Crash Test Dummy

How a car accident may lead to a side hustle

Oct 26, 2024

When I open my eyes, gray static lines are on parade. They move, undulating, fluttering across my field of vision. I hear a male voice outside my car window.

She’s moving.

She’s clutching her chest.

This man is talking to 9-1-1.

A curtain of puffy clouds surrounds me. Air bags.

I’ve been in a car accident.

It feels like three Sumo wrestlers are jumping up and down on my chest giving me new appreciation for crash test dummies.

The good samaritan calls Evan (aka the GOAT) while a young woman wearing a lot of eyeliner squats and balances in front of me to screen for a head injury. I’ve had this test before so I fire off the answers: It is Friday, October 18. Joe Biden is president. The year is 2024. Fortunately, she skips the count backwards from 100 by 5’s. Even on a good day this is a challenge.

I’m loaded onto an ambulance and immediately start crying. Evan pops his head in; gives my hand a squeeze. He is going to take the dog home and meet me. I’d been following him to do an errand when I turned left at an intersection. That’s all I know; all I remember.

BP spiking.

Ok, I sheepishly admit I watched all seasons of Fire Country. I also worked part-time at a hospital for seven years. Between the two I’ve seen patients exhibit all kinds of behavior. No one is going to be talking about my blubbering behavior during happy hour. I have to get it together. I will be the OG of the ER. But until we get there, Captain Biceps, the fireman, will have to hold my hand.

My mom was a champion hospital hand holder. During the last years of her life she rotated in and out of hospitals, extended care centers and finally, a nursing home. Whenever staff, family, or a volunteer entered her room her hand would flutter up from her side often looking like the wounded wing of a bird. Sometimes there were no words. Sometimes she’d croak out a greeting. Sometimes she wondered if she was dying. But always, always her soft wrinkled hand conveyed the same strong message: See me. I’m a person, not just a patient.

Like many other mothers, mine too, always recommended clean underwear before leaving the house in case of a car accident. I celebrate the fact that I have taken a shower and put on my favorite sweats and sweatshirt. Even better, the sweatshirt has the logo of the hospital where I once worked.

Cred!

I’ll have cred when I arrive.

At 10:30 a.m. the ER is crowded. My bad ass OG vibe must be working as my purse is inspected for guns, knives, tasers and mace. A German Shepard with a menacing look patrols with a security guard. There’s the unmistakable sound of intractable emesis. This is the medical term for uncontrollable retching. Not one but two women are having this experience.

We wait.

I catastrophize. Maybe a mini stroke?

And wait.

And wait. The Emesis twins are now doing their thing in unison.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

I could bleed out at this rate. I believe this was covered in Fire Country, season 2 episode 3.

Wait.

After two hours I use my tried and true technique to move things along. I go to the bathroom. As soon as I pull down my pants, actually Evan has to do it, I hear my name being called.

Works every time.

Before exiting the bathroom, I gingerly lift up my shirt to discover I have sprouted a third boob. A shelf boob to be exact. Right above, “the girls” is a swelling lateral lump. Sternum injury. The seatbelt has done its job.

The wildly over caffeinated ER doctor automatically takes my hand. He looks at my third boob. “Oh, this is fractured!” He orders a CT scan and an EKG. Suspect fracture, R/O internal bleeding. I’m a huge fan of the warm blankets the ER dispenses so I cocoon myself in several until the CT squad comes to get me. While waiting I recommend the nurse and doctor read Freida McFadden’s The Devil Wears Scrubs. Thinking about books is better than thinking about the elephant on my chest. While I’m at it I also encourage them and anyone else I encounter to vote, (yes, I know I need a 12-step program for my election anxiety).

Just before I slide into the donut shaped hole of the CT machine one of the women pipes up, “Are you wearing Vuori pants?” I stifle a laugh. Why yes, I am. This is a running joke between Evan and I. At his last doctor’s appointment the doctor walked in and immediately said, “Are you wearing Vuori?” He went on to add he would never buy a pair but received a pair as a gift and wears them all the time.

We do wear Vuori. In fact, we live in Vuori. We each own one pair we wear on repeat. Neither one of us can pronounce the brand name but they are our daily go-to in colder weather. Yes, they are wildly expensive but trust me if you try them on you will experience thousands of butterfly kisses on your legs and pull out your credit card without hesitation. How much are they? Let’s do the math:

Miss Palmer spends $100 on a pair of Vuori pants. However, she used her REI member rewards which offered 10% from the $339 she spent last year, giving her a credit. She wears these Vuori pants four months out of the year, four times a week for three years. Calculate her credit and the cost per wear. Show your work.
Nothing. Zero. Nada. It may even be a negative number.

I’m discharged. The radiologist and ER doctor disagree on the CT results. Potato, potahto. Fracture, fracshure. At long last I’m a woman of mystery. At this point I don’t care. I only want to be home under the care and supervision of my dog, Baxter McGruff, whose bedside manner makes Nurse Ratched look like Mother Teresa.

At home I am too tired to move. But not too tired to think about a possible side hustle as a Vuori brand ambassador or influencer. And not too tired to remember mothers are always right–it’s important to wear clean clothes, bonus points if they’re expensive. And despite obvious angulation of the sternum, I'm not too tired to be enormously grateful for the fact I’m still here. My sternum, pride and sadly, my car, may not be intact but my sense of humor definitely is.

I’m going to be just fine. And once fine, I’m going straight to REI to treat myself to another pair of Vuori pants. They cost nothing.