Previous entries in the DUI series can be found here.
[1]
Claire and I had an agenda planned for the night he hit us with his car. Our idea was to do a truncated bar crawl in downtown Santa Cruz. The first bar we’d walk to by ourselves; we’d meet up with some friends at a second bar later, where they were heading over early to secure a booth.
We were celebrating an anniversary: that night marked two years I’d been in remission. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer when Claire and I were living together during our sophomore year of. I opted to stay in school through my surgeries and chemo treatments, which meant Claire spent most of her free time taking me to appointments and quietly cleaning clumps of my hair out of the shower.
Two years later, Claire was back from her year studying abroad and we were living together again. That night, I was also secretly celebrating that my sickness, which had made me wholly physically and emotionally dependent on her, hadn’t put a permanent strain on our relationship.
We walked to my boyfriend’s house, who wasn’t joining us. He said it was because he had to work early the next morning, which was true. But he didn’t have to get up so early that he couldn’t spend the evening hanging out with a friend of his I hated. My feelings were hurt, so I made Claire accompany me to his house while she was over. I wanted to be rude to him and then dramatically not kiss him goodbye.
Point proven, Claire and I then walked downtown, first to a bar called the Rush, where everyone in the history and literature department drank. I ordered whiskey and threw ice at a TA who slept with my friend and then didn’t call her back while Claire smoked cigarettes with a cute boy who tried to sell her Adderall. We were having a lot of fun.
It was after midnight when we left the Rush. We hurried over to the Red a few blocks away, hoping our friends had actually managed to save us room in a booth. We were in the crosswalk, I think arguing over whether going to the Red meant we would be too hungover the next day to work on our midterms, when Claire interrupted me.
“That car is coming at us really fast.” She quickened her pace and grabbed my arm.
I shook her off. “He has a stop sign. He has to stop.” I sneered at the oncoming headlights, as if my icy stare would stop him dead in his tracks.
“I don’t think he’s stopping, Becky!”
Claire was right. He hit her first, sending her flying into the edge of the sidewalk. I wound up on the hood of his car. He drove half a block before swerving to dump me onto the road, where I landed on my head. I heard my skull crack before I felt it.
He did eventually stop at the end of the block, but only for a moment. Then he sped away.
[2]
I don’t know what I was thinking, expecting some man to not hit me with his car. I didn’t know this person at all. It was stupid to trust he wouldn’t hurt me.
It was especially stupid because I should have already learned this lesson. Picture: me as a college freshmen, running around a house party hosted by upperclassmen I want so desperately to impress. They’re the boys who run the college humor newspaper, which I just joined, and I’m still insecure enough to think they’re smarter and funnier than me. Brian is the one who gets a crush on me. He’s nice but I’m not attracted to him. We flirt anyways, because he’s the first person on the paper to finally pay attention to me.
Most eighteen-year-old girls don’t know how to handle alcohol, and I am no different. I end up getting sick one night at Brian’s house. He offers me his bed to sleep in, but then follows me into his room and gets on top of me. I push him away and he pushes back harder. There’s no point, I think to myself. The room is spinning and I’m swallowing vomit. He has a foam mattress, and I feel it encase my body under his massive weight as I try not to choke.
I need to remember this, I think to myself the morning after, when I’m too embarrassed to let him see my breasts in the light. It’s just really unwise to give any stranger the benefit of the doubt.
[3]
I remember everything that happened right after I hit the pavement with surprising clarity. A boy ran up to cradle my neck while his girlfriend scrambled, gasping, to pick up the scattered contents of my purse. I asked the boy if I was bleeding out of my ears. He said no. I told him I knew he was lying, that I could feel my brain deflating. His girlfriend burst into tears and I yelled at her to go away.
I saw a fleet of bikes whiz by the corner of my eye. I learned later they were chasing the car to try and get the license plate. I yelled for Claire but she never answered. The boy holding my neck told me she was knocked out. When I was lifted into the ambulance, I asked the EMT permission to go to sleep. She said yes. Then I woke up suddenly in a helicopter. My sweater and bra were being cut off by a different EMT and I was very cold. I snapped at him that he just ruined my favorite bra. He looked startled; I don’t think he thought I’d wake up.
Claire and I were airlifted to Stanford because the Santa Cruz hospital didn’t have the equipment to deal with our injuries. From there, my memories feel like a patchwork quilt.
I got a lot of brain scans and told the doctors to not shave my head; I’d rather die than be bald again. I kept telling everyone it was my cancer anniversary and then regretting saying anything about it. I didn’t want them to feel sorry for me, but I couldn’t stop babbling. I just remember feeling as though I had to justify being out that late.
My contacts were covered with specks of dried blood, or maybe gravel, and I couldn’t see, so a nurse took them out for me. They were my last pair. I insisted she save them in a urine sample cup filled with saline, which I later lost.
We shared a room in the ICU with a few other patients, all of whom I hated. I criticized them loudly and constantly, talking over Claire as she tried to shush me. There was one boy in the room our first night who wouldn’t stop wailing about bugs on his arms. My body was still strapped to a gurney and I couldn’t tell what was happening. I started to get really scared, so Claire narrated the whole event to calm me down.
He had taken some sort of hallucinogen and was just having a bad trip, so the nurses were ignoring him. Claire said he was accompanied by his very irritated-looking girlfriend, who probably had better places to be on a Saturday night. When I learned he was wasting everyone’s time with a dumb non-ailment, I yelled at him until he stopped screaming or one of us was taken away, I’m not sure which.
I asked the same nurse who took out my contacts to hold a phone up to my ear so I could call my boyfriend. It was around 4 in the morning, and my call went straight to voicemail. I told the nurse about my refusal to kiss him goodnight earlier and asked if this was my punishment, if she thought he’d even bother to listen to the voicemail. She said she didn’t know, but that she would leave the hospital’s contact number in a message for him anyway.
My boyfriend did listen to his message, of course (he’s not as immature as me), and came to the hospital as soon as he heard. My mom did the same, making the normally five-hour drive from her house in Ventura to Palo Alto in less than three. As soon as she saw me, she threw up.
I became convinced an EMT cut up and/or stole the jeans I was wearing. I obsessed over it for days, even after my mom retrieved them, unharmed, from their secured storage locker and put them on my bed.
Claire was allowed to walk before I was and got to leave a few days before I did. Her face had been split open, but her doctor did a perfect job sewing it back together. The scar was hidden in her hairline. Despite that, she was swollen and bruised beyond recognition. I still couldn’t stop babbling, and I told her she looked like the Elephant Man.
I had a subdural hematoma and a broken skull, and though I didn’t end up needing surgery, I still had to be closely monitored for brain swelling. I don’t remember much of this, including how many days I even spent in the hospital. I mostly recall being so irrationally angry they wouldn’t let me leave that I performed all my neurological exams very sarcastically.
No one could figure out if I was being difficult or if I had actually lost motor skills. I finally told my favorite nurse that I just wasn’t in the mood to be bossed around. She nodded and then brought me a popsicle or a pudding cup, I can’t remember.
[4]
When Brian raped me, I dealt with it by pretending we were an item. It’s what made the most sense, since he told everyone else on the paper that we’d slept together as soon as I left his house. It felt like it was my fault, and it was too late anyway, so I went with it.
We had sex a few more times, although I always made sure to be on the verge of blacking out before we did. Afterwards, I would compulsively pick at my skin. One night, after making a line of welts across my collar bones, I excused myself for the bathroom, climbed out a window, and ran. I treated him coldly until he stopped trying to talk to me. He told everyone on the newspaper I was crazy, and they eventually stopped talking to me too.
[5]
The man who hit Claire and me eventually turned himself in after police found his car. He admitted to, among other things, smoking weed before the accident. His attorney said this admission proved this man had a sound moral compass and should not be legally reprimanded. Sure, he’d hit us, and then he’d left us there to die, but then he saw the error of his ways. Eventually. When I heard this argument, my nose started bleeding.
We had the option of not pressing charges. He was in the country on a work visa, Claire pointed out, and was now going to get deported. That seemed like punishment enough. She wanted to put the whole thing behind us. I was furious with her for wanting to back down. I fumed as I organized and reorganized our fridge for days, which I was also upset with because it was cluttered with unopened mason jars, the contents of a get-well food basket our well-intentioned next-door neighbor had made us.
When the mason jars could be pushed into no further arrangements, I sat on the end of Claire’s bed and sobbed. I cried because I let Brian feel like he dumped me so I wouldn’t have to confront him. I’ve never regretted anything more. This man was careless with our lives, like Brian had been careless with me.
That’s what I wanted to say, anyhow. Weeks after the accident, I was still babbling, something I learned is a long-lasting side effect of many serious brain injuries. I don’t think I completed any of the above sentences, or even said any of the words in the right order. But Claire understood.
The man was charged with two felonies and sent to prison. I haven’t bothered remembering his name. I don’t lose any sleep over it.
This post is a part of Step Out Of The Car, Please, a recurring and unglamorous series about DUIs and drinking problems. If you are interested in submitting a story either anonymously or under your own name for consideration, contact [email protected].
[Image via Flickr]
holy shit. Rebecca. You weave this together so well, and it’s kind of amazing (to me) that you have the clarity to see how each story related to the other.
My nephew was injured in a hit & run a couple years ago and is understandably still pretty bitter about the whole thing, because he lost a lot of time to recovery. I’m just glad he’s okay; before he woke up the doctors were telling my sister that he might not ever fully recover.
Wooof, thanks for writing this up, it was a good piece. I also have a lot of tasteless jokes to make about hangovers from the Rush Inn but I’ll sit on them. I hope you’re feeling better, in all the possible ways a person can mean that.
Once I came home from the Rush and puked ON MY BEDROOM CEILING. So fire away with those supposed tasteless jokes. We should have a contest to see which one of us has the best/worst one!
I never went to the Rush but I have puked in the gutter outside the Red Room, if that counts.
The things I’ve seen at the Asti (aka the Nasty) cannot be unseen.
Between the clouds of smoke and the strong drinks, I don’t recall ever seeing much of anything at the Nasty.
They were going to involve ‘the feeling of being hit by a car’ the night after a visit to the Rush, but it felt a wee bit on the nose.
Oh, Diana, you and Becky HAVE to meet each other. You’ll LOVE each other.
Mallory, you are a goose. You literally drove us all around together at your Going Away Party of Lies.
Yeah, Beckles reminded me of that. MY BAD.
This was riveting, and a great story to showcase how human nature is full of both phenomenal strength and weakness. Glad you both recovered.
Oh my God, this had me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I’m so sorry for all that you’ve had to go through. I’m glad that you pressed charges on that fucker. This was so well-written– not a wasted word. I’ve really been enjoying this series.
Jeeeeeesus. This is so great. It’s very clear and evocative. I also love how unapologetic you are about your anger while in hospital and afterwards. You weave together the two threads of the story very well.
This is a really interesting series.
This was wonderfully written, but I’m curious how it fits into the series, since the previous two entries were by and about people who themselves had drinking problems. Obviously this story centers on a DUI but I don’t get the impression that the author’s own drinking is responsible for the shitty things these other people did to her, so I hope that’s not the implication here!
Yes. This exactly my thought.
I had the same thought process. Although she was drinking in both incidents (or multiple incidents if you include subsequent times with Brian), they were still not not not her fault. But if we are expanding the definition of the series to people affected by DUIs, then I get it.
Both events were definitely not her fault, though the drinking did have an effect on how she handled both situations.
I was sexually assaulted by a friend in college, and I was high at the time. It was sort of a simmering-frog situation, and if I’d been sober I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have gone as far or lasted as long as it did. I would have processed it differently and reacted differently (I actually didn’t react at all, I just left immediately after and blocked it out sometime during the drive home).
Again, I’m not saying that either of these were her fault! She neither asked for nor deserved those horrible things to happen to her. I think you’re right, that it was included in the series because of the driver’s impairment, not hers.
I assumed this was included to give us the point of view of someone hit in a DUI–an important part of any series on the topic!
I think it’s a good addition to a DUI series to have the occasional POV from a victim. While all the previous installments have not shied away from how wrong what they did was, I think any discussion of a type of crime needs to occasionally focus on the victim.
Good point — I think what got me wondering is that the things Brian and the driver did were not necessarily indicative of drinking problems, either (Brian’s problem is that he is a rapist; the driver’s problem is that he is a coward with no regard for human life) so it made me wonder whether we were supposed to somehow attribute blame for these events to Rebecca’s drinking. But that seems uncharacteristic of The Toast so it makes sense that the idea was supposed to be just “good stories involving DUIs.”
I’ve enjoyed reading this series, but I really think it could use a name change. So far only 1/3 has actually included a DUI.
NEVER
I’ll start telling stories about friendly badgers and keep calling it the DUI series
(there will be more real DUIs to come, if that settles down your anxious little heart)
Yay, more DUIs, just what… I… wanted….
Good gravy, Stuffy! How could you even entertain such a thought? Of COURSE this isn’t a part of the series because we felt like Becky had a problem or brought this on herself in any way.
This series encompasses all folks who are affected by drinking and DUIs and their aftermaths. The focus will continue to be primarily on people who have gotten the DUIs/arrests/etc, but we will occasionally feature bystanders/friends/relatives/victims/survivors/synonym you prefer here.
I didn’t THINK so, but thank you for explicitly putting my fears to rest!
This was so well-done. Thank you for writing it.
I’m so happy everybody survived. That was riveting.
I know. I read the first paragraph and then did a search to make sure Claire survived.
It might be because my little brother’s best friend – who I’ve known since he was in kindergarden – got hit by a drunk driver this year while he was walking home from a party. He’s alive, and his brain is fine, and he can walk, but he had a career that involved lots of moving and lifting, and that’s pretty much fucked now.
Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry about your brother’s friend. I’m glad he’s okay, and I hope he finds a career that works for him.
I know, my first thought was “I hope Claire survived!”
oh man, crying!
Oh, man. This was intense and well-written and I am feeling a lot of things right now.
My dad had his skull split open once, before I was born. He was riding his motorcycle and an off-leash bulldog ran into the street, and he couldn’t avoid it. The dog was killed, but I’m glad my dad wasn’t.
Sobbing. Just sobbing.
Rebecca, you sound like a handful. Which is probably why you’re still alive. Well done with that.
I went to that school at the same time as you, and the edges of my circle overlapped with the edges of the comedy paper circle. I don’t think I ever met you or talked to you, but (if it’s the same person I think it is) I went to a couple of parties at Brian’s house and he was an acquaintance. I feel queasy learning about what he did to you, and I’m really sorry that it happened and he never faced any consequences for it.
This piece was really beautifully written and I’m so glad that you and Claire both survived. Please keep writing all the things, this was powerful.
I’m glad you’re ok.
Rebecca! I feel like you deserve an award, or a cake, or a pile of kittens you can see all the time but don’t have to care for. You are an extremely remarkable human being. I remember your post on the Billfold and I yes: pile of kittens it is!
I was also hit by a car, also sniped at the EMT (our arguement over my refusal of painkillers ended with “well I got hit by a car so I win), and also was sexually assaulted.
After the assault I wished for more scars, because at least with a car crash you know you’re hurt.
This is so,so fucking perfect. Thank you.
Fuuuuuuck I was not mentally or emotionally prepared for this when I started reading. This was so, SO good, Rebecca. Beautifully and heartbreakingly honest. You are a talented writer and a brave human being, and my heart aches for you.
This is beautiful
This part:
“I mostly recall being so irrationally angry they wouldn’t let me leave that I performed all my neurological exams very sarcastically.”
made me laugh, because I know that hospital gallows humor so well. (Or because I’m an asshole?)
This part:
"I mostly recall being so irrationally angry they wouldn’t let me leave that I performed all my neurological exams very sarcastically."
made me laugh, because I know that hospital gallows humor so well. (Or because I'm an asshole?)
Great! Another reason to despise Fish Rap Live. This is beautifully written and really painful to read. Keep writing here.
Rebecca, a lot of things that happened to you have never happened to me and I’m really sorry you had to go through them. The one overlap is I did have the experience of having a guy pull something over on me and then tell the story as I was crazy to the people he knew who were on a small campus. And it’s awful, and its so…slimy, and nearly impossible to fight and it makes you want to go to parties drunk and yell about it, and you know that will only make him look right. So anyway, I hope your jerk and my jerk both get what is coming to them.
This is painful and moving and also not just a little bit awe inspiring.