The Crash

As I recall the accident, certain images are indelibly etched in my mind. The flames from the burning engine, the blood I wiped from Jason as we pulled him out of the driver's seat, the EMTs pulling Elana out of the shattered car.

On Valentine's Day of 2004, I experienced something miraculous, traumatic and frightening — all at once. By an incomprehensible chance, I got out of the car only minutes before it crashed and escaped without any broken bones or bruises. I was able to walk away from the accident that night, my hand tightly grasping Samantha's for support, while Elana, lifeless and cold, was attached to an IV and driven to the hospital, sustained only by an oxygen mask.

When the driver of Elana's car lost control and swerved across the median, it was the impact of two cars driving in the opposite direction that caused her concussion and ensuing coma. That night, for the first time, I witnessed the specter of death up close. Its heavy shadow lurked just above my sweaty forehead, crept around my limp legs and came so near I could feel its rancid breath sweep across my face.

As I lay awake in bed, I pulled the soft covers pulled up over my face, I tried to piece together the day's events. Yet, hard as I tried, I could not understand.

I was angry. I was angry that 911 had been busy three times before we were able to get through, angry that it had taken the firemen so long to get Elana out, angry that my parents didn't let me go to the hospital that night, angry that Elana had not decided to switch cars.

Guilt burdened me as well. If I hadn't impulsively offered to accompany Samantha in a separate car, I would have been the one in Jason's passenger's seat. Now Elana was in a coma. She was almost killed by shattered glass and the impact of steel, while I walked away virtually unscathed with a tiny cut on my toe from a piece of glass slipping into my shoe. Blood covered Jason's hands and face, and all I had was a dark red spot on the cuff of my sleeve. My problems could be fixed with a dab of bleach and a band-aid.

The week following the accident, my parents urged me to go to school and return to normalcy. Yet as I tried to occupy myself with my daily routine, I realized that life as I knew it had been taken from me. I was different now; and this frightened me more than anything because I knew I would never be the same.

Rather than hear the incessant litany of "How are you?" and "I'm so sorry" from concerned but clueless friends, I spent most of my free time in school sitting on the bleachers by the field. The sun comforted me on those chilly February afternoons, and I could be alone. One day, I noticed a group of boys tossing a football around on the grass. As I watched them, their laughter ringing in my ears, I grew frustrated. It was so meaningless and trivial, so how could they enjoy it? I wanted to take the ball and throw it in their faces. Here they were, these overgrown kids, deriving such happiness from a simple ball. It was that kind of pleasure I now yearned for but couldn't have. Playing games meant denying that Elana was in a coma from which she might never awaken. I was jealous of those who hadn't been through what I had. The games suddenly represented an ignorance I once had but could no longer enjoy.

In the weeks following the accident, the puzzle of jumbled thoughts slowly started coming together. Though I was still jealous of simple happiness and still annoyed at others' shallow sympathy, it became clear to me that until a certain age, everyone feels invincible. Roller coasters are games, motorcycles are oversized bicycles and the highest branch on a tree makes for a great hiding place. Our lives are simple, without risk or regret — or so we would like to believe. Yet there comes a moment when a carefree world becomes a world filled with doubt, hesitation and even fear.

But reaching this pivotal point doesn't mean having to ignore the football and youthfulness around you — a mistake I made too soon. It means struggling to relearn how to include football in your life, while making room for reality.