We’re inundated with public transportation, ride share, and taxi options in the Bay Area, which makes it shocking to think about people driving drunk. But earlier this year, I unfortunately realized just how commonplace it is for people to get wasted and get behind the wheel.
On January 17, I left Walnut Creek to return home to Berkeley around 1:50 a.m., heading west on 24 with barely any other cars around me. As I approached the Pleasant Hill Road exit, a car appeared in front of me. I changed lanes, and that’s where things get fuzzy: After I moved left, I looked to my right and saw a white flash. BAM! Impact. The worst accident of my life.
My Toyota Corolla was hit on the passenger side, sending me spinning. I fought for control, only to slam headfirst into a concrete divider. The airbag deployed and my car bounced back into traffic. I was hit again from behind, but not as hard. My car stopped. I was stunned. I was blocking three lanes of traffic. I was literally perpendicular to the freeway.
Everything was a mess. My brain defogged as I went into survival mode. "Fuck!" I thought. "The airbag went off, check your face, your glasses." I clumsily removed my glasses and rubbed my face, feeling moisture. Tears. My right arm was burning and hurting, tingling badly. I rolled up my sleeve, revealing the most swollen and bruised forearm I've ever seen. That’s where I took the brunt of the airbag.
"I'm not going to die," I thought as I began kicking and shoving my shoulder against the car door. I was about to try the other doors again when someone knocked on my window. A stranger was outside, telling me he was going to get me out.
Shock was wearing off, so I became Responsible CQ. "I need to move my car or else I'll be hit again," I thought as I tried in vain to start my car. I knew I'd been in an accident, but I wasn’t comprehending the magnitude. In plain English, my Corolla was fucked.
I smelled burning and panicked. My first thought was my car's on fire, about to explode. I went into overdrive. I hit my hazard lights and tried to open my door. No luck. I climbed over the seat and pushed against both passenger doors. Nothing. All jammed. Commence freak-out.
"I'm not going to die," I thought as I began kicking and shoving my shoulder against the car door. I was about to try the other doors again when someone knocked on my window. A stranger was outside, telling me he was going to get me out. He fought with the door, finally opening it as the car made an ugly noise of bending metal. I grabbed my backpack and climbed to the front seat, only to be shoved back inside. The Good Samaritan shielded me with his body as a truck almost hit us, not even slowing as it passed the carnage of cars.
He grabbed my arm and we ran across the freeway. Another guy joined us and I can't for the life of me remember what he said, but I knew this man was the second person who had hit me. We raced to safety and then a couple approached me, a tall man and a dark-haired female. They asked if I was OK.
"Are you the assholes who hit me?" I asked the couple. The guy mumbled something before I cut him off and walked away. Something in me knew he was at fault and that he was drunk.
"Are you the assholes who hit me?" I asked the couple. The guy mumbled something before I cut him off and walked away. Something in me knew he was at fault and that he was drunk.
We joined the group of nine people standing to the side, which seemed like a lot of people for this accident, but I later learned this was a four-car collision. The police still hadn't arrived. I asked the Good Samaritan if I could use his phone as I’d lost mine, but not before telling him to call the police. I advised him to use specific keywords: "blocked traffic, potential DUI, possible injuries, dangerous conditions" to signify urgency. Responsible CQ struck again.
I looked around. My poor car, Fiona, who I’d owned for only five amazing months. What was left of her looked so twisted. Frame bent, tires popped, metal crumpled. I breathed a sigh of relief that my brush with death was just that, a brush. Behind my car was a white SUV with a mangled driver side. It clicked: The flash of white prior to impact was this car plowing into me. Other cars surrounded ours, but I couldn't stop staring at Fiona and the SUV.
The Good Samaritan asked me who I needed to speak with. "My mom," I said. One of the few numbers I know by heart, but the best person for me to talk to at a time like this. I prayed she'd answer. It was almost 2:30 a.m. by then. I called my mom from the stranger’s unknown number, and luckily she answered.
"Mom. It's me. I've been in an accident. I'm OK but the car is totaled,” I said. “Can you please come and be with me and take me to the hospital? I really need you." Even though she had to work early and was very sick, my mom got ready and came to me.
I wasn't the only DUI victim in the hospital that night. Victims of a different crash were in the waiting room, too, their injuries horrific and sobering. The driver of that crash was severely injured (to the point of needing plastic surgery). I saw his bloody face, his limp arm handcuffed to the bed. His family was in the waiting room, hysterical for him.
As we waited, the Good Samaritan watched over me, hugging me close. I couldn't stop shaking. I was cold, but I realize now, I was also in shock.
The paramedics arrived, using the ambulances to shield us from the oncoming traffic. I showed them my arm and they wanted to take me to the hospital, but I refused. I wanted my mom. I wasn't going without her, so they iced my injury in the ambulance instead. The police arrived as I was boarding, and I told them what had happened, and that the white SUV had caused the accident.
The police finished their questioning and released us. A squad car drove off, with piece of shit drunk driver in the back.
Satisfied, my mother and I went to ER. Four-and-a-half hours later, I had pain meds and an X-ray of my arm. Sadly, I wasn't the only DUI victim in the hospital that night. Victims of a different crash were in the waiting room, too, their injuries horrific and sobering. The driver of that crash was severely injured (to the point of needing plastic surgery). I saw his bloody face, his limp arm handcuffed to the bed. His family was in the waiting room, hysterical for him. It was crushing to hear them berate one another for letting him drive.
It’s now been two months since my wreck. The jerk who caused my accident didn't have enough insurance for all the havoc he caused, so my insurance had to pay my car loan. He was charged with a DUI, with an increase in offense because his BAC (blood alcohol content) was over 0.15, meaning he was double the legal limit. Even now, as I type this, I can't fucking believe his BAC was so high.
Drunk driving affects more than the person behind the wheel, even when you think it doesn’t. It’s completely unacceptable to risk someone else’s life because you think you’re OK to drive.
Because of this drunk, I spend my days on the phone with my insurance company or my lawyer, or at doctor's appointments. Yep, I hired a lawyer. Fuck that drunk driver. I've gotten countless X-rays and two MRIs, with more possibly to come. Because of him, my back is injured; I have a bulging disc that's obstructing a nerve on my left side. I'm having difficulty walking, which makes my job as a dog walker — or really anything requiring me to walk long distances or be on my feet — painful. I don't have another car yet, so I can't do the food delivery job I'd just started. My laptop was another casualty of this accident, thus limiting my freelance writing gigs. I am plagued by nightmares and horrendous flashbacks, so I'm currently in therapy. All in all, I'm thankful I'm alive, but that dick fucked up more than just my car.
Because of this drunk, I spend my days on the phone with my insurance company or my lawyer, or at doctor's appointments. My back is injured; I have a bulging disc that's obstructing a nerve on my left side. I'm having difficulty walking, which makes my job as a dog walker — or really anything requiring me to walk long distances or be on my feet — painful.
On a more positive note, I reconnected with the man who helped me. Not able to find my phone ended up being a blessing in disguise, since I had his number on my mom’s phone. I texted him, identifying myself, thanking him immensely, and asking if he wanted to meet in person. Arild and I met at the BrainWash Cafe and he recognized me instantly. I remembered him, too, but more so after he spoke. I brought him yellow orchids, my favorite flower in my favorite color. I teared up as we hugged.
Arild said he'd almost rear-ended me himself. After the accident, I was the only one still in the car. Everyone else was out and standing to the side of the freeway. Not even thinking twice, Arild pulled over and ran to me. He said he was only doing what was right, which warmed my heart.
Arild is from Scandinavia and said had this happened there, everyone would've stopped to help. "I'm surprised no one else did," he said. I'm not, but his actions just made me more grateful. It's not every day you meet your guardian angel.