Crash

6:06 PM 

I’m lying on the floor of a flat on the 4^th story of a Soviet apartment block on S. street in Yerevan.  The flat is owned by my friends Claire and Imogen, Fulbright Scholars, teaching English at Yerevan Universities.  Claire has a bruise streaked with tiny cuts on her right cheek.  Imogen’s head is wrapped in gauze slowly being soaked through with her blood.  I’ve taken a tranquilizer and we’re looking at a laptop.  On the laptop’s screen is a picture of a truck that has run off the road and crushed a small Iranian-made taxi.  Three quarters of the taxi are mostly intact, but the area around front passenger’s seat has been crumpled.  This morning, we were riding in that taxi.  Claire and Imogen were in the back.  I was in the front.

6:08 PM

“Am I alive?” 

“Sam’s having his moment.” Says Claire

“I mean it.  How can you prove to me I’m alive?  Look at that picture.  I should be dead.  I could just be hallucinating this or be in heaven.”

“We’re alive, we know we’re alive and you’re on tranqs, so you can trust us.” Says Imogen.

“You were in the car with me.  You can’t be trusted.  We could all be dead together.  Haven’t you seen Beetlejuice?”

They haven’t.

“The couple get home from the car crash, and they wonder how they survived, but it turns out they’re really ghosts and can never leave their house.  But don’t worry, I’ll call Michael.  He’s studied philosophy and is very smart, he can prove to me that I’m alive.  Plus he gave me this carabineer.”

I dial Michael.  He’s riding in a Marshutney.  I tell him that he’s smart, that he’s studied philosophy, that I like the carabineer he gave me, and could he prove I’m alive.

“I can’t do that, Sam.” He says.

“I have no way of knowing whether or not I’m alive!”

12:25 PM

“You don’t have any metal in your head, do you?” Asks Dr. Anna, the Peace Corps’ doctor

“Actually, I’ve got three earrings.” Says Imogen.  She takes out two easily, but the third is new.  She goes to a mirror.  Claire helps her unscrew the little ball.  It falls into the sink and goes down the drain.  I take the earrings in my hand.  Imogen lies down on the CT scanner.  We’re at the Nairi Medical Center, the best hospital in Armenia. 

Dr. Anna and I retreat to the technician’s room.  The bed that Imogen is lying on rises, then passes her head through the hole of a giant white plastic donut.  I watch Imogen’s brain appear on the screen in two dimensional snapshots.  Dr. Anna and the technicians speak in worried Russian.  I can’t understand what they’re saying.  I shouldn’t even be in the technician’s room, so I don’t speak, don’t ask questions, try not to show emotion, not to disturb the doctors.  Imogen comes off the bed and is wheeled to Dr. Anna.  I wait to hear if there is brain damage, cerebral hemmorage, skull fractures.

“Did you know you have a chronic sinus infection?”

9:34 AM

L. from the embassy is dressed for a fall powerwalk in a nice New England suburb.  She’s wearing sneakers, a purple fleece and has a water bottle with the logo of her school.  She was going to head out hiking when she got the call that there was an American having her head stitched together in the A. district hospital. 

“The Doctor says it cost --,000 drams.  Do you have the money with you.”

Last night at the ATM in Yerevan, I’d taken out my monthly paycheck, most of which goes to my host family for food.  I pull four --,000 dram notes out of my wallet.

“Can I get a receipt?”

“They say that you’d have to wait for them to fill out all the forms.”

“Okay, I understand.”

I go to the doctor.  I thank him profusely for saving my friend’s life.  I shake his hand with my left hand.  With my bruised right hand I slip him the bills.  He doesn’t look at them.  I ask him his name.  I congratulate him on the recent wedding of one of the young residents at the hospital.  He wishes me the best of luck and health.

We take Imogen down to the waiting SUV from the embassy.  It’s pouring rain.  The SUV quickly fills with Imogen and embassy people.  Claire shows up with Fantas and Twix from the nearest store.  We get into the car of Armen, the Armenian translator at the US Embassy who has been with us from almost the beginning.  We beg him to drive slowly and carefully.  We eat the Twix and drink the Fantas.  It’s the first time we’ve been able to sit still since the crash.

“It’s funny,” says Armen, “I was just here for the wedding of the young doctor.”

8:24 AM

I help lift Imogen off of the litter and onto the hospital gurney, in the process recovering my precious Marmot 0 degree down sleeping bag which I’d been using to keep her warm.  We wheel her into the A. district hospital, ride the elevator to the second floor.  The Doctor is slipping on his coat.  He removes the wrappings that the medic put on Imogen’s head at the gas station by the side of the road where we crashed.  For the first time, I see the size of her wound.  I involuntarily gasp.  “Oh god.”  The doctor orders me out.

I won’t talk, I tell him in Armenian, using vocabulary I usually apply to my students.

A gash has opened running from Imogen’s right eyebrow to the center of her head.  The skin is peeled back, exposing her skull.  It looks firm and solid, like blood-stained marble.  The doctor swabs the inside of the wound with gauze.  There’s surprisingly little blood flow.  Later I’ll realize that’s because most of it has gone into her hair to clot and mat.  The doctor takes a razor and shaves her hair around the wound, then he begins sewing.  I watch for awhile, take pictures.  Armen stands by, translates.  The doctor says he’ll do a good job, she won’t have a scar, will be able to find a good husband.  There was just a wedding here you know, one of the young doctors got married.  A wonderful wedding, very pretty bride. 

I check myself in the mirror over the OR sink.  There’s clotted blood on my face and hands.  It’s probably mine, but who knows. My arms are covered in blood and scratches from the glass.  My right temple is bruised and my jaw aches.  I crack it with a loud pop.  Everything seems fine.  No serious damage.  I turn on the tap to wash the blood off.  Nothing comes out.  There’s no water today.  One of the nurses comes over and pours water over my hands from a basin.  I thank her.

8:00 am

Armen arrived at the same time as the Ambulance.  “I’m from the Embassy,” he said.  I wasn’t sure what to say.  He spoke great English, but why would a guy in a track suit in a 90’s Lada be from the Embassy and randomly at a gas station on the way to Aragats at 8am on a Sunday?  Can I trust him?  Later I learned that he was on the Embassy’s emergency response team, that Claire had called them and that he had come directly from his home. 

The doctor and his assistant coming out of the ambulance were central casting for reassuring doctors.  He was thin, with steel gray hair and a dignified erect walk.  She was young and pretty, but not overly so, with a shawl over her white nurse’s coat.  Their ambulance was an olive green van with a blue flashing light, no heat, benches for seats, and a litter made of two poles and canvas fabric for a stretcher.    The doctor removed Imogen’s t-shirt from around her head, examined her wound, injected her arm with morphine from his green metal medical kit.  We bundle Imogen onto the litter and cover her with my sleeping bag.  Armen helps lift her into the ambulance, then gets in with us.  I decide to trust him. 

We must go to Yerevan. I say.

We’re going to Ashtarak.  It’s closer.  We have to.

We must go to Yerevan, I say, and offer the young nurse --,000 drams.  She looks away.

Later, I learn they are right, that Ashtarak is five minutes and Yerevan half an hour.  She needs stitches right away and her bleeding controlled.  Everything else can wait.  My demand might have killed her.  There is much I don’t know

7:35 AM

I’m doing everything at once.  I call the Peace Corps Duty officer.  “I’ve been in a car crash and I’m almost out of phone credit call me back.” I hang up.  WHERE’S IMOGEN?  I run across the highway into the gas station.  Imogen is sitting on a bench against the stone wall.  Her head is wrapped with her blue T-Shirt.  “What happened?”

“Hit in the head” she mumbles.

“I want you to lie down.” I move her to a longer bench.  She’s very heavy against me.  I lie her down, give her my fleece jacket to keep her warm.  “I want you to talk to me.  Tell me about your pets at home.”

“My cat just died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, I…” The phone rings.  “keep talking” I pick it up.   “I’ve been in a car crash on the way to Mt. Aragats, I don’t know where I am and my friend has a bad head injury.  I’m going to give the phone to an Armenian now so he can explain where we are.  Please put SIM credit on my phone so I can make calls.”

“Okay,” the Duty Officer says.  I hand the phone off to an Armenian and go back to talking with Imogen.  By now she’s sitting up and lucid.  This is good.  Claire’s in the gas station too.  She’s about to cry.  I hug her. “This could have been so bad.” She says

“In six hours, you and I will have a good cry together but for now help Imogen.” I say

“Can you get my wallet?” Asks Imogen, “It should be in the car.”  I run back across the highway to where the car and truck are mashed together.  A crowd of Armenian men is standing around.  I open the rear door and find Imogen’s wallet and keys in the back.  My phone beeps in my pocket, letting me know it’s been recharged with money.  The trunk is open.  Inside is my backpack.  I pull the sleeping bag out to give to Imogen.  As I’m doing so, my camera falls out.  I take it out, point it at the car and truck smashed together, but without really seeing them.  Click. 

“Please, brother no photo” Says an Armenian.

“DON’T FUCK WITH ME” I scream close to his face, in English.  He hangs back with the others.  This is no time to be polite.

7:32:43 AM

Breathe.  Just breathe.  You’ve been in a crash.  You don’t know how badly your body is damaged.  Right now, there’s no way you’ll be able to move anyway, so don’t even try.  Just sit there and breathe until the shock passes and you can move.

7:33:14 AM

Okay, you can breathe, that’s good.  Now’s the time to get moving.  Open the door, get out of the car.  Your door won’t open.  Your door won’t open.  Your door won’t open.  Get out the back.  Just slide.  It’s pretty easy sliding from the front right to the back left.  Out the door.  On the grass in the highway meridian.  You can’t see. That’s because you don’t have your glasses.  It’s still dark.  Feel around for them, find them.  Your flashlight.  It’s in your pocket from this morning.  Use it.  There they are, on the dashboard.  The frame is bent, but they’re working.  There’s Claire, she’s walking and talking, she’s okay.  Imogen is hurt she’s saying.  Got to call the Duty Officer.  WHERE’S IMOGEN?

7:32:13 AM

Cruising in the left lane of the highway at 110 km/hr.  Comfortable car warm against the predawn grey.  Half asleep.  From the right lane, a truck going 80 km/hr makes a left turn into the gas station.  I can see he’s going to hit us, there’s no way to avoid it.  Some inelegant thought like “We’re Fucked!”  I might have articulated it, I might not.  Crash.

6:12 PM

“How can I find out if I’m alive or not?”

“I’m glad Sam’s having his moment, this is good for him.” Says Imogen

“I know, I’ll call Saaqib.  He’s my best friend, he’d never lie to me.  He could tell me if I’m alive or not.”

I dial Saaqib in New York.  I hold my cellphone and stand at the window looking at the memorial to the Armenian Genocide.  He picks up the phone.  I can tell from his voice that I’ve woken him up.  It’s a good sign.  I might be dead, but I know that Saaqib definitely is not.  After all, he’s in New York.  I ask him if I’m alive.  He’s a bit confused.  I tell him the story, quickly.  I let him know that I’m probably alive, but I’ve taken a tranq and can’t really be sure.

“You’re alive, Sam” He says.

“Thanks, that’s what I needed to hear.  I know you would never lie to me.”

We talk for a few minutes about the clubs and bars in Yerevan. I ask him about work, how things are going with girls.  I tell him I got to go, but we’ll talk later, yeah.

I’m alive! I’m so happy!