As if in a Marathon and twenty moons had passed, she tried to lift her legs. One up. Up to the sky. Swing the arms in unison as the contralateral leg goes up. "Up! Up!" her brain cried to itself. "Lift it up!"
In the hospital, she could not do it. She tried, but her brain would not listen. The afferent pathways that led to the brain...they were not sending the signals. The efferent neuronal pathways that led away from the brain to the legs...they crossed over from the right brain to the left leg. Somehow, only sparks made it through. These were meager attempts to connect the disheveled synapses. They failed. The legs would not move.
Instead, someone else had to move her legs and pick them up one by one. Into the wheelchair, back to the bed, into the car seat and no please move her here instead. Just as she speaks to you in the third person, that is how her life was. It was life in the third person.
Years later, she was driving home from church. It was her car. Her hands on the wheel. Dark night an a mass of jammed cars on Ventura Highway. The 101 going North, towards Ventura County. It was a scene from an action film. BOOM! Wshh! Black sedan hit the center median. It was cement and it was the enemy. In less than one second, the car was on its head, shattered glass sprayed along three lanes. Cars piling up to avoid hitting the car, and wow. Did that really happen?
Every one was stunned. She was in the right lane, but she slowed down and then stopped. No cars passed her. So she did the unthinkable. She crossed over 3 lanes, went in reverse, and parked in the fast lane, along that same ominous cement median.
It was then that it happened. She put her cell phone in her red jacket pocket. She decided she was going to stop and help.
"They could sue you" pounded in her head, on the one hand. "I can't leave them there" echoed on the other. As the door to her little convertible slammed shut, she looked at her driver's seat. The plug to power up her cell phone was laying on the seat, strewn about from the sudden stop. "I'll be back to fix it". She turned her head from the car seat and faced the wind and the traffic. She took a breath, said a quick prayer, and faced the upside-down car in the distance.
She picked up her leg.
It listened.
Slowly at first, her body gained momentum. As she swung her arms to help propel the body forward, the other leg came up. It came up. Again and again, it happened with one leg and then the other. By now, twenty sets of car lights illuminated her path before her. Lift! Lift! She was not herself. She was a puppet. Some one was pulling her strings upward, and her legs were obeying. Up Up and Up again. Closer and closer, she got the the car. In a full run, she could smell the fresh-cut grass as she trained for cross-country running in high school. She could run.
When she arrived, everyone was out of the car. Disoriented, the teenagers stumbled toward the traffic and she shooed them back to the median, waving them with two outstretched arms. She identified herself as a doctor. "What? You are a doctor?" "Yes. I am."
One girl was scratching her head and beads of blood collected on her forehead. In the moonlight and in the reflection of the oncoming cars, the doctor saw glistening shimmers of light reflected from the girl's head and face. "You have chips of glass on your head. Don't scratch them or it will drive the glass into your skin." To the man with the gash on his right hand, she said, "You are bleeding. You need to wrap some cloth around your hand." "No, I'm okay." Maybe he will listen to another angle. "It is going to make a mess on your shoes and your clothes." "Oh."
A man with short blond hair scurried to her now. "I called 911 and they are on their way." He reported it to her as if she was in charge. "That is great," she praised, "You did a great job."
Whirling about, she announced to the group with a military salute. "I've done my job. Stay by the median. Goodbye."
"You're really a doctor?" in unison, they asked.
"Yes. I am. God Bless You. Goodbye."
She did not wait for any thank-yous. She was just a little Angel of the night, a passing soul of the accident, one that they had never met, one that they would never meet again.
And she turned to run back to her car. She tried to lift her legs. They worked. Still in the adrenalin rush, they repeatedly lifted. Up, up, and up again. She was not just running. She was flying.
This night, she was a doctor again.
This night, she lifted her legs and ...well, she lifted her legs.
And they worked.
In the hospital, she could not do it. She tried, but her brain would not listen. The afferent pathways that led to the brain...they were not sending the signals. The efferent neuronal pathways that led away from the brain to the legs...they crossed over from the right brain to the left leg. Somehow, only sparks made it through. These were meager attempts to connect the disheveled synapses. They failed. The legs would not move.
Instead, someone else had to move her legs and pick them up one by one. Into the wheelchair, back to the bed, into the car seat and no please move her here instead. Just as she speaks to you in the third person, that is how her life was. It was life in the third person.
Years later, she was driving home from church. It was her car. Her hands on the wheel. Dark night an a mass of jammed cars on Ventura Highway. The 101 going North, towards Ventura County. It was a scene from an action film. BOOM! Wshh! Black sedan hit the center median. It was cement and it was the enemy. In less than one second, the car was on its head, shattered glass sprayed along three lanes. Cars piling up to avoid hitting the car, and wow. Did that really happen?
Every one was stunned. She was in the right lane, but she slowed down and then stopped. No cars passed her. So she did the unthinkable. She crossed over 3 lanes, went in reverse, and parked in the fast lane, along that same ominous cement median.
It was then that it happened. She put her cell phone in her red jacket pocket. She decided she was going to stop and help.
"They could sue you" pounded in her head, on the one hand. "I can't leave them there" echoed on the other. As the door to her little convertible slammed shut, she looked at her driver's seat. The plug to power up her cell phone was laying on the seat, strewn about from the sudden stop. "I'll be back to fix it". She turned her head from the car seat and faced the wind and the traffic. She took a breath, said a quick prayer, and faced the upside-down car in the distance.
She picked up her leg.
It listened.
Slowly at first, her body gained momentum. As she swung her arms to help propel the body forward, the other leg came up. It came up. Again and again, it happened with one leg and then the other. By now, twenty sets of car lights illuminated her path before her. Lift! Lift! She was not herself. She was a puppet. Some one was pulling her strings upward, and her legs were obeying. Up Up and Up again. Closer and closer, she got the the car. In a full run, she could smell the fresh-cut grass as she trained for cross-country running in high school. She could run.
When she arrived, everyone was out of the car. Disoriented, the teenagers stumbled toward the traffic and she shooed them back to the median, waving them with two outstretched arms. She identified herself as a doctor. "What? You are a doctor?" "Yes. I am."
One girl was scratching her head and beads of blood collected on her forehead. In the moonlight and in the reflection of the oncoming cars, the doctor saw glistening shimmers of light reflected from the girl's head and face. "You have chips of glass on your head. Don't scratch them or it will drive the glass into your skin." To the man with the gash on his right hand, she said, "You are bleeding. You need to wrap some cloth around your hand." "No, I'm okay." Maybe he will listen to another angle. "It is going to make a mess on your shoes and your clothes." "Oh."
A man with short blond hair scurried to her now. "I called 911 and they are on their way." He reported it to her as if she was in charge. "That is great," she praised, "You did a great job."
Whirling about, she announced to the group with a military salute. "I've done my job. Stay by the median. Goodbye."
"You're really a doctor?" in unison, they asked.
"Yes. I am. God Bless You. Goodbye."
She did not wait for any thank-yous. She was just a little Angel of the night, a passing soul of the accident, one that they had never met, one that they would never meet again.
And she turned to run back to her car. She tried to lift her legs. They worked. Still in the adrenalin rush, they repeatedly lifted. Up, up, and up again. She was not just running. She was flying.
This night, she was a doctor again.
This night, she lifted her legs and ...well, she lifted her legs.
And they worked.
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