Autobiographical Autopsy

It's interesting how all your plans can change in a matter of seconds.

I was going to write a journal entry about friendship. Or love. Or little adventures.

I was going to tell you about my last Advanced Monologue class. Or finding out that my most recent ex-boyfriend already has a new girlfriend. Or how I saw "Dewey Cox and the Hard Walkers" (a.k.a. John C. Reilly in character for the movie Walk Hard) on their "Cox Across America Tour". I was going to write about seeing Edward Albee being interviewed by Richard Christensen. Or hanging out with two of my high school friends, and then going to a party filled with fringe-friends from my college days. Or the complications of my upcoming vacation.

I had a lot to write about, and it was going to be a light, airy, happy entry.

But then I was hit by a car.

Yes. Literally.

You know my theory that traffic stops for me because I'm cute? Turns out that it doesn't work when it's icy.

Last night, around 11:40pm, a friend and I were walking to a drugstore to get some munchies after dancing like mad-women at a party (a party at which we were pretty much the only ones dancing... but we had fun). As we were crossing the street, and the flashing red hand was telling us to speed-it-up-a-little, I saw a car approaching us. It was making a left-hand turn into the lane we were crossing. He saw us and smiled, so I didn't have that instinct to get out of the way in the split-second that I realized that our paths would cross. But the car couldn't stop because of the ice-covered road. We were both thrown up onto the hood before I knew what was happening.

My friend got the brunt of the hit, as she was walking on the outside. We were both in the air at some point, and the next thing I knew, I was face-down on the pavement.

My lower back broke the side-view mirror of the car. As some of you may know, I have back problems. Specifically with my lower back. I have an over-curvature of my spine front-to-back (lordosis), which has proven to be quite painful in the past. I also have an extremely mild case of scoliosis (an S-curve, side-to-side). And anything that touches my back in the wrong spot, even lightly, causes me to tense up because I'm so used to pain in certain areas. Actually, my back has been pretty good for the last three years or so. But there have been times when I couldn't be hugged without pain. Times when my spine was locked and I had difficulty walking. Times when I couldn't open a door for myself. So a side-view mirror to the back really wasn't the best thing for me.

Don't worry, we're both fine. Miraculously, we both got out of the whole thing relatively unscathed. She called me this morning to say that she's a little loopy (probably a result of the drinking she did last night, not the accident), but she doesn't have a mark on her. I gave myself a once-over in the mirror, just to check. Aside from a heart-shaped dark purple bruise on my bum (which looks a bit like a tattoo, and seems like a fun thing to get inked in the future. I think that of all the bruises I have ever gotten, this one is my favorite), I don't have any scrapes, scratches, or other visible injuries. Thank God for layers upon layers of thick bubble-wrap winter clothing. My back hurts quite a bit, but that's not unusual for me, so I can handle it. My neck hurts (which really isn't shocking). My knee hurts (I don't remember it hurting yesterday... must be a delayed reaction). But other than that, I'm oh-bee-kay-bee. Very lucky.

There were about five witnesses who stopped, helped, and freaked out on our behalf, asking if we needed an ambulance (they were all male, and a few of them extremely attractive, which I think helped calm us down... all that beauty... *sigh*). One of them stayed all through the police report and asked that we call him in the morning to let him know that we were alright. I just called and got his voicemail a few minutes ago.

It turns out, the driver of the car that hit us (a foreign food-delivery guy, who is terrified that he's going to lose his job... poor guy... really wasn't his fault, and he was very nice) was trying to make a left-hand turn when a bus cut through the intersection on the yellow light, preventing him from either turning or being able to see us. So then he was in the middle of the intersection on a yellow light as it was about to switch to red, and had to turn. And he saw us, hit his breaks, and couldn't stop. Really nice guy. He actually drove my friend and I home after the police report had been filled out. My friend told him that if his employer gives him any trouble, that she'd be happy to vouch for the fact that it wasn't his fault.

I can't help but wonder about what could've happened... My autonomous mind automatically turns toward an autobiographical autopsy. (sorry... wrapped up in wordplay... hope someone out there understands/enjoys my little joke).

What if my blog entries had stopped? What if I didn't return e-mails or facebook posts? What if the people who only know me from the internet never heard from me again? If I had amnesia, if I were in a coma, if I had died... they'd never have any more than assumptions and theories. They'd probably never have access to facts. It's a little unsettling to think about.

I sent a friend request to a former classmate of mine on facebook several months ago. I found out less than 24 hours later that he had died. And that friend request will forever be left as pending. It's haunting. I actually had a crush on him in third grade. And the boy I had a crush on in second grade has also died. I occasionally wonder if I should warn the boys I was crushing on in fourth and fifth grade, as I might be cursed or something, but I'm sure it's just a coincidence and that they'll be fine. No use worrying them over nothing.

Here's a weird quirk about me... You know how they say that in near-death experiences, your life flashes before your eyes? Didn't happen for me. In fact, I had this strange feeling like the whole accident was a dream as it was occurring. Maybe I had dreamt something similar and was experiencing deja vu? But even in the process of being struck, I wasn't really scared. It didn't seem real. And though I know that I could've been killed (did I mention that there was traffic in the other lane coming right at us as we laid in the street?), I wasn't any more terrified than I would've been if someone had come up and shoved me from behind. I think I was more frightened after the event than during it, although I'm not entirely certain as to why. Shock or something.

I'm thrilled that I'm not dead, by the way. It would be wholly depressing to die right now. I haven't accomplished very much. And I'm not really working on anything exciting. I'm just sort of floating until the next project comes my way. So really, it would be a horrible time to die if only because it's NOT a horrible time to die. When I die, I want it to inconvenience people (that's a sort of Wilde-esque thought, isn't it?). I want them to scramble to make the show go on. I want them to wonder how they'll ever replace me. And right now? My death would be a tragedy, of course, as I'm young and vibrant and have potential. But things would keep moving without me.

The only thing that would stop is this blog. And my unfinished novel. At least that. People will take the 147 unpolished pages off of my computer, read them, and imagine how great my novel could've been if only I had been able to take the time to edit and complete it. And their imaginations will create something far more impressive than I ever could've achieved. These things I write are, at present, my only unfinished work. They are the compositions written by my own hand. They are, to dissect the word, my autographs (heh... that one wasn't intentional... promise I'll stop).

Perhaps that's part of why I write. Theatre, my greatest love, is by its very nature a fleeting art. Once a production is over, it's over. Attempting to record it is not much more successful in its preservation than catching lightning in a bottle. Something seems a little more permanent about the written word. Maybe I'm attempting to grasp at the straws of immortality. (Tangent: I often wonder if that's part of the reason some people have children... In some cases, the children they produce are their greatest contributions to society, far surpassing anything else they create.) But really, I'm not all that worried about immortality. I'm not obsessed with fame (although I wouldn't mind a taste of it every now and again).

I don't care much about how long I'm remembered after I die. More important to me is that I'm remembered while I live.


May you find a way to make your life worth living (and remembering),

~A~


P.S. No man is truly invincible until he stops fearing death.

P.P.S. It has come to my attention that, for some reason, several of the pictures I put on posts in November have inexplicably disappeared. I'm not going to bother fixing any of the images. Too much work. I'm just going to ignore it and hope that it stops happening.

ETA P.P.P.S. I have taken a picture of my posterior for posterity, but it will not be going online.