Eleven Years Ago

January 16th, 2000

Did you know in the year 2000, January 16th was on a Sunday just like today?

It’s a date that haunts me annually. It’s the reason I hate roller coasters, why we have full coverage on all our vehicles, and why I have a debt to pay for my life.

I was driving in the new (to me) Chevy Blazer my parents had purchased as the "kid car", the coolest one yet. It was only temporary, though, because it really was bought for Christopher. He was only three months out on his mission to California which meant I still had twenty-one months of being the primary driver and I planned to live it up. When Chris came home he would get the truck back and I would get the next new (to me) kid-car.

My boyfriend (not Olen) and I met up with our friends at their apartment building so we could drive together to a fireside at the MCC Institute that night. Somehow in the parking lot under dim street lamps, our plans to attend the fireside were changed to plans of taking the Beeline Highway to test the Blazer’s off-roading skills. Why? Because I was 18 years-old and stupid. Since a guy in our group had a four-wheel drive truck and knew some easy trails it seemed like a fun Sunday drive plus we were already thirty minutes late for the fireside. So in our church clothes, we loaded up.

I offered the back seat to Lisa and her boyfriend because I didn’t know the way or how to drive off-road style and a back seat driver would have been welcomed, but since the backbench didn’t have seat belts they declined and rode in another truck. We later marveled at how Lisa’s insistence on seat belts saved their lives.

Just before the point of no return, I noticed the gas tank was low, but since I was last in this caravan I didn’t want to slow everyone down by stopping to fill up. Plus it was Sunday and you don’t buy gas on Sunday. (But off-roading on Sunday is just fine when you’re 18 and stupid.) This night was headed for disaster one way or another.

The Beeline Highway is winding and tricky to drive even in good conditions. By this time it was totally dark, I’ve only had my driver's license for eighteen months and I’m trying really hard to look like I know what I’m doing. I had no idea what I was doing.

About twenty minutes into the drive my boyfriend comments about how it was really quiet on the roads that night. I notice that the truck with Lisa and her boyfriend and the other two friends is out of sight and I can just barely make out Briauna’s yellow Nissan pick-up ahead. I should probably try to catch up. The back right tire slipped off the asphalt highway and onto the rocky shoulder as I sped up. I over-correct the wheel to get back on track sending the top-heavy Blazer into a full fishtail weave.

I held the wheel steady and pushed on the brakes with full force (I know now you should never do this). The truck rocked like a trick car on two wheels. Right wheels. Left wheels. Right. Left. Right. Left. Then we were airborne. We’re rolling. Inside the cab, it felt like slow motion. I let go of the wheel and braced myself with my left arm on the roof and keep my feet close together firmly on the floor. My right arm was gripping the seat belt across my chest. I held myself like an unyielding peg in my seat. We rolled three times. Just like you see in the movies. It was so loud and each time we made contact with the blacktop my head flopped like a newborn. A police officer later told me we skidded almost 65 feet before the truck finally came to a halt, belly up.

My front-row seat for the ride:

When we stopped rolling I opened my eyes. I just sat there. Buckled in and hanging upside down in my seat. Breathing. Breathing. I was alive. Was my boyfriend alive? I said his name and look over at him. He was alive. I hear running and Briauna yelling my name. She watched the whole thing from her rearview mirror and turned around. She was saying something. She’s helping my boyfriend out of the broken back window and yelling something.

“I need to hear her tell me! Molly, tell me you’re alive! Molly?!”

“I’m fine. My foot’s stuck, though.”, I said.

My right foot was caught under something and I had to take off my shoe to get it loose. Then I crawled out and received the only medical treatment that I really needed; hugs from my best friends. I had no broken bones. Not even one scrape. My boyfriend’s right arm got some pretty bad road rash when his window broke. He had some asphalt pieces stuck in his elbow. Someone called an ambulance.

Within minutes police, fire trucks, and medical were all there. My poor Blazer was in a pool of auto fluids bleeding down the road. I sat in the dirt and looked up at the female officer taking my name. She asked me twice if I had any pains, and I told her none. She said that I was full of adrenalin and there might be internal damage I wouldn’t be able to notice yet and they better take us to the hospital. Helicopters were called and I was taken on a stretcher for the second frightening ride that night, almost as bad as the first. My friends were instructed to call my parents, clear their vehicles off the road and follow them to the hospital. Luckily (but we all know it wasn’t luck) there were no cars behind me to crash into my Blazer and join the rolling and skidding. I only crashed into the road that night.

Looking inside from the back seat. That's blood from my boyfriend's elbow on the roof.

I was strapped to a gurney and carried into the mouth of the helicopter. Inside I was surrounded by four paramedics. Under a thin sheet, one of the women cut my clothes off in a straight line down the center, leaving my undies on, thank goodness. I was dressed in my favorite skirt and top for the fireside that I should have gone to. I kept my eyes closed the entire ride and sang primary songs in my head.

At the hospital, I was examined and tested. They stuck metal stickers to me that were attached to a machine that beeped and then took some x-rays. My diagnosis was bumped and bruised. They gave me some pain meds and told me I could lay on the bed in the hall until my parents came to get me.

My parents were so mad they couldn't make a sound. This part was not like you see in the movies. Movies when the parents would come rushing down the long hallway to hug their daughter who lived through a tornado of metal and asphalt, now dressed in a discarded scrub uniform laying on a broken bed in the hallway. Instead, I was facing the wall and didn’t even hear them walk up to me. I turned around and just saw them looking at me. No words were exchanged. They signed the paperwork and we walked to the family van in silence. I lay down on the back seat.

At home my sister, who had hopes of sharing ownership in the Blazer, was livid. She yelled and I yelled back. I lost all driving privileges. After the first time my mom drove me to my college classes she told me I needed to pick up a bus schedule if I wanted to come back and my dad wouldn’t even look me in the eyes for weeks. I didn’t care. The only person I felt owned the right of being mad at me for wrecking the truck wrote a letter releasing me of any doubt. He said there would be more trucks to have, but only one Molly. That’s all I needed to hear. Let the others yell on.

Life at home pretty much sucked. I couldn't sleep because I had nightmares of rolling and rolling and never stopping. My boyfriend’s dad wanted to sue my parent’s auto insurance to cover his medical costs since the Blazer was only insured with liability coverage. My hospital bills were coming in like hate mail. A highway patrolman came to my house and personally delivered my speeding ticket. What about the stripped-down helicopter ride? Well, I thought they owed me a new favorite outfit, but they thought I owed them more money than I made in a year. Then there was the Blazer. The insurance company declared it “totaled” and my parents sold it to a yard for parts but that didn’t pay off the balance still owed on the car. Nope, I did that. I dropped a class at MCC and picked up more hours working. I didn’t pay off the last of these bills till four years later, but I did it.

If you’re curious, (cuz I would be) my boyfriend was super sweet about everything. He talked to his dad and convinced him not to sue. He was a silver lining throughout the whole mess. We parted as friends seven months later. I met Olen the following October and we were engaged the next January. What a change one year can make.

I spiraled down into darkness in the weeks after the crash. It was not a pretty place to be but I was more comfortable there than in reality. One night my parents rented Saving Private Ryan and, being grounded for life, I sat in some corner and watched it. I hate to spoil the movie, but they do save Private Ryan, and Tom Hanks’ character tells Ryan to “earn this”. When I heard Tom tell the soldier to "earn his life", I felt like he was talking to me, saving Molly.

I framed a picture of my smashed truck (I can call it mine cuz I bought it) and wrote the words "Earn This" under the photo. I hung it in secret behind my bedroom door and looked at it every morning. I slowly crawled back into the new version of the old me and tried to forgive myself. I knew I had a mess to clean up so I got started.

The sting of January 16th is only a memory now. I pause to remember the day I was given a second chance and hope that when this life is all done I can truthfully be told that I have earned it.