Seattlle Crosswalks

Soon after I moved to Seattle, Mom was visiting and when the traffic cleared, she headed across the street against the light. When she got to the middle of the crosswalk, she realized she was alone, turned back to the crowd on the corner and asked, “Where is everybody?” Then she returned to the curb to wait for the light to change like the rest of us.

Pedestrians in Seattle wait for the fellow in white lights to tell us it's time to cross. We are patient. Once we get in our cars, however, we're not so good.

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking to the bus stop. I crossed an intersection that is usually busy, but on this day at this time, there were no other pedestrians, and there weren't even many cars. As I waited at the corner for the white man in lights to signal me to cross the street, I thought, "There's not much traffic. Maybe this is good. But the day that the monster Bronco smashed my little Honda Civic was a day of little traffic in an intersection that was usually busy. I must be wary."

When the little man in white lights appeared, I looked around the  corner to my left to make sure that no one was turning right. All clear. No one was turning left into my cross walk, either, so I stepped out. As I got across the first lane and was into the second lane, a white car (white again!), lulled by the unusual lack of traffic, scooted into the intersection and then across my cross walk.

Peripherally, I saw the car, and I screamed, "Holy moly!" them's
strong words) and jumped. (Yes, I jumped. I didn't know I could do that.) I jumped out of  the white car's path, and saw the driver's round eyes, opened large, as I gave the driver my evil eye and continued across the intersection.

The driver looked as surprised as I did. He did not deserve the evil eye. He was trying to get through an intersection where too much is going on and visibility over a hill is difficult. I have heard that a group of parents submitted an appeal for this intersection to be made safer. Their appeal was denied. The board that denied that appeal deserves the evil eye.

I was not hurt, but the near-miss did trigger post-traumatic stress, and I've been jumpy. I'm even more anxious when I ride in a car than I was before. I squelch a screech when I'm afraid that my driver hasn't checked the blind spot or when I see other cars headed for a common space. (I know from high school physics that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.) One dark early morning, I screamed when Ann was unexpectedly in the living room. She did not like this.

I am settling down, but I will contact the city about this intersection. It's not safe. I can't imagine why the first contact didn't cause enough concern to change the intersection by putting in protected left turns.

I also think that as a city we need to demand more patience at stoplights. There is never a time when a pedestrian can step into the cross walk without worrying that a right-turning driver, who also has the green, won't bash us. Busy lights, especially in the central district, where I live, and the South end, (both areas that are traditionally areas where people of color have lived and perhaps for this reason have not been afforded luxuries like protected lefts) should have protected left turns at busy intersections, like the one at 23rd and Yesler where I yelped.

The city should give a little more generous crossing time, at least 22 seconds, which is the time that a woman testing me for disability services for transportion told me that most lights allow for crossing. I haven't timed this cross walk, but I'm guessing that the light allows at most 10 seconds before the red hand starts to flash. My therapist, who is able-bodied and quite energetic, said that she and a friend struggled to get across this same intersection just a week before I did.

I'm going to write the city about this. They will probably tell me that there is no problem, just like Metro did when I pointed out problems for people with disabilities getting seats at the front of the bus. They'll probably ignore me again, just like they have every time I've called to have a handicapped parking space identified in front of my house. But I'll keep speaking up.

Especially now that I know I can yell and jump at the same time.

Bureaucracy at its Best

I know bureaucracy. After all, I've tried for the last three years to get the City of Seattle to put a handicapped parking sign in front of my house. Each call requires an hour, and each call has the same effect, which is no effect.
I had a similar experience with Direct T.V., only I called six times. Also, they finally responded when I contacted a lawyer.

I've also applied for part time disability with an insurance company. I called my friendly contact Giovanni four times, leaving messages asking for information about the status of my paperwork, until on the fifth call he by mistake answered the phone. When I asked how I was supposed to get information when he wouldn't return my calls, he commented that I had only called once. I kind of lost it.

Kind of like once when I got exasperated with an administrator in a school district's central office who wouldn't process paperwork because she was planning her daugher's wedding. I blew a gasket that day. The assistant superintendent kindly pulled me into an office and asked me to tell her what was wrong. I felt like a snivelling child, or maybe a crazy woman. And maybe I was. Both.

Lately, however, bureaucracies been working for me, so maybe I can't always assume that bureucracy has a negative connotation.

For starters, my doctors at Group Health are the best. They call me back when they're supposed to; they're nice to me; their system works for me.

Also, I've needed to call on my auto and home insurance lately, and my provider has been fabulous: they're Pemco, and if you're insured by anyone else, you should switch to them.

Last June, I was in a terrible car accident, and I got the ticket even though I stll don't think it was my fault. Both the other driver and I went to the emergency room, in separate ambulences. The other driver got a lawyer who just happened to be following the ambulances to the hospital and who sued me, or tried to. I'm not sure what happened. My fairy goddess Germaine at Pemco intervened and the case has been settled. Whew.

Then just before Christmas, some not very nice people broke into our house by breaking out two windows and helped themselves to my grandmother's pearls and such. My new fairy goddess, Muriel at Pemco, didn't find my pearls, but she did take care of our bills quite quickly.

So sometimes, even bureaucracy is a beautiful thing. Maybe that's why both bureaucracy and beautiful have that "eau" thing going on.

Maryeau

Driving Lessons

Driving Lesson #1:

I stopped in my little Honda Civic Hybrid in a gas station driveway. I looked left. Then right. Then left again. No one was coming either way. I pulled out. Suddenly, to my left appeared a fast-moving Chevy Blazer. I slowed. The driver, Mr. Smith, didn't react. I hit the gas to try to get past him. He still didn't react. His big Blazer t-boned my little Honda and pushed my car 110 feet in his direction.

Mr. Smith and I were both taken by ambulance to the regional trauma center. As far as I can learn, we're both (miraculously) fine. My car died that day. I don't know about his.

Though Mr. Smith was almost certainly speeding and not paying attention, I got the ticket. He hit me in his lane, after all. Police budgets are tight. There was no real investigation. I don't know how all of this will come out, but I know now that I can be following all of the rules and driving carefully, and I can get in a bad accident and be legally at fault. That's my first driving lesson.

Driving Lesson #2:

The same accident would have been much worse for me if alcohol had been involved. It wasn't.

Driving Lesson #3:

I don't know if Mr. Smith is having relationship problems, but a friend's therapist told her that 90 percent of people going through a divorce get in a car accident. (Just to be clear, I'm not getting divorced.)

Please be careful. Don't drive fast. Don't drink and drive. Be especially careful if you're going through a divorce.

Practically Nekkid

My mom, reading of my adventures in the trauma center because of Tuesday's car wreck, worried about the state of my dress. She asked what any good Southern mother worried about her daughter's modesty might ask, "It sounds like they cut off all of your clothes except your underwear, so you were practically nekkid. What did you wear home?"

It is true that all of my clothes, having been cut off of me, were no longer wearable, and my shoes, too filled with glass to be salvageable, were destined for the trashcan.

What does a good Southern girl wear home from the Emergency Room at midnight? The hospital social worker found some paper clothes, extra large unisex. (They would have fit my 350 pound granddaddy, but I was glad to have them.) I was glad it wasn't raining so that the paper didn't stick to me. On my feet, I wore those hospital socks with treads so that I didn't slip. The social worker (bless her) also found an old black sweater that had been donated that I could wear over my paper top.

When I clean out my closets for summer this year, I'm going to donate my clothes to Harborview Hospital's Emergency Room. If you live near a hospital, I'll bet your hospital could use some of your clothes, too.

There are Angels Everywhere

Slow down, you move too fast.
You got to make the morning last.

Paul Simon, “59^th Bridge Street Song”

Angels were with me again last week when I was in a bad car accident, but I seem only to have some bruises and sore spots—no broken bones or blood.

I was driving my little Honda Civic Hybrid when a large white SUV broad-sided me, carrying my car 110 feet, breaking a lot of glass and knocking the driver’s side doors in a foot or so. Once I stopped moving, I looked out of what used to be my window to see my first angel on the sidewalk, an ordinary-looking man waiting for the bus (I assume, as he was at a bus stop), and pointing to his phone to indicate that he was calling 9-1-1.

Then another angel, this one dressed as an African-American woman in her fifties, walked up to my “window,” and told me that she hadn’t seen the accident but that she had parked her car up ahead, and she would stay with me until the emergency vehicles got there. She asked if I was okay, and she told me that she also had called 9-1-1. When I heard the first siren, she told me, “That one’s going to another emergency, but yours will be here soon.”

I looked around to see the SUV that had hit me. Though it’s front was bashed in, the passenger area looked untouched. A young man in his twenties or thirties came over to see if I was okay. Maybe that was the driver. I don’t know. I told him I was okay and he walked away. I didn’t see him again. When we heard another siren and saw a fire truck coming, she said, “This one’s yours.” Then there were a lot of flashing lights and firemen and EMTs, and I didn’t see her again. Maybe she flew off, or more likely, she got back in her car and drove away, perhaps having no idea how comforting she had been.

Fireman—more angels--introduced themselves, and asked if I was alright. “Yes, I’m fine, but I can’t get out of the car.” One introduced himself as Mitchell and said that they would get me out, but that they would have to use a saw to cut off the top of the car. I must have looked surprised because he explained, “It’s totaled anyway.” The fireman put a blanket over my head to protect me from the glass, and I listened to them cut the car’s metal and saw light through the blanket as they lifted the roof off.

Behind me, one fireman put a collar around my neck just in case, and then they pulled the seat back down, lifted the blanket from my face, and cut off my seatbelt and my (new!) rain jacket. They slid a board under my back (another precaution), and lifted me from the car and into an ambulance. Four men fussed over me, two of them trying to get blood from my dainty veins, on the seven minute drive to the regional trauma center.

Once at the hospital, I was whisked into the emergency room and attended to by a flurry of medical angels. One very kind nurse angel named Catherine asked me, “Are you okay?” Polite like a good Southern girl, I replied, “I’m good. How are you?” She laughed and said that I was her favorite patient for the day. I love being the favorite.  Pretty quickly, this flock of doctors and nurses cut my clothes from me (my favorite new sweater!), decided I was okay and flew to their next patient.  The one person who remained, a social worker, asked me if she could do anything, “Could you call my partner, and please tell her I’m okay.” She did.

Firemen, EMTs, and trauma docs and nurses kept telling me that I had used one of my lives. Ann pointed out that I had already lost a couple. I was x-rayed and scanned. “There are no broken bones, but you must really have to go to the bathroom.” I did, but I wasn’t allowed to sit up until all of the tests were done. The next twelve hours went quickly for me as my adrenaline settled down and the nurse administered morphine for pain. Since I really was okay, I was not a priority, and Ann and I and our friend Ellen, another angel, just sat there for a very long time.

Ellen sat with me while Ann went to get dinner around 8:30 p.m. Ellen encouraged me to cry, and with her encouragement and the morphine, I finally did. Ellen went home to sleep, and Ann and I listened to the announcement of incoming traumas, short radio announcements that indicated that lots of someones’ lives were changing that night. Some came by ambulance and others by helicopter. I had some applesauce (the best applesauce ever!) around 11 p.m.  as we listened to the announcements and to the stories unfolding around us. (There were three other beds in this room, all surrounded by curtains, so we couldn’t see, but we couldn’t help but overhear the story’s of one motorcyclist, one bicyclist who was “t-boned” by a car, one helmetless bicyclist doing drugs who had hit a curb, one softball player, one burn victim and one man who had had a stroke.)

An EMT said to the man who had had stroke (he was conscious now), “Are these your legs or did you bring a chicken in here?” Presumably, they had gotten to know one another on the ride in. I laughed heartily, and so did Ann, as she said, “That’s rude!” A nurse said to the man with burns, “I’m gonna turn you over and look at your bee-hind because that’s the most interesting part.” I think his burns were worst on his bee-hind. The softball player who had leapt a fence to retrieve her new softball, asked, “Is it typical not to be able to pee?” (The answer is yes.) We  heard, “What’s your name? What year is it? Who’s the president of the United States? Who’s the president of Libya?” I had to pause on that last one.

In my mind, I catalogued the things I had lost in the accident: my car, my brown corduroy pants, my dark green turtleneck, my new sweater, the earrings from Palm Springs, my glasses (where did they go? They had flown from my head.), my new green Gortex raincoat, a pair of Smartwool (they’re the best) socks, keys to the schools where I work, my prism sunglasses, my Adele cd and my Bruce Cockburn cd, my uggs, the Storm season ticket-holder license plate holder, and the garage door opener.

Then I catalogued what I had saved: my underwear and bra, my watch, my book bag, and my life.

I feel lucky.