Ten weeks ago today, I had a creative writing class in the morning.  It was a Beginning Steps in Short Fiction Writing class, held at the Saint John Free Public Library, a course that I was offering through UNB-Fredericton.

We had had a great class, and in particular there was a book that Michelle shared, Inspired Creative Writing: 52 brilliant ideas from the master wordsmiths.  Before I forgot the title, I decided to stop into Coles on my way back to my office to top up my Kobo gift card and purchase it.  (I was due back at Coles in an hour to work my afternoon shift, but decided to stop anyway.)

I joked with my coworker and my boss as we were at the cash.  I don’t remember what about, exactly, but I remember saying, “See you in a bit,” and then I sat down on a bench in the mall to download the ebook.  (Thank you for the WI-FI, Starbucks!)

After the book downloaded, I started to head back to my office.  I decided to take the escalator to the third floor and walk outside from there, so as to avoid the cookie I could hear calling me from the City Market (which was my usual route).

I walked to the corner of Union and Germain and noticed that the traffic was pretty busy.  I stood at the crosswalk for a minute and looked.  There was a car in the intersection, past the crosswalk, waiting to turn left, and behind the crosswalk was a truck.  All the other traffic was at a stand-still, and the crosswalk was clear, so I started across the street.

Two-thirds of the way across, the car beyond the crosswalk began to reverse.  The gap between it and the truck — where I was crossing — started shrinking at an alarming rate.  I remember screaming.  I remember seeing the “W” on the manhole cover just before the car made contact.  I remember the car hitting me, and I remember banging into the truck, and then the ground coming up to my face.

Was I knocked out?  I’m not sure.  If I was, it wasn’t for very long.  I saw a tire.  I need to get up, I remember thinking, or they’ll think I’m dead.

They helped me up from where I’d fallen.  The remaining shards of a snowbank against me.  Gravel embedded in my hand.  “Imokay,” I said.  “ImokayImokayImokayImokay…”

There were people.  A man.  A woman.  Another man.  I watched the ground to make sure it was still steady.  I was confused.  I felt like I was sobbing but there were no tears.  One of the men handed me my Kobo, said I needed to get off the street, and they took me to the sidewalk.

I want to sit down, I thought.  I need to go to my office.  There’s a chair in my office.

“I think she’s just shook up,” one man said.

“Imokay.”

I started walking towards my office.  The older man told the woman to go with me to make sure  I was alright.  We talked as we walked.  I got to my office.  I start sobbing in front of my friend.  I called my husband.  My friend called the police.  I called work and said I was going to be late.  My husband called work back and said he was taking me to the hospital.  I alternated between crying and laughing hysterically.

I was in shock for at least a couple of hours, and denial for a couple of weeks.  I wanted desperately to be okay.  I didn’t want to have to deal with insurance, or for the nice man to have trouble.

So I ignored things.  A lot of things. Mixing words up.  Saying things I shouldn’t.   Confusion about mundane things.  Clipping door frames with my hip as I walked through.  Oh, it’s just the medication I’m taking for my knee.  Oh, it’s just because I have a cold.  Two weeks later, having run out of excuses, I finally went back to the hospital where I found out I had a concussion.

Ten weeks.

I’m still recovering.

And it’s so … so … s-l-o-w.