Jason Stringer

“Fucking STOP!!” was all I heard from my passenger Danny.  I never even saw it coming; the P-plater’s car was in my constant blind spot.  No skreeching brakes, no swerve, no warning, just him screaming ‘fucking stop!’ as we began to turn right at an intersection in Mandurah.

Seconds later I was crawling from my car with one knee buckled out of joint, spitting blood as I went.  Before I could collapse to the ground, Danny was on his feet next to me, asking if I was OK.  For this second, I was not okay.  Far from it.  Ringing filled my ears and the cold filled my desperate lungs.  I had to calculate where I was and what had happened, but I couldn’t put the pieces together.  Literally, things were blurry.  Stars looked like streaking lights in the sky – probably like the headlights I had not seen coming, but Danny did.

I lay on the bitumen, my right knee giving me grief, the smell of smoke consuming my nostrils and the taste of blood sickening my mouth.  Faces started to appear above me.  Random strangers “Are you OK, mate?  Are you hurt?  Don’t get up!”  They held mobiles to their ears and blurted details of our location.  Triple Zero.  More strangers would soon come, wearing fluorescent vests, asking my name constantly and asking how many fingers they were holding in front of my face.  It was always three…

They cut my pants to check my knee.  No blood.  Hurts to touch, though OUCH FUCK YES don’t touch it! Okay, she’ll be right, just don’t move it. The lights atop their emergency vehicles pulsed around the scene over and over and over, adding to the manic tension: red, blue, orange, white, red, blue pulse pulse pulse…

Danny was above me again, his face littered with these random colours as he spoke.  Telling me he’s cool, I’m cool, everyone is cool, just do what they say.

I glance at the car for the first time.  I can’t believe I’m laying next to this wreck, this folded up box of metal.  How the hell did I crawl from that?  Danny informs me we’ve spun.  A lot.  About a 540 degrees, back up onto the curb we had just passed…

Then came the Officer.  “You were the driver?”

“Yes.”

“Wearing your seatbelt?”

“Not anymore.”

“This is your license?”

“When did you get my wallet?”

“Is this your license, Jason?”

“Yes.”

“I have to ask you to take a deep breath and blow hard into this for me…”

One second into giving the police officer his bretho test (0.00, in case you were wondering) I realised where the blood was coming from.  My bottom jaw had smacked the airbag so hard that bottom row of teeth slammed into the back of my top lip.  They had cut in several places, and cut sharp.  The sting was intolerable.  I finished the bretho and spat more blood, the taste beginning to send my stomach into circles.

Wait, airbags?  What?  Oh yeah… It came flooding back.  “FUCKING STOP!” Then a bang! All I recall is seeing BRIGHT light trough the smashing windshield and my airbag deflating in front of me, the steering wheel sucking it back like a hungry monster.  We were spinning and I couldn’t brake.  Without choice, without any control over my body, my lungs or my thoughts, I let out a horrendous primal scream.  A guttural yelp that reeked of fear and desperate for a God that might listen.  I felt Danny’s arm across my chest, holding me back on my seat.

It was less of a surprise for Danny.  He had seen the car coming, seen it get too close, realised the danger.  He later told me he saw the impact, saw the bonnet crumple up like and accordion.  I kind of wish I had, too, because the shock of this impact definitely took its tole on my emotional state.

The car stopped spinning, and so did my screaming, errr… manly yelp.  I instantly reached for my door handle, only to promptly fall out of the car and begin my episode of crawling away and spitting blood.  The door had popped open in the impact and the seatbelt had snapped away (they’re designed to do this, so they don’t cut you in half after impact.  Good thing.)

Danny was on his feet, calling 000, interacting with helpers and passengers in the other car.  Oh Christ, the other car!  Are they okay?  Are they okay?  How can I not move?  Let me move, let me check…

“They’re okay, man they’re fine.  Honest.  Everyone is okay… Don’t move.”

In the heat of the moment, I felt like I was being lied to, being told the best scenario to keep me calm and so I wouldn’t freak out (further).  Thankfully I would later find out it was the truth.  They were absolutely fine, give or take some scratches and a bloody nose.

I was waiting at an intersection, chatting to Danny about the movies we had just rented from Blockbuster.  I had waited at these lights many times over recent months.  I glanced up.  Green arrow… accelerate, began to turn, and that’s when it happened.  The oncoming car was running a red light, and I couldn’t see it coming.  It was in that perfect blind spot the whole way.  I didn’t even know what colour it was until the medics finally let me to my feet and took me to the ambulance.

Amongst the adrenaline of the aftermath, Danny hadn’t initially felt his severe back pain, so he was treated like a spinal for the remainder of our journey to the hospital.  Likewise, we’re both feeling the true brutal battering we took in that tiny cabin days later.  Bruises, scratches and aches are starting to emerge and remind us further just how lucky we were.

I had one policeman, one fireman, two ambulance officers and a nurse tell me they had seen less damage to a car with much more horrific results.  I cannot begin to express how grateful I feel to be able to say we walked away…

Late that night, my Father and Kerry drove us home from the hospital to where my brother and sister were waiting, looking after my sleeping son.  I bypassed them, hobbling on my braced-knee, I went straight to his room where he was sleeping sound in his cot.  Only a matter of footsteps into his room and he sprung up off his pillow, looked up at me, reached his little arms high and asked “Dada, hopup… up…”.

I’ve never held him so close for so long.  I’ve never appreciated his cuddle more.  I’ve never cried happier tears.