Still alive

By Linda Banger

Reading recent news articles and letters to the editor about the Missouri Legislature's introduction of a bill that would allow primary enforcement of seat-belt violations, one would think the bill was fraught with constitutional pitfalls.

Indeed, the online poll of the Southeast Missourian -- "Should police be able to pull over a driver solely for not wearing a seat belt?" -- resulted in 61 percent responding "No."

At one time I would have counted myself among that 61 percent. That is, until an incident which left a lasting impression on me and my family.

That incident occurred in central Iowa on Feb. 6, 1986. That day was a pretty ordinary day. What was I doing? I was in my new red 1985 Nissan Sentra, skidding sideways and uncontrollably down the middle of U.S. 69 about to collide with a Jeep CJ-5. All the time was the awareness that I was very likely about to die.

One minute I was driving cautiously on a sleet-and-snow-slickened highway, listening to the radio. The next minute ... .

It happened. With no warning, my car began slipping sideways down the highway. There was no time to react, and the steering wheel was completely unresponsive.

My mind protested: But this isn't supposed to be happening with front-wheel drive and studded tires. And I'm out of the curve, I'm on the straightaway. In the instant it took to think those inane thoughts, I saw a dark-colored vehicle in the distance rapidly bearing down on me.

As my car crossed the center line, I thought: Oh please, other car, pass me on the other side, don't hit me.

It was about that time I figured a collision was inevitable. And it would be a bad one, I figured, hitting head-on or more likely on my door side. I would be a fatality because the other vehicle was so much heavier and larger than my car. I was amazed at my calm acceptance of my approaching death.

I didn't pray, nor did I utter even one expletive as I sometimes do when I bump my head or break a glass. No sound came from me at all. But my mind was busy as I began to instinctively react by putting both my feet hard against the floor, bracing and stiffening both arms on the steering wheel driving my body back into the seat. I closed my eyes tight and scrunched my head and neck down into my coat collar to protect as much of my head as I could. Head injuries. That's what had killed my best friend only six months before in her car accident. And I found myself thinking of her as my car glided to its fate.

I discovered in the seconds it took to travel a few dozen feet that the mind must have at least 10 circuits all capable of rapid, simultaneous, independent thought. I thought of my dead friend. I thought of my five kids and how awful this was going to be for them. My mom -- boy, she would be walking into a mess when she came to care for the family with all the clutter and furniture still in disarray from the new carpeting job, and she wouldn't know where anything was, and I hadn't paid the electric bill, and it was due. So was the phone bill. And my husband Bob would just be fit to be tied. I hoped nobody in the other car would be hurt badly.

Regret is the biggest emotion I felt, not fear. I wasn't finished with living yet. There was still so much to do, and hadn't I just picked up my new glasses? Now they'd be broken.

The incredible force of the crash isn't easily forgotten, although the sound wasn't as loud as I would've thought. I felt the stings of broken safety glass on my face as my body rocked with the motion of the car. I had the same sensation as when I've been on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair as the car hit an embankment.

I was so surprised at the quiet, and surprised I was still here and able to move. My new glasses had been knocked off and were lying undamaged on my lap. The other car was, in one piece, because the driver was trying to move it off the roadway.

I was shaking badly and wanted to cry. I wanted to run away. I began to get out and was jerked back by the seat belt. I'd forgotten I had it on, only having become a regular user since the death of my friend and after years of nagging from my husband.

I got out on shaky legs and felt glass go down my neck with my tucked-in flannel shirt acting as a funnel into my jeans.

Stumbling up through the snowy ditch, I checked on the two guys in the Jeep. They were all right, thank God. Then I went to the nearby farmhouse, thankful I was close to home and on familiar turf. I used the phone to call the sheriff's office.

Then I made the hardest phone call of my life and called Bob at work. "I've had a wreck," I said with no preamble. "Are you all right? He asked. "Yes," I answered shakily trying hard not to cry. "How bad is it?" he asked. "Pretty bad," I answered. "Anybody hurt?" he questioned. "No," I answered. He'd be there as soon as he could, he said.

The law arrived after what seemed the longest time, a big burly Iowa highway patrolman. I sat in his car answering questions as best I could. "I don't know what happened, sir, I closed my eyes." Even now, years later, that response sounds so incredibly stupid. But that's the way it was.

Finally it was over. The friendly farmer used his tractor to move my car from its resting place. Bob arrived, and we could go home, the only place on God's earth I wanted to be. Home to see my kids. To have the dogs jump up on me, the cats wrap themselves around my ankles. The girls got pretty excited and emotional when told of my mishap. The boys were pretty calm about it, except they each had to sit down right away and make uncharacteristic remarks that we would for sure have to go to church Sunday. I was stiff and sore for a couple of days and had trouble closing my eyes at night. Some day I'll stop shaking, I thought.

Why did I survive without a scratch in what should have been a quite horrible car crash? One that destroyed my car and should have killed me or left me badly maimed?

My seat belt.

Oh, and one other thing: Obviously, God wasn't finished with me yet.

Linda Banger resides in Burfordville, Mo. She and her husband, their five children and their spouses and eight grandchildren all wear seat belts or are placed in child safety seats.