I usually try to keep an open mind regarding the mention of provisional plate drivers in the media, but last night I found myself face to face with the results of the actions of one idiot driver.
Last night about 8:00, I get a call on my mobile. It's my brother, frantically asking if I can help. He's had a call at work that his wife's been in a car accident on the way to work, he's trying to get there but it will take him another twenty minutes - can I go there until he gets there? I ask about their kids, are they in the car with her? but luckily they're at home with their grandmother.
I'm fucking hopeless usually with motor vehicle accidents. I was in a four car accident years ago in which I lost my pregnancy and ended up with permanent back damage, thanks to a 17 year old P-plater. I avert my gaze when driving past accident sites. I hate rubberneckers and ghouls. Only seen photographs of the results and that was enough for me. But I forget about me and it's only a few streets away, so I'm there quickly.
K's distressed and in pain, she's trapped in the car, the car is resting on its side. She was driving through an intersection and didn't see the young idiot coming at her through the red light. The guy is unhurt, but crying and protests to the police that he was slowing down, struck her at 30km/h. A witness says bullshit. Six metres of tyre marks say bullshit.
What really upsets K is that they have to cut the roof to get her out because she has suspected spinal injuries. My brother arrives as they've got her out onto the stretcher. She cries to me that she can't end up in a bloody wheelchair. All she can remember is listening to the radio in the car, then nothing until she awoke to find herself in the car, feeling pain and broken glass, and strangers' voices saying, you'll be okay love, hang on.
She's off to hospital with my brother, I promise to go straight to reassure her kids. I panic when I arrive at her house and realise while standing in the verandah light that I've got blood on my clothes and forearms. I don't want to frighten the kids, so I have to step back into the darkness when they answer the door and whisper to their grandmother that I need to change somehow before they see the mess. She tells the boys that Aunty needs to put mum's laptop in her room for her so I duck in the main bedroom, wash up in the ensuite and borrow a coat and jeans.
I reassure the big boy that no, mummy's not dead, she'll see him tomorrow. The little one is autistic, so appears to be oblivious to the drama.
I didn't sleep much last night, but the news this morning is good. No spinal damage, but bruising to the brain, a couple of deep lacerations, bruising and smaller lacerations. I manage to make K laugh on the phone when I say now she won't get to play wheelchair basketball like Fraser. The other driver was found to be in the low-level drink driving range and will be charged.
The teenage son of one of my best friends died last week when his neck was broken in a speeding vehicle driven by his P-plater mate.
Perhaps I should ring up John Laws and join the chorus of curmudgeonly whingers.
