(and back out again) by Crack episode 3 of an ongoing, yet sadly true, story

Whatever happens when déjà vu and bad karma Catch-22 on the ethereal plane, that's what is happening to me. It is me, my car and the house, again. And I am wondering if I am caught in a bad 70's sitcom rerun (never mind which one, they were all basically the same) or is someone up there just trying to make me crazy? If you live anywhere on the East Coast, you know what it's been like ever since mid-January when Mother Nature decided she'd send us wee mortals a little reminder of just Who's Who on the cosmological scale and that she's pretty pissed at us for making such a mess of Her place. If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's been snowing sideways. Now this is a pretty spectacular Winter Wonderland show if you happen to be watching from the cozy comfort of your own home, but when you are driving 10 miles an hour on the Interstate with bumper-to-bumper cars masquerading as migrating snowdrifts, it's another story. Why I was out in this mess can be chalked up to either stupidity, capitalism or force of habit. I won't bother to guess which impulse prevailed and ask you to do likewise. But when the inevitable car took its inevitable skid into my lane, I actually avoided an accident by swerving deftly out of the way and inevitably spun my own car into the median barrier. Thankfully, we were not going too fast, but it was enough to jar my body and my senses and to stop the inching traffic dead. I looked to my accomplice in crime: a nondescript man with glasses in a bundled coat. He looked up warily...and drove away.

Readers may remember the last time someone drove off without my getting a license plate number I had serious hell to pay regardless of who was really at fault for smashing my car with various blocks of wood. While I may be slow, (in this case about 10 mph), I do learn! I followed this car, taking note of his plate should he bolt -- a pretty low likelihood since we were traveling at the speed of kneecapped wiener dogs. He finally caught onto the fact I was waving him off the road by pointing at himself and the next exit sign quizzically. I nodded an enthusiastic 'Yes' and hit the turn signal with a slightly aching hand. We pulled into a gas station and traded information. I looked at my car: not too bad with a broken light and the edge of the rim banged up...the rest of the car was too dirty with slush and salt to tell. I feared hidden damage. I tried to be mild as I stood in the snow as he wrote down his information in the warmth of his own car. "Can you read me my license number?" I went to the back of the car and read it aloud, suspicious that he'd hit the gas. Paranoid or prepared? Experience has spoken. "This a new car?" "About a year." "Huh," A new car every year? I can't imagine this suit's life. "I still can't get used to East Coast driving with turn-signals optional." "I wasn't turning, I was swerving to avoid another car." "Oh." That was some swerve... "Is that everything?" "Yep." He looked up, "You want to call the police?" This is where I should have said, "Yes, by all means! Let's do things by the book!" I, however, looked out into the crawling traffic, calculated both our work schedules, worried over my big morning meeting and figured we'd sooner see lunch than a patrol car. "No, I'll call it in at work." He drove off, as did I, and went to work. I called my car insurance (who, I'm certain, have a dartboard with my face on it) and the police (who refused to make a record once information was voluntarily exchanged. "It's now a civil matter." the police officer advised. I have no idea what that meant.) and then prepared for my meeting. My hand still hurt, actually the whole arm did. I called my husband (yikes!) who advised ice and going to the Emergency Room right away. Sure, sure. I made baggies of snow and waited patiently for the swelling to fade. My arm throbbed and purple blotches appeared at the base of my thumb...well, I reasoned, if it still hurt after my meeting, I'd go to the Emergency Room.

It did and I did. However, when I phoned my HMO for permission to go to the hospital by my home, I was advised to go to a hospital "cleared" by my insurance, the closest one being deeper in the city proper. With a heavy sigh, I sloshed out to my car and was surprised my alarm wasn't enabled. No...I realized the alarm wouldn't disable. Um...? After a few more tries, I realized it was disabled and I was repeatedly asking it to lock again which it seemed unwilling to do. Once in the car, I found the problem: the trunk wouldn't close. In fact, nothing would make it close. It had been held down by the weight of the snow. Pulling out of my spot dislodged the fluffy mass and now the hatchback bobbed open to the winds, the spoiler jiggled loosely in its screws. Grumbling, I re-entered work and called my insurance agent to report this newest discovery and endeavored to bungee-cord by trunk shut with one hand as the other wasn't working so well. Remember how the roads were that morning? They were no better now. Admittedly, I was attempting to drive my standard, stick-shift car with the side of one hand, my knee and one good limb, but the road conditions weren't that great to begin with. It had taken me over an hour to get to work this morning, it took half-again as long to slug my way to the ER The guard was nice enough to tell me I couldn't park near the doorway and directed me to the nearest lot, but offered to drive since I was obviously injured. Stubbornly, I refused and slid my car into its snowy space. Trudging back, the receptionist was nice enough to tell me I was in the wrong building and directed me to the radiology department which was in the building down the road. Not too eager to get back into my car, I put up a defense. "But, isn't this the Emergency Room?" "Yes, it is." "I've been in a car accident -- isn't that an emergency?" "Yes, it is, but you need an X-ray." "...Which can't be done in Emergency?" "X-rays are radiology." I reminded myself that not everyone has all their marbles and throttling someone would not necessarily bequeath any additional ones. (Besides, the effort would probably just do myself more injury.) "Look, I'm here now, in emergency, and I need an X-ray." "Oh, I thought you were sent by a doctor to get an X-ray! You can take a seat over there." "Fine." Thus, I was "processed" (i.e. began the first leg of my 3-hour wait.) Highlights of this repose included nearly calling my husband on a bright red Emergency phone ala Batman, being denied admittance because my insurance cards are still in my maiden name while my picture ID is in my married one (a problem rectified by a passport and a dose of panic) and lastly, being quizzed about my religion. "What's your religious preference?" the secretary asked mid-form-filling. "Excuse me?" "It's for the form." "Um...what does that have to do with anything?" I had crazy ideas that if I wasn't allied with this hospital's religious affiliation, I wouldn't be admitted. (Hey, stranger things have happened!) "It's in case you were dying, we could get the appropriate religious counselor for you." "Well, this is just an X-ray, so I don't think I'll be needing that." "Still, it's part of the form." Now I'm a little miffed. "Actually, I don't think it's legal for you to ask me that." "It's really optional," she confessed, "but since the form is on the computer, it won't let me out of this screen unless all the spaces are filled-in." "Can't you leave it blank?" "No." I gave up and told her. Marx would have been so proud of her! She dismissed me back into the waiting room. The hours ticked by, swallowing the work I brought along, three relocations, six X-rays and today's remaining sunlight. An intern finally came to fit me with a temporary brace since they couldn't find anything obviously broken when my thumb caught on the steering wheel upon impact. They suspected a hairline fracture and I'd have to make an appointment with an orthopedic specialist. I looked out the window into the dark, snowy skies and timidly asked how I could get back onto the highway. "Well, we're only three blocks from there, but you'll be going out in rush-hour traffic so it may take a while..." Lovely.

I called my husband Jon to say when I was leaving; he advised getting a cab and leaving the car. I protested I'd be stuck waiting here for hours, and the car, without the alarm, would most likely get stolen. Jon replied that with any luck, it would. This would not be the last time I would regret not following his advice. I got to the car, scraped off the snow (not too easy to do with one arm) and got stuck. I mean really stuck! The car simply didn't have the weight or the tires to pull out of the swiftly-buried space. Although my secret tricks of Midwestern winter-driving got me closer and closer to rocking free, I was now more worried about hitting other cars than damaging my own. Luckily, a plow came just at that moment and scooped me out, helping lift the weighted gate when I still couldn't leave the lot. (Thank you Mr. Plow!) I cautiously headed for the highway, turned the corner and stopped. The cars were backed up as far as the eye could see. My wheels sprayed madly as I scrambled forward in slow spurts, praying I wouldn't hit the van in front of me, I screamed my frustration as I skidded and swerved with one arm at the wheel and nearly cried in relief when I got to the highway's on-ramp over an hour later. Walking into my house nearly three hours later, I marveled that the round-trip was over six hours and I had lost a day of work since noon. It was nighttime; I was cold and hurting. I took up my bottle of painkillers before I realized it was in a child-proof bottle: too tricky for me one-handed, too smooth a plastic to hold between knees, hip-and-table or other bodily combinations. I toyed with the idea of checking out the work station in the basement, but thought I'd better eat something before taking the drug anyway. It was chilly and I was dying for soup...but we didn't have an electric can-opener. I stuffed crackers into my mouth and drank a glass of orange juice. I called my folks; Dad and I laughed over what a "Grumble" article this would make, and he advised me that a swift application of a hammer might do the trick on the medicine bottle. Good idea, but I'm too tired to try... I spent my first sleepless night cursing the pain.

Day 2: I was advised by the ER to call my GP and find an orthopedic doctor ASAP. OK, Simple enough. I called my doctor's office, who told me he was no longer on my insurance plan. Why wasn't I informed of this? Who knew? But he gave me a recommendation from the plan anyway, which was nice but still befuddling. I called my insurance to get a new GP. Simple enough. But when I called the recommended orthopedic doctor, she's no longer on the insurance plan either. I called my HMO again. (Please note it takes about 10 minutes on average to get through the phone waiting lines...average!) "Why are no doctors on this plan?" "There are doctors, just none in your area." "What?" "You see, we're under new management since the old system was 'mismanaged' and it's taking a while to get things back in order." "Let me get this straight. You haven't paid your doctors so they've jumped ship, you have less services like enough phone operators because of the overhaul, and I recently got a notice that you're hiking the price up by 15% for my plan. So tell me: why should I stay with your company?" "Because things are getting better." Disgusted, I end the conversation quickly by demanding they find me an appointment. I work, have a friend drive me home, and spend a second sleepless night around the pain as this drug doesn't seem to do squat.