It seems like everyone has a story about going to the emergency room on a major holiday. On Easter Sunday, 1995 I was in the worst car accident of my life (hopefully). I was spending some quality time with my second family. My best friend Chris, his sister and folks were piled in a minivan. Chris’ dad, blind in one eye, pulled the Dodge onto Route 13 directly in front of a car speeding along in the fast lane. I don’t remember hearing the screeching of rubber before the impact. The little wagon struck the van on the right-front fender and veered off into a ditch. The van spun around like a top, coming to rest in the facing south in the center northbound lane. Both vehicles were totaled.
The old people got the worst of the impact, but thankfully everyone recovered fully. I got scraped up and bruised, but I wasn’t injured. The ER doctor made me get a tetanus shot, which ultimately caused me more pain and discomfort than being in the wreck.
We had been on our way to morning church services in Cheswold, and we often joked that this was God’s way of telling us, “don’t bother.” And I haven’t.
Despite being 21 months old, Ethan already has his first story about going to the emergency room on a major holiday. On Thanksgiving morning I was trying to keep Ethan busy while Danielle frantically prepared for the trip to her mother’s in the Bay Area…