Highway #6

“Where are we!” I shouted from the ditch.

“Number 6! We’r ‘n 6!” he bellowed back.

I told 911.

“Let me confirm. You are south of Regina,” dispatch mechanically droned.

“No! No-no-no! We’re on #6!” I shouted across the highway again.

“Where are we!!”“Halfway – HALFWAY! … between Milestone and Wilcox!” he bellowed, shivering in his jean jacket, feet glued to the ice-caked pavement.

I punched out details to the impassionate dispatch voice. The voice confirmed location then unloaded a stream of trivial questions.

Didn’t she know I had better things to do?

It was early November, and my boss and I were home bound from an out-of-town worksite. A winter snowstorm had swept in. We never discussed not driving home. Besides the sun was high, the highway was clear. How bad could things be?

It was a smooth new highway with shoulders, a real treat in Saskatchewan. As prairie folk, born and raised, both of us had that paradoxical blend of wisdom and stupidity. We were confident driving in all conditions, even when it was obvious the safest option was to stay put. Within the first ten miles, we started counting abandoned vehicles frozen in ditches.

As we glided past, “Nope – that one’s empty,” We kept driving.

We saw steam rising from the semi-truck, cockeyed on the wrong side of the road. In the opposite ditch a pick-up truck was lodged nose-deep in the snow.

Wordlessly I reached for my phone, that voice in my head, “Can you manage this yourself? If not call 911.”

911 answered as we parked, grabbed high vis vests, a first aid duffle bag and without talking, swung into action.

A bystander dumbfounded by the scene, stood motionless behind the cock-eyed semi-truck. Brushing past him, I strode toward the pick-up truck.

In the corner of my eye, I saw the semi-truck driver stomping back and forth on frozen ruts.

The pick-up’s front end was smashed; its’ driver moaned and rolled inside her seatbelt. In the back I saw two child seats. I braced. For a moment I wondered if I had the guts to help.

The 911 voice kept grilling me.

“No!” I hollered at 911. “No! Nobody’s impaled… semi-conscious! One adult. Two kids.”

“Here! Talk to this woman!” I rammed the phone into my boss’s hand.

Ripping open the crumbled door, I climbed into the back seat. What the hell do I do now?

A voice said, “You know.”

Decades old training from lifeguarding and outdoor survival kicked in.

Mother’s instinct led the way.

“Hi, my name is Lauren.” I cooed to the oldest child. “What’s your name?”  

“I’m Hayley,” she whimpered, shivering in her T-shirt.

“Hi Hayley. How old are you?”

“Six,” Two feet away a smaller sibling in a pink parka screamed from her car seat.

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Riley,” she whispered.

I started talking. Riley shrieked more. She arched, arms flailing as the car seat restrained her.

“Rock-a-by-baby in the treetop,” I crooned, thrusting a Teddy bear into her chubby hand.

The shrieking lowered to a wail, her eyes wild.

The freezing wind roared through shattered glass and crumbled metal.

Shit! Hypothermia!

How did I know that?

Instantly, a long-ago voice teaching survival kept guiding me. The head; cover their heads. Conserve body heat.

“Here Riley, you can have my togue.”  I shoved my headgear onto the two-year-old. She ripped it off and threw it in my face.

“Okay sweetheart. Will you wear Hayley’s hat?” my mind raced. Still wild-eyed, the toddler looked through me. To slow the frigid wind tunnel, I yanked the crumbled door closed.

“Hayley, can you wear my hat? Riley needs your hat,” I gently asked.

“Okaaaay,” her shiver had turned into full body shaking.

I plucked off Hayley’s hat and slapped it onto the toddler. I shoved my own togue onto the six-year-old.

She needed more.

Blankets!

Squeezing out of the wreckage I hollered to my boss.

Nope.

Shit! Christmas sales everywhere had $5 blankets. Racing up to the pavement I flagged down a motorist who was inching around the crash site. With vacant stares on their faces, both adults smiled dumbly and waved back.

“Stupid people! Can’t you see I need help?”  I cursed.

Jumping to within inches of the car, I flapped both arms like a lunatic. The car slid to an icy stop. I grabbed their blanket without even a simple thank you and raced back to the kids.

Hayley kept shaking. Riley kept wailing. I kept singing.

I became aware that my boss was talking to the driver. I know not what he said. In an instant – or was it an hour – a first responder spoke through the broken window.

“Hi.”

“Take this one first. Hypothermia.” I commanded. He handed me scissors and I cut the belts that anchored the older child’s life-saving seat.

“Hayley! Age six.” I barked, pushing her out the door. Helping hands relayed her up to the Ambulance.

“This one is next. She’s going into shock.” Riley screeched more as I quit singing. Wind whipped everything. I struggled to cut the belts. I swore like a sailor. Then she was free!

“Riley. Age two,” I slid the car seat over.

The voices relayed, “Boy. Riley. Age two.”

“No! No! No! It’s a girl. Riley!”

The voices corrected and I heard Riley crying as they passed her up the ditch.

Now the mom. Nobody was talking to her. I leaned into the front seat, as rescuers prepared her for transfer.

“Hi. My name is Lauren. Your kids are safe.” Her eyes rolled.

“Help is here. This is what they’re gonna do.” I said, not knowing if she could hear.

“You’re gonna be lifted onto a bed with wheels. They’re gonna wrap you in blankets,” I said.

By that time paramedics had positioned a neck brace.

“You’ll feel the blankets tighten. Are you okay?”

What a stupid question, Lauren!

“You’re gonna go downhill for a bit. Then we’re gonna go up to the road,” She moaned.

“… my kids?” she groaned.

“Your kids - they’re waiting for you - in the ambulance.” Blank eyes looked at me. She asked again about her kids.

“They’re okay. You’ll see ‘em right away. Hold my hand.” She grabbed it.

“Okay, breath,” Pain ripped her lips as rescuers lifted her from the crumpled seat.

“Squeeze my hand! You’re doing good.” Her death grip blanched my hand.

“Breath…. good.” she gasped.

My hand throbbed, knuckles crossed like in those childhood games of Uncle.

“Okay. Uphill now. Squeeze” she squeezed.

“Breath.” She screamed.

“Good – good. Doing good. Breathe.” She exhaled.

In the next moment, the Ambulance was gone. Fire fighters cleared the roadway. Where did the police come from? The immobilized bystander was in the back seat of one cruiser: the semi-truck driver in another. A police officer walked to up me. Over his shoulder, I watched the Ambulance grow small in the distance. He asked for my contact information. Then he left.

It was still daylight when we pulled away from the crash site and drove home in semi-silence.

In her book, The Unthinkable: Who Survives When Disaster Strikes – and Why, award-winning journalist, Amanda Ripley explored how human beings reacted to danger and what can make a difference between life and death. She looked at how ordinary people responded during epic disasters like 9/11. Ripley also explored the brain’s fear circuits and the brain’s ancient and inadequate responses.

In her theory, The Survival Arc, Ripley says people, when faced with imminent danger move through three stages; denial, deliberate, decide. The more efficiently a person moves through these three stages, the better their chances for survival are.

What will your subconscious life lessons lead you to do in the moment?

 Next time, what will mine do?

I don’t know, but I do know that on that November day, my boss and I didn’t plan to rescue, but we managed to stand tall.

Daisy & Goliath: Deny. Deliberate. Decide. Quickly.