826 Valencia.

It was a day like any other for the past 2 and a half months. 


Ripe with the possibility for either monotony or disaster, which ever decided to show itself first.


I was looking for an entrace to 880 South, weaving in and out through lower East Oakland. The morning had already been rough, our meeting at ICS unfruitful. I was thinking of how I could catch up on service hours while out for the kids Thanksgiving break and had written 826 Valencia across the top of my left palm as a reminder to check in with the nonprofit for volunteer opportunities. I reached up to put my visor down, the ink standing out against my white skin like an eye sore when I spotted the sign.


Left, I needed to turn left. My eyes scanned the lights ahead. Green.


I paused at the intersection momentarily, waiting to see if it were clear before I began a careful turn. 


That's when I saw him. A blue BMW, late model, descending upon me from the overpass which had momentarily blocked him from view. My mind reeled trying to piece together its next action. I instinctually veered right, hoping he would see me in time and swerve to avoid the collision that was imminent. 


Nothing slowed down as I thought it would have. 


I thought it would hurt. 


I thought I might die. 


I screamed impulsively. An ugly gutteral sound. 


I don't know if I put my hands up to protect my face from the airbags or if the visor had acted as a guard. Everything smelled like burning plastic. My eyes rolled open and from across the street a crowd had already formed. 


A man was yelling at me through my windshield, pulling widly at my door to yank it open at the sight of smoke. The door opened, the cold afternoon air spilling in, the sound of voices and car horns evading the small space. 


Why did this happen? Why now? I looked down at my hands. 826 Valencia. Was that really so long ago that I wrote that? My head felt like it was rubber, unable to support itself. 


I felt a tug at my hand, directing my gaze to the man next to me. Jim. He was on the phone with 911 he said. He would stay with me until help arrived he said, the voice on the line directing him.


What year was it? He asked.
Where did I work? How old was I? Where was I headed? Where was I going?


I was drifting, suddenly exhausted. I felt another tug to stay awake. The shock, now fading, brought on tears. Another tug, this time for comfort. 


I handed him my phone to call my coworkers. To call my brother. I tried to stay lucid, stare out into the faces who were watching me like some science experiment gone wrong.


A fish bowl with two half-dead betas. 


The police came first, directing traffic. Next the firefighters. And then the EMTs. One was behind me, supporting my head as we waited for the gurney. 


His birthday was July 22nd, 1971. 16 years and 3 days before mine. I never saw his face. He tried to collect my hair into a bun to avoid getting caught in the neck brace. 


Next came Geoff. A young EMT with blue eyes and brown hair. He slid me onto the board, bringing me out into the intersection to strap me down, working fast and quietly, his hands cold to the touch.


The sky above me was clear, brilliant, endless. I was drifting again, but this time it was okay. Geoff told me to close my eyes and relax. 


Because I blacked out, I was trauma 2. I told Geoff I was afriad. He didn't hear me. He hummed to himself waiting for the ambulance to pass over railroad tracks before slidding the IV in and patting my arm gently. He prepared me to expect a lot of people in the Trauma exam room, it was a learning hospital. He would go with me as far as he could he said.


The hospital was freezing. The sound of muddled voices mixing with the hum of machines and tearing cloth. Cloth?


My clothes. I tried to tip my neck forward in my brace to watch as two sharp scissors began their ascent through every layer beginning with my jeans. All of it was coming off. I lay naked on the examination table for all to see.


All the burns. The bruises. The swelling. Along with the past scars, stretch marks, fat...


A nurse appeared with two warm blankets. Melissa. Melissa Jackson. 


For two hours Melissa took me through my CT scans and EKG reading. She commended me for my bravery and my tattoos. 


For another 6 I waited on the results. Finally able to use the bathroom, I shook of my gown letting it fall aside as I stood over the sink mirror. Black mascera pooled around my cheeks like oil, hair missing from where the tape and velcro had pulled it away. The burns had already started to blister, bruises along my chest and pelvis from the seatbelt slowly surfacing. My right ankle swollen to the size of an apple. 


I looked at my hands, still intact. 826 Valencia. 


How long had it been? How long would I be here? The tears threatened to come again, but I pushed them back and dressed myself. 


Outside Marco stood by my bed with the social worker assigned to my case. I lay down, taking hold of Marco's hand as I settled, ready to begin to process of picking up the pieces.


It had started as all other days have for the past 2 and a half months. Today, disaster showed up first.