The Crash, the Firefighter, and the Mystery Woman

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Motherhood turns you into a multitasking machine. That’s how I ended up working third shift at a warehouse just so my sweet baby Kelsey wouldn’t have to go to daycare. 7 PM to 3 AM, five days a week. At first, it was brutal, but eventually, I adapted—mostly. What I never adapted to was driving home in the morning after an entire night of work with zero sleep.

Kelsey had other plans for my daytime schedule. Babies don’t exactly care about their exhausted moms needing sleep. So, I functioned on sheer willpower, caffeine, and the radio at full blast.

One morning, exhausted beyond words, I left work in my husband Tim’s Ford Blazer (my van was out of gas—typical) and headed down IH-35, aka the Tunnel of Death. Construction had turned the highway into a narrow corridor of cement barriers on both sides, offering no escape route if things went south.

I was minding my own business, music cranked, doing my best not to pass out at the wheel, when suddenly…WHAP!

I blinked. What was that? No traffic at 3 AM… what could I have hit?

Then came the screeching metal.

Then came the pitch-black darkness ahead of me.

That’s when I realized, I was crashing into the cement wall.

The moment I understood what was happening, I gripped the wheel, but that’s all I remember.

I woke up to a man’s voice calling my name.

My seat had somehow reclined all the way back, and I was pinned under the crushed dashboard. My legs, I couldn’t move my legs.

Panic set in. I was on IH-35. What if another car hit me?

Then, a woman appeared at my window.

She tapped on the glass and said, “Someone put out flares. Help is coming. Stay put.”

I barely had time to process that when a man climbed into the car. He held my neck still, telling me not to move.

"Do you have a family?" he asked.
"Yes," I whispered.
"How old are you?"
"Thirty"
"Are you in pain?"

I told him my legs were stuck, that I couldn’t move them. He told me to stay awake, to hold on, and that’s when I smelled it.

Alcohol.

He smelled like alcohol.

“Are you… experienced in this sort of thing?” I asked cautiously.

“I’m a firefighter,” he said.

“…You’ve been drinking,” I pointed out.

He exhaled and confessed right there that he was the one who hit me.

Cue instant tears. Not from pain, but from the sheer injustice of it all. I had barely slept in months, worked all night, just trying to take care of my baby, and this guy had one too many drinks and wrecked my life in an instant.

Before I could process anything further, a police officer appeared at my window.

"Ma'am, we're going to have to cut the door off to get you out."

They covered me with a yellow protective sheet, and then the sawing began. It was deafening, sparks flying as they cut away at the twisted metal.

As soon as the door was gone, I cried, "The dashboard is on my legs! I can't move them!"

The firefighter who had caused all of this looked at me and said, "Ma'am, the dashboard isn't touching your legs."

Wait. What?

Then why couldn’t I move them?

I felt the panic creeping in. Was I paralyzed? Was this it?

They strapped a brace around my neck, lifted me onto a backboard, and I heard the words that made my stomach drop, "Life Flight is on the way."

Life Flight? They only life flight seriously injured people.

Was I seriously injured?!

Then came the final humiliation.

They needed to check for injuries. Which, apparently, meant cutting my pants right off my body.

Laying there in the wreckage of Tim’s now-totaled Blazer, surrounded by cops, firefighters, and flashing lights, I felt my dignity disintegrate as my pants were sliced up each leg.

"Well, there's no visible wounds," one of them said.

I could have told them that. After they checked without making me indecent in front of half the city.

The Life Flight helicopter landed right on IH-35, and they carried me to it like some kind of medieval sacrifice.

Once inside, the flight medic introduced himself.

I stared at him and asked the question no one wants to say out loud:

"Am I going to die?"

"Not on my watch," he said.

I wasn’t convinced. I whispered, "If I don’t make it, please tell my husband and kids I love them and I’m so sorry."

He nodded. "I will. What’s your husband’s name?"

"Tim," I said.

And that was that. I was either going to live, or this guy was going to break the news to my husband.

When we landed at the hospital, the real nightmare began.

As if being stripped of my dignity once wasn’t enough, they cut off my shirt and bra.

And since I was flat on my back, I could feel each boob land with an unceremonious “Flap. Flap.”

Then, one of the doctors noticed my scars.

"What's this from?" he asked, pointing at my chest.

I was still strapped down, unable to move my chin, so I awkwardly mumbled through gritted teeth:

"Breast reduction."

Silence.

The entire medical team, doctors, nurses, techs, stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

Finally, someone blurted out, "You’re kidding, right?"

Then came the tubes down my nose.

"Your nose openings are too small," one muttered, struggling to jam them in.

"We need pediatric tubes," the other agreed.

"HEY!" I croaked. "I’m still awake, you know!"

I begged to just drink the stuff instead, which led to instant vomiting, which led to me being flipped over while my boobs dangled freely.

Then, back on my back - Flap. Flap.

I was past the point of humiliation.

They took me down the hall for X-rays to check for broken bones.

But the burning pain in the back of my head was unbearable.

"Can you loosen the straps?" I pleaded.

"Not until the scans are done," the tech said.

I laid there, feeling like my skull was on fire, waiting for the thud-thud of the CT scan to end.

Finally, they freed my head from its prison. The doctor told me that I didn’t have one broken bone and proceeded to place ice packs on the back of my neck for the swelling that was putting pressure on the spine. Once the swelling went down, I could move my legs again.

The relief was so overwhelming, I nearly cried.

The sheriff later stopped by and confirmed the drunk firefighter was at fault.

I asked about the woman who told me about the flares.

The officer frowned.

"There was no one else on the scene except the man who hit you."

I blinked.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded.

I thought about that bright light at my window, the warmth of her voice, the calm reassurance in the middle of my chaos.

My mother had always told me we have guardian angels watching over us, guiding us when we need them most.

Laying there, finally free from the burning pain and moving my legs, I knew…

Mine had just saved my life.