Island
Living 41: My Brush with Mr. Death
by A. D.
Coleman |
|
I’m now
carless. Here’s the story:
It was Friday
afternoon, June 30, about 5:30 on a lovely, sunny
day. I was heading home to pack and otherwise prepare
for my departure Monday evening to France for the
Rencontres Internationales de la Photographie in
Arles -- to which my complimentary plane ticket
and hotel room had been provided by the festival.
I'd driven into Brooklyn to spend the afternoon
with my old friend Julio, with whom I'd had a serious
falling-out a decade ago. We're in the process of
rebuilding the friendship; it had gone very nicely,
and I was feeling great.
I hadn't planned
to take the car, initially; I'd intended to go over
to Manhattan by public transportation, then subway
to Julio's apartment in Brooklyn Heights, and come
back the same way. But events conspired to have
me running a bit late, and the car was available
and expedient, so off I went.
I had no trouble
finding parking in the Heights, unusually. On my
way to my parking space, I passed the editor under
whom I'd worked briefly in 1967, Alan J. Marks,
who first got me interested in photography. Standing
on a street corner, he looked typically distracted,
and I was driving and a few minutes late to get
to Julio's, so I didn't honk or make contact with
him -- just watched him cross the street and walk
away. An intriguing touch of personal history, I
thought. Julio and I spent a good afternoon in his
apartment, talking and looking at his most recent
work. Then we went out for an iced coffee, after
which I got in the car and drove back toward Staten
Island.
It was rush
hour on Fourth of July weekend, and I expected to
hit serious traffic on the BQE but somehow didn't.
So I made decent time getting back to the island.
The weather was so lovely, I found myself thinking,
"What a beautiful day! I'm so lucky to be alive."
Spontaneously, I began chanting the Buddhist mantra
I use in my practice, which I haven't recited for
some time. It has to do with accepting responsibility
for everything that happens to you -- embracing
your karma, as it were.
I made my usual
turn onto Hylan Boulevard, turned left past the
firehouse onto Tompkins Avenue in Rosebank. I have
some connection to this close-knit little Italian
community: I did a community-based history project
there under the sponsorship of the Snug Harbor Cultural
Center in 1996. (Alan Magnotti, one of a group called
the Rosebank Boys, was my liaison in the community.)
The streets were crowded: It was the last day of
school, lots of kids celebrating, people walking
around, sidewalks full.
I don't drive
fast as a rule, never on the streets of the island.
I was doing about 20-25 mph on this main drag, with
the right of way and a green light ahead of me on
St. Mary's Avenue. A block past that, I'd turn right
to stop at the A&P and pick up something for
dinner that night.
I was right
in front of the Rosebank Boys' former storefront
social club/office when suddenly, from Virginia
Avenue, a small side street on the right, a matte-black
1980 Trans-Am roared out past a stop sign, no more
than ten feet in front of me. I wouldn't have swerved
if I could have -- too many pedestrians about. But
I had literally not a moment to consider it; I hit
the brake and didn't even have time to think "Oh
hell!" before we collided. His speed was such
that he spun me 90 degrees counter-clockwise.
I don't think
I blacked out, but I probably closed my eyes. When
I next saw the world, I was facing ninety degrees
to the south of where I'd been headed -- that is,
I was now pointed across the street. My chest hurt
terribly; either I'd whacked it on the steering
wheel or strained it jerking against the seatbelt.
The tips of my fingers tingled. Otherwise I seemed
unhurt.
Within seconds
there were people around us. A man unbuckled my
seatbelt and told me turn my car off. (I'd already
done that, because it was shuddering and smoke was
pouring out of the front of the hood.) He identified
himself as an off-duty fireman, and told me to give
him my car keys, which I did. He asked me if I had
any pain. I told him about my chest and fingers.
A woman identified herself as an off-duty paramedic,
and asked more questions. Within a few more minutes
we had on the scene a fire truck, ambulances, police
-- we'd blocked the intersection with our accident,
so they were diverting traffic. Someone in shorts
and T-shirt was taking photos.
Amazingly, I
didn't have a single moment of fear, or panic, or
even anxiety. I knew that the car was seriously,
perhaps terminally damaged. I had a sense that I
was basically okay. But my first conscious thought,
before the man opened my door and unbuckled my seatbelt,
was, "What a beautiful day! I'm so lucky to
be alive." Then I decided that I had to rely
on the kindness and competence of total strangers,
and did so without a moment's hesitation or a twinge
of nervousness.
They put me
on a board, tucked me into the ambulance, put a
saline drip into me, drove me to St. Vincent's Hospital
here on the island -- a good hospital (a teaching
hospital, as it happens). X-rays, CATscans, the
whole nine yards. Three hours later, there I was
in a hospital gown, in a hospital bed, in a hospital
-- my first time ever to be hospitalized.
My pain level
was manageable with Tylenol laced with codeine.
It hurt to take a full breath, because my chest
muscles and breastbone had been bruised, but I could
get plenty of air just by breathing shallowly. There
really wasn't any reason to call anyone and worry
them, so I just contacted my neighbors, got a late
meal from a night nurse, took some Tylenol and went
to sleep.
Saturday I basically
sat around, practiced getting in and out bed, walked
around the ward a bit (pushing my saline drip on
that little hanging device with wheels, just like
in the movies), and felt calm -- euphoric, almost
ecstatic, in fact -- and continuously grateful to
still be here and in one piece. I called some of
the people in my local poetry group, two of whom
came to visit. So I learned that I'm a guy who has
friends who'll come to visit him in the hospital.
Though some
interns stopped by on morning rounds, no doctor
came to talk with me about my X-rays, CATscans,
etc. Nurses came in from time to time to see how
I was doing. I used the time to draft an introduction
to a monograph, and to rest. The food sucked. (What
else is new?)
Sunday morning
I got dressed for the first time. (They hadn't had
to cut my clothes off me, fortunately.) I asked
the doctor on duty when I'd be released. She responded
that I couldn't be released until a radiologist
had reviewed my scans and X-rays and approved the
release. I asked when the radiologist would be in.
Not Sunday, she said; possibly Monday. When on Monday?
She couldn't say; maybe morning, maybe afternoon.
If the radiologist didn't come Monday, when would
he or she come? Not Tuesday, she answered -- that
was the Fourth of July, after all. Probably Wednesday.
I thought hard
about the scary statistics on iatrogenic disease
-- illnesses caused by doctors and hospitals. And
about the possible effects of three more days's
worth of hospital food. Then I told her that, after
consulting with my own team of medical specialists,
I was going to follow their advice -- by signing
myself out, against hospital recommendations, and
going to the south of France to recuperate.
An hour later
I was home, and slept soundly that night in my own
bed. Monday I went to the towing company to look
at and photograph the car, which was totalled --
as was the Trans-Am, which went to the same lot.
I emptied the car (a 1989 Mazda LX) of my possessions,
thanked it, and said goodbye. Her name was Fini
(for Finland -- I bought her from a Finnish embassy
employee, through a former girlfriend's father);
she served me well for six years and 60,000 miles,
traveled all the way to Tucson and back without
complaint, and took the bullet for me in a last
act of self-sacrifice. If she hadn't been so well-constructed,
I might not be here to tell the tale.
Thirty-six hours
later I was in Arles. The perfect prescription:
sun, great food, fresh air, European quality of
life, colleagues and friends who took care of me.
I took ibuprofen and applied some homeopathic remedies
that I got in a French drugstore -- arnica cream
and pills, mostly. Possibly found a publisher for
a book of my essays translated into French. Made
a day-trip to the little town where I spent a year
and half of my childhood, met the people who live
on the grounds of the house I lived in then, saw
my old school. La vie en rose.
(To be continued.)
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©
Copyright 2000 by A. D. Coleman. All rights reserved.
By permission of the author and Image/World
Syndication Services,
P.O.B. 040078, Staten Island, New York 10304-0002
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