"Can You Come Get the Dog?"

Told in the fashion of the NPR Program, This American Life

I am not Ira Glass.

 

Act 1.

"Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."  John Lennon

Friday, February 11th: a quintessential Florida beach day.  I had parked my chair (and butt) on the beach to take advantage of the warmth and sunshine.  Dan was taking our beagle puppy, Benny, for a walk.  We have adopted the mantra, "A tired dog is a good dog" and Dan, daily, did his best to wear out the energy filled Benny with multiple walks, often including a stint at one of the local dog parks.

When my phone rang and the display indicated it was Dan, I wondered if he was going to describe his walk with the dog.  Maybe tell me he would be joining me on the beach.

The voice responding to my hello was not Dan's.

I think this is how the conversation transpired:

Male voice: "Is this Dan's wife?"

Me: "Yes?"

Male voice: "Are you Mary?"

Me: (anxiety increasing) "Yes?"

Male voice: "Can you come get the dog?"

Okay, let's stop here briefly, shall we?  Can I come get the dog?  Why do I need to come get the dog?  Did the dog get away from Dan and whoever this is chose to call my number on Benny's tag?  And if he did, where is Dan?  Did the dog bite someone and Dan is under arrest?  I ask the obvious question:

Me: "Where's Dan?"

Male voice: (hesitates) "Um, Dan's okay, can you come get the dog?"

Me: (more emphatically) "Where's Dan?"

Male voice: (again, hesitantly) "Um, there's been an accident, Dan is going to be okay..."

Me: (panicking) "WHAT?"

Male voice: "Can you come get the dog?"

Internal voice--WHAT THE FUCK?!

Me: "Yes, where are you?"

Male voice: "On Gulf Boulevard."

Me: "Where on Gulf Boulevard?"

Male voice: "Down by Morgan Park.  You'll see all the vehicles and the flashing lights. (hesitates) So you'll come get the dog?"

Morgan Park is about a block north of the townhouse complex where we stay.  I threw on my coverup, ran off the beach down the path to the sidewalk along Gulf Boulevard.  I bolted past our neighbor, Maureen, who asked, "What's wrong?" and I replied, "Dan's been in an accident."

Sure enough, once I reached Gulf Boulevard, I could see the street was blocked off and what seemed like a gazillion emergency vehicles were at the intersection of Morgan and Gulf, north of the marked crosswalk where pedestrians press a button, wait for the flashers to light, then cross the street in the right of way.

Where Dan was hit by a car that didn't stop.

Another aside...I am proud of myself that I ran non-stop, barefoot, and did not pee in the process.  I did briefly think how embarrassing it would be to come get the dog with pee dripping down my legs.

I ran up to the first person at the scene and yelled, "That's my husband!" while attempting to push my way through to where he was being lifted onto the back board, a collar around his neck, a pool of blood near his head.  Out of the corner of my eye, Benny squirmed in an unfamiliar woman's arms.  He appeared to be intact and safe.  Dan, not so much.

Dan recalls hearing me cry and I guess I did.

The first responder pointed to a police officer standing more on the periphery of the crowd of uniforms gathered around Dan.  "Talk to him," he instructed.

"That's my husband," I repeated impotently to the officer.

He gently yet emphatically moved me away from the paramedics circling my injured husband.

"I'm okay, Mary!" Dan called but it was small comfort.

At least he's awake and alert.  Let's take that as a positive.

"What happened?" I demanded.

"He was hit by a car while crossing the street.  He was in the crosswalk."

I think someone said the pedestrian crossing lights were flashing, which means Dan had activated the signal indicating to traffic that it should stop.  Typically, because we have seen far too many vehicles blow through the signal, we pause on the curb and hold up our hands to ensure the cars really will stop before we enter the crosswalk.

I overheard other officers say they have stopped a car further down Gulf Boulevard.  The car has a cracked windshield.

"The car didn't stop?" I screech, incredulous.

Internal voice: Police, what are you doing?  Go get that motherfucker!

The officer told me the paramedics are transporting Dan to the hospital.  

"Which hospital?" I asked.  It felt as if police personnel were only confirming what should be obvious to me.

"Bayfront St. Petersburg."

By far, NOT the nearest hospital.

"All the way to St. Petersburg?"

"It's the Trauma Level 1 center for the county."

Okay, two things.  One, this is bad.  I realize he said he's okay, but Dan is definitely not okay.  And two, I'll roll with this.  I would much rather he is taken where they're equipped to handle a trauma case which, it is slowly dawning on me, being hit by a car qualifies as.

"You'll need to go there."

Duh.

"Can you take the dog?"

A lovely Good Samaritan named Jill rescued Benny, who had been running loose on Gulf Boulevard.  The dog was frantic and squirming.  She was kind and gentle with him. As she handed over the leash, I called my sister, who lives about 2 1/2 miles south of us.

"Come right now," I remember screaming into the phone.  "Right now, Jo Ann.  Dan's been hit by a car.  We have to go to Bayfront St. Petersburg.  RIGHT NOW, JO ANN.  COME GET ME RIGHT NOW."

And she said, "Okay, I'm on my way."

If you ever receive a phone call like that from anyone, remember my sister's response because that is absolutely, positively, the sole correct response.  Okay, I'm on my way.

My neighbor, Maureen, and her husband, Bill, had come down the street to check on me.  I stopped briefly to tell her what happened.  They offered to help with the dog.

As I changed from my bathing suit, it dawned on me I should probably call the kids to let them know what's going on.  Maybe not.  Maybe I should wait until I know more, not upset them unnecessarily.  Then I remembered circumstances where someone chose, understandably, to keep me out of the loop until more information was available and how aggrieved I was by that, so I stared calling.  He Who Must Not Be Named, twice.  Maggie, twice.  

No one picked up.

While giving the dog a treat to distract him as I left the townhouse, I called Molly.  Unlike her siblings, she picked up.

"Dad was hit by a car."  I may have sounded calm.  "I'm on the way to the hospital.  He was awake and alert.  That's all I know. You'll have to tell your siblings because..."

"Mom," Molly interrupted.  "We're here."

"You're where?" I was totally confused.  As if Dan being the victim of a hit and run, and the police seemingly more concerned as to whether I'll retrieve the dog than rush to my husband's aid, isn't enough to scramble my brain, now my daughter is saying they--my children-- are here?  In Florida?

"We're on the bridge, Mom."  The bridge is the connection between the mainland and the island, where we stay.  "We're almost to the house.  Traffic is backed up."  Her sisters chatter in the background.  "There's Auntie JoJo.  Bridget is...we'll be right there, Mom."

The police had blocked off Gulf Boulevard going north from the intersection of the causeway bridge to the scene of the accident.

I heard my sister tell the police officer, "We have to get through.  My brother in law was in the accident...."

Act 2.

Perhaps you're wondering what the adult children were doing in Florida, rather than Minnesota where they live.

They had come to surprise me for my birthday.

My actual birthday, which was to be my 70th, was February 18.  I had planned a trip to Disney World (you may scoff here as desired) for the actual date, so the intended surprise would really be a surprise, seeing it would occur a week early.

The surprise ended up their father had been hit by a car.

Their rental car was four vehicles away from the intersection of the Belleair Beach Causeway and Gulf Boulevard.  They saw the police vehicle blocking the traffic. They also saw the ambulance carrying Dan race south on Gulf Boulevard.  This while their phones are blowing up with calls from me.

Evidently they grew quiet when the ambulance sped through the intersection.  He Who Must Not Be Named commented, "You don't think Dad had a heart attack, do you?"

Then Molly answered the phone.

The girls hopped into the car with my sister; they picked me up.  Tom took off down Gulf Boulevard for the 45 minute trip down to St. Petersburg.

Everything is far away when you live on the intercoastal island--the price one pays for proximity to the Gulf.  It offers a degree of not insignificant inconvenience which I have found depends upon the errand one is running; the distance to the destination; of course the traffic, always the traffic.  You don't just 'hop' on the freeway,  It's a good 20 minute drive through four lane traffic to where state highways and freeways potentially intersect, much less 'hop' on them.  Ah, Florida.

By miles, Bayfront St. Petersburg is 22.9 miles, 45 minutes without traffic.  And with all good intentions, taking the word of one GPS over the other for an unexpected detour.

It was so hard...SO HARD...to be in the car with my daughters and be unable to comfort or reassure them.  We were each in our own bubble of grief and worry, giving each other space, yet reaching, if not physically, for each other to offer what solace we could share.

The emergency room at Bayfront St. Petersburg has complimentary valet parking.  The parking ramps are free.  The hospitals in Minnesota could take note.

We learn quickly that Dan is alert, conscious, injured and he will be okay.

I don't need to hear anything else.

Here are other things we will be told multiple times over the next few days, which have stretched into the past four weeks.

• It could have been so much worse.
• He was so lucky.
• All things considered, he's doing great for a 71 year old man who got hit by a car.
• This happens more often that you would think.
• It will take a while to heal.  After all, he's a 71 year old man who got hit by a car.

In the trauma room, a phone call from the deputy at the scene informs me that the driver was apprehended, cited, license removed.  Upon advice sought from a friend, we have retained an attorney so for now, that's all I'm comfortable sharing.  But it could have been so much worse.  Dan is a 71 year old man who got hit by a car.

Sum total of injuries:

1. concussion
2. laceration across the back of his head, closed with a dozen staples
3. dislocated left shoulder, returned to its socket
4. broken bone in his clavicle
5. 3 broken ribs
6. significant bruising from beneath his left armpit down the length of his leg to his toes
7. swelling of lower extremities which continues
8. swelling around his left hip
9. consistent aches

Dan stays in the hospital until Sunday afternoon.  On Saturday night, the kids and I go out to dinner to celebrate my birthday.  Jointly we tell the tale to our waitress who, when the part about the kids seeing the ambulance drive by is related, goes wide eyed and exclaims, "Fuck!"

One of the most appropriate reactions, still, to what happened.

Because he got hit by a car.  While walking the dog.  While in a marked crosswalk.  With the lights flashing.  A car that bounced him off its windshield, where, I firmly believe, any number of angels embraced him as the car drove away, so it wouldn't hit him again, then said, "Sorry" and dropped him as gently as they could.  He landed on his left side with a thud.  He didn't roll into the adjoining lane of traffic.

He was lucky.  It could have been so much worse.

About a week after the accident, a gentleman staying at a neighboring complex called out to me as I walked Benny.  The complex, set back from the street, is directly across from where the accident occurred.  His name is Stan; he heard Dan get hit.  He described it as a thunk.  Stan was laying on the second floor deck of the building when he heard the thunk.  He ran down to the street to Dan, who Stan reported was unconscious, then woke and tried to get up.  Stan said he encouraged him to stay down.  A driver in a truck in the southbound lane called 9-1-1.  Stan asked Dan if he fell or if he was hit.  Dan replied he thought he fell but Stan told him he had been hit, because he heard it.  Stan said he held Dan's hand; Dan told him his left shoulder hurt.  Stan said the police were right there, followed by the fire truck and the ambulance.  Once the police arrived, the officer asked if Stan was a relative and since he wasn't, asked him to move away.  The police officer got gauze from his car to put under Dan's head.  

Stan was impressed with how professional the police, fire and paramedics were.

Stan impresses the hell out of me.

Act 3.

Dan was blessed.  The moon, sun and stars were all shining on him as he bounced off the windshield and pavement.  The angels formed around him in a circle.  God held him in the palm of His hand.

On my actual 70th birthday, the most lovely community on the beach, our neighbors here in the complex, threw me a surprise birthday party.  Dan was able to attend.  The neighbors rallied around him, around me, around our children, my sisters. 

His recovery continues to be relatively smooth, for a 71 year old man who was hit by a car.  There was a particularly challenging week of concussion symptoms, which have, for the most part, subsided.  He's back to walking Benny multiple times a day, shorter stints in duration but nonetheless, it could have been so much worse.

I think I'm still working my way through this event.  I tend to put one foot in front of the other in difficult circumstances, seeking what can be done and how effectively, efficiently I can do it.  The outpouring of support and love and care we all received continues to take my breath away.  We were not above using, "My husband got hit by a car" for a brief period, but that has definitely waned.  The best approach is for Dan, and all of us, to move emphatically toward normal and that we can do so is not lost on me.  How did we get so lucky?  Why were we so blessed?  Are there answers to such queries?

About half way to the hospital, it dawned on me that I hadn't prayed, as in a formal prayer imploring the Holy Trinity, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the angels and saints to save Dan.  I looked over my shoulder at the girls and I had no idea what to do first.  Or second.  Were my actions a prayer, beseeching God to keep my children's father safe?  Or was there a form I should be using and if I didn't, everything would immediately crash south?  As I've aged, my prayers have been more centered on prayers of thanksgiving than prayers of supplication.  And how, exactly, does one pray when experiencing what feels nothing short of an out of body experience?

So I'm working on centering.  Or re-centering.

Framily and friends settling in the townhouse make a difference.  As do phone calls.  And texts.  And the energy I feel let loose in the universe, to find its way to us and surround us, whether we need it or not.  Whether we're worthy of it or not.