and well part? 

Let’s end with some theology. 

I can testify that God is good. But if I were seriously injured, or dead, he would still be good. 

Amen. 

Have a good day. 

And be careful crossing the street. 

Photo by Jonnica Hill on Unsplash