text: Calling 9-1-1 Rose: A voice asked, “Please state your emergency: Police, Fire or Ambulance?” “This is Rosemary Wesley; There’s been a vehicle rollover, on the S-curve in the Stevenson Road, eleven miles south of Paisley. “There’s an overturned half-ton truck in the ditch. The headlights are on and the wheels are still spinning. I’m going down there to see if anyone is inside. The hill is so steep, I’ll have to use a rope. I’ll leave my truck on the shoulder of the road with the four-way lights flashing,” I added. “Help is on the way.” The operator replied. “Please stay on the line so you can advise the number of passengers and their condition.” “Will do. I’ll need both hands for descending the hill, so I won’t be able to talk again until I’m there.” Tucking the phone into my coat pocket, I reached for the coil of rope I kept in the truck bed, opened the passenger door and tied one end of the rope to the opened window frame. I edged down the steep hill, using the rope to anchor my feet on the icy surface. The falling sleet trickled down my neck, soaking me to the skin. I’d come out of the office to find the spring rain had turned into sleet, coating the roads with a layer of ice. When I reached the bottom, I spoke to the operator again. “I’m down the hill, and approaching the vehicle now. It’s on its roof, and I’ll try to open the driver’s door.” Using my tiny flashlight, I shone the beam inside. “It looks like there’s only one person inside, a male who’s suspended upside down by his seat belt and appears to be semi-conscious.” “I copy - one male passenger with indeterminate injuries,” the 9-1-1 operator said. “Please stay at the scene until emergency crews arrive, and keep the victim awake, if possible.” “I’ll do that. I’m trying to open the door but it seems to be stuck.” The door was jammed. I yanked on the handle several times, then realized it could be locked from the inside. Leaning down, I tapped on the window, motioning him to unlock the door. He looked confused. I shouted, “Unlock the door!” He sluggishly reached across with his right hand to push the button to release the lock. I realized his left arm was must be pinned against the caved in door. I tried again, but it wouldn’t budge, so I asked him to open his window. He finally pressed the window button and held it. It opened halfway. I was able to see inside, and confirm that he was alone in the truck. There was blood on his face, and I wondered how bad he was hurt. If he hadn’t been wearing the seat belt, he’d likely have gone through the windshield, which was laying on the ground. I considered trying to help get him out through the hole, but decided to wait for the paramedics, lest I complicate his injuries. I told him my name, and asked his. “Ben Buchanan,” he rasped. He was a young man, with dark hair, wearing a dark suit jacket but no tie. I remembered the operator’s instructions to keep him talking, so I told him it was a dangerous road in bad weather, and that I lived nearby. In fact, my lane was just a few yards beyond, and I had been almost home when I’d spotted headlights in the ditch. He said he’d been on his way home from his grandfather’s funeral, and it had turned to sleet as he drove. He’d swerved to miss a fallen tree branch, and had lost control on that bad curve. I’d seen that branch, jutting out onto the roadway, and had been able to miss it. Being familiar with the road, I’d been driving especially slowly as I approached the S-curve, knowing it had been the scene of many accidents, and tonight’s icy conditions had made it treacherous. He said he couldn’t move his left arm; it was jammed against the door frame, and he thought it might be broken. I noted that the dash was crunched in, but his legs didn’t seem pinned. He said he wasn’t in any pain; he was possibly in shock, and not feeling it yet. Soon we heard multiple sirens, and as the flashing lights came into sight, I told him help had arrived, and they’d soon have him out of there. I stayed with him as all the emergency vehicles pulled up beside my old half-ton truck. Floodlights shone down on us, as the responders assessed the situation. I aimed my flashlight at the rope by which I’d descended the hillside, hoping they wouldn’t attempt that icy slope without assistance. But they had climbing gear, including a winch, and I stepped back as three men and one woman, in yellow slickers approached the wreck. Not wanting to be in their way, I told Ben that I wished him well, then carefully climbed back to my truck. I turned the heater up full blast and held my hands over the vent, trying to warm them. A Police officer came to my window, and I lowered it inviting her to sit inside, out of the sleet, to talk. She did so, asking what time I’d come upon the accident. I told her everything I knew about it. When I said my laneway was just ahead, and I needed to get home to let my dog out, and still had horses to feed, she agreed, saying she’d contact me later if she needed to. When she left, I eased my truck back onto the slick road and crawled the short distance to my lane. I was never so glad to see my cozy little farm house. After changing into warm dry clothes, and a rain slicker, hat and boots, I went out to feed the horses. They were huddled under the overhang, looking miserable. I let them in, tossed them each a biscuit of hay, closed their stall doors, and hurried back to the house. I wondered how badly hurt Ben Buchanan was, and hoped he’d be all right. It had been a rough day for him, first his grandfather’s funeral and then wrecking his truck on the way home. I hoped his injuries weren’t too serious. By the time the Police and paramedics had arrived, I’d felt like he was almost a friend. Ben The bright lights hurt my eyes, so I closed them again. When I next awoke, I saw that the walls were aqua, and a wavy patterned curtain hung beside my bed. Looking at the waves made me dizzy, so I looked away. I was in a bed with side rails. There was a cast on my left arm and my right one was attached to the bed rail. A tube ran from it to a bottle hanging from a tall pole. I realized I was in a hospital. I closed my eyes to shut out the harsh light and when I opened them again, the quiet shush of a nurse’s soft soled shoes approached my bed. She was tall and stern looking, until she smiled. “Good morning! I’m glad you’ve decided to join us at last!” Her voice spoke kindness and concern. “How long have I been sleeping?” I croaked. My throat was parched, and I gratefully drank from the straw in the glass of water she held for me. “Just a few sips at first, Mr. Buchanan. You’ve been out of it for a day and a half. From what the medics said, you were lucky to have so few injuries.” I looked at my cast, “What other injuries do I have?” “Your left arm is broken, and your left knee was jammed against the door. It’s not broken, but the bone is bruised. You’ll need crutches for a while. You have some stitches and a concussion from that bump on your head.” She stuck a thermometer in my ear, frowning as she recorded my temperature on a chart at the foot of my bed. Her fingers were cool on my wrist as she took my pulse, then pulled a machine on wheels to my bedside and slipped a blood pressure cuff on my arm. When it released, she smiled. “Your vitals are improving. You’ll likely be moved from ICU to a room of your own, after the doctor checks you.” “Can you free my right hand? I can’t even scratch my nose, with it tied down like this.” “You’ll want to scratch very gently. Your face is quite bruised. We secured your hand to prevent you from pulling the IV line out in your sleep. You’re receiving a mild pain med and fluids, to keep your body hydrated.” “I remember heading for home after my grandfather’s funeral, but nothing else.” “The roads were icy from freezing rain. You spun out on a curve and your truck rolled down a steep bank. It was on its roof, with you hanging upside down by your seatbelt. It’s good that you were wearing it - it likely saved your life. “A driver not far behind you, spotted your headlights in the ditch, and called 9-1-1. She lives just past the accident site, and she stayed with you until emergency personnel arrived,” she said, undoing the strap holding my right wrist to the metal railing. “I guess I owe her my life. I need to thank her.” “She’s called the hospital asking about you. I’ll find out her name for you.” “Thank you.” I said, as she left the room. I dozed again until the doctor bustled in. He glanced at my chart, and smiled. “I’m Dr. Nelson. I’m glad to see you’re doing better, Benjamin. We’ll move you to a ward upstairs this afternoon. I was concerned when you didn’t wake up sooner. You have a broken arm, a badly wrenched knee, a concussion and a few stitches on your forehead. Your face is bruised; you’ll have couple of shiners for a few days. Just say, ‘If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy!’” “Ow, it hurts to laugh. It feels like I’ve been run over by an Army tank, I said. “I’m due back in surgery, so I’ll look in on you tomorrow.” He was out the door before I could reply. A different nurse entered the room. She lowered the bed rail, pressed a button and the head of the bed started rising. When I was almost sitting straight up, she put an arm around my shoulders, the other under my knees, and swung me around so I was sitting on the side of the bed, without having to strain my sore ribs. “It’s time to get you upright. You’ve been lying in bed for too long. Let’s take a trip to the bathroom, and see how it feels to be mobile again.” She placed a pair of cotton hospital slippers with no-skid soles on my feet, and held me as I tried to stand. Every muscle in my body screamed at the punishment. She undid the IV pole, moved a wheelchair into place and eased me onto it. I was grateful for the effortless ride across the room to the washroom. My pillow looked like my best friend when I got back, and I was asleep as soon my head hit it. It seemed like no time at all until I was awakened again by an aide bringing dinner. It was scrambled eggs and toast, a small packet of strawberry jam, a glass of milk and a cup of coffee, with cream and sugar on the side. I told her to keep the cream and sugar, as I drink tea and coffee black. When I’d finished eating, I slept some more. My bed was moving! I awoke to find two orderlies lifting me onto a different bed. When they saw my eyes open, the one at the foot of the bed said, “You’re moving from ICU to your own room. That means you’re no longer considered critical, and you’re on the mend.” They swung my bed around, through the door, down the hall and into an elevator. I felt the rising movement and the sudden cessation of it as the elevator stopped. The door opened, and I was moving down another hall, around a corner and into my new room. The walls were light blue, and the bedside curtain was cream, thankfully with no wavy pattern to make me dizzy. A picture window with a wide ledge below it took up most of one wall. The afternoon sun brightened the room. “Do you want the curtain pulled?” one of the orderlies asked me. “No, leave it open, please.” I replied. “What floor am I on?” “The third floor, west wing,” he said, as he attached my IV line again. “You’ll get regular meals now and be able to have visitors.” “My only visitors might be the Police. I don’t know anyone else in the area.” “Is that so? I heard there’s a pretty young lady who’s been asking about you. Maybe you’re keeping secrets from us.” He winked, as they went out the door. That gave me something to think about - I hadn’t known anyone in this area. I was just driving home from my granddad’s funeral when the accident happened. Nobody would know I was here. I wondered if anyone had found my phone. I needed to notify my neighbor that I was stranded here so he could collect my mail and forward the important things to me. The building contractor I worked for needed to be advised that I was laid up, and wouldn’t be able to make custom cabinets for him for a while. If I lost the contract for the new high-end housing development, it would be a huge financial loss. I needed access to a computer, to manage my online banking, like utility payments. My head was buzzing with all the complications an icy road had caused. I hadn’t been speeding; it was dark and I remember feeling the wheels slipping on the ice, so I was taking it easy. Little bits of it came back to me now, but not the accident itself. I didn’t dare tell anyone that I’d seen an angel standing on her head, talking to me while I’d sat in my truck. Nobody would believe me; they’d think I’d been seeing things. Maybe I’d been so near death an angel had really appeared. I’ve heard of such things when a person almost dies. Trying to think about it made my head ache worse, so I closed my eyes again. Rose When I called the hospital this afternoon, the nurse told me Mr. Buchanan was awake, and had been moved from Intensive Care to a room, and he could have visitors. I’d been worried; Waiting with him for the ambulance had made me want assurance that he was okay. I asked at the nurse’s station for his room number, and took the elevator to the third floor, followed the signs to room 315. His face was bruised black and blue and he was sleeping. I’d seen little of him that night, only what my feeble my flashlight beam had shown. I remembered seeing blood on his face. No wonder he’d been in a coma for a day and a half. Despite the livid bruising, I could tell he was young and handsome. His curly hair was a deep auburn, and he had laugh lines around his eyes. I still couldn’t see what color they were. I left him sleeping and went to the cafeteria for coffee, He was awake when I returned to his room, but he was not alone. A Police officer was with him, so I stayed out in the hall. I heard part of their conversation, the officer telling him that his truck had been hauled to the Police locked yard, and that it was a write-off. I’d guessed as much from what I’d seen that night. Not wanting to eavesdrop, I walked to the corner of the hall and back, then to the other end and back. The officer was leaving when I got there, and he smiled as we met in the hall. I suddenly felt shy about talking to Ben. He turned his head slowly and looked as I entered the room. “Hello, Mr. Buchanan, I see you are awake now.” His eyes were blue like the sky outside his window. “Uh-uh, not Mr. Buchanan, that’s my dad! I’m Ben,” he said in a raspy voice. “Okay, Ben. I’m Rosemary, or Rose to my friends. You’re more colorful now but better than the last time I saw you,” I said with a smile. “Don’t laugh, but you remind me of the angel that was standing on her head and talking to me when I was in my wrecked truck the other night.” “Sorry, but I have to laugh at that. I’m not an angel and I was not standing on my head; it’s you and the truck who were upside down. I’m glad you’re on the mend. When you see someone in a difficult situation, it makes you want to know that things turned out all right.” “‘Thank You,’ does not nearly express my gratitude. The Police told me there was little traffic that night, due to the ice storm. If you hadn’t found me, I could have hung there upside down until morning. He said you likely saved my life, so I owe you big time.” “A simple ‘Thanks’ is plenty. I’m so glad I could help.” I felt tingles go all through me as my eyes met his, like I was seeing my future, and he would play an important part in it. Ben: I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror, and knew I looked like Frankenstein’s monster. How could this lovely girl smile at me? She was truly an angel.