I was driving too fast in a snow storm. I felt entitled to my speeding; I needed to get home. On the downward slope of a long hill, my two-door Honda Civic slipped to the left like a horse stumbling underneath me. I panicked and turned the steering wheel hard to the right.
The car spun in a sickening twirl, then hit a guardrail and bounced back, coming to rest perpendicular to the two southbound lanes, away from the single set of tire tracks drivers were following through the snow.
An 18-wheeler roared past, followed by two passenger cars. No one stopped. Okay, I said to myself, the airbags didn’t deploy. That’s a good sign. Let’s see what the car looks like. I opened the door, and stepped around to the front, teeth chattering in the cold and damp. I saw some damage, but nothing was falling off, and the tires were fine.
I quickly got back in. For a moment I thought about what could’ve happened if the 18-wheeler had arrived a minute earlier. What if the driver hit the brakes, couldn’t stop, and crushed my car against the guardrail?
I pushed that scene out of my mind. I gulped down more ibuprofen, gripped the steering wheel, turned the car around, set my eyes on the tire tracks in the snow, and started driving, more cautiously than before.
I remember many trucks on the road, and worrying about spinning out again. In my mind’s eye, when I picture the remainder of the trip, all I see is a blur of snowflakes swirling over the windshield as I drive through a chute of snow, for hours.
I’d been playing rec league hockey with a good group of women, and after the regular season ended, my team went to a tournament in Montreal, in mid-April. My husband planned to come with me, but he tweaked his back, and couldn’t sit in a car long enough to make the trip.
So I left Providence and picked up a teammate in Boston on Friday morning, then drove north. We hit stop-and-go traffic on the outskirts of Montreal, and rushed straight to the rink for our first game, scrambling to get on the ice after driving for hours.
The team probably had dinner and a beer after the game. I don’t recall, because it was nothing memorable or extreme; we were there to play hockey, not party like the guys in the men’s division.
(They drank non-stop, even at 10:30 am on the bus going to the rink from the hotel. As if they’d never been allowed to go to a bar or even out of the house on their own before. But that’s another story.)
Late Friday night I woke up with a sore throat and hacking cough. I’d been fine during the day—not even a hint of sickness. Now, in the middle of the night I was a mess; how could things change so fast?
With the help of my teammates, I persevered through Saturday—played hard in two games, chewed on cough drops, ate a little soup, rested when I could—but on Sunday morning I realized I couldn’t hang on any longer. We had one more game, but even stretching required more energy than I could muster.
During the night I had to change my pajamas, and towel off my wet hair, because I was soaked in sweat. I started to understand I didn’t have a simple cold; I had the flu. I’d always scoffed at getting a flu shot; “I’m young and healthy,” I’d say, “I don’t need it.”
When I left Montreal, it was raining, and driving myself home seemed reasonable. But south, in St. Johnsbury, the precipitation changed to snow, heavy snow, straight through Vermont and across New Hampshire.
Many miles after the accident, I stopped at a rest area in Hooksett, NH. The staff told travelers to book a hotel ASAP if we planned on getting off the road, because the Manchester Airport was shutting down.
Rain was starting to mix in with the snow. I knew I couldn’t drive anymore. I plugged in my flip phone at the rest area, because the battery was low, and got a room at the second hotel I called.
Tucked away behind a series of big box stores, it was hard to find. I circled around buildings and half-empty parking lots, trying to decipher the hotel’s physical location. Back in 2007, when this story unfolded, I didn’t have a GPS or even an all-that-smart phone. After a fruitless half hour, I phoned to get directions.
When I finally checked in, the predictably congenial clerk at the front desk asked me if I was traveling for business or pleasure. “Neither,” I croaked, “I’m sick and I need to stop driving.” “Okay, we’ll say pleasure then,” she replied, and after a brief clickety-clack on the computer, handed me a keycard.
I rode up to my room in the elevator, along with an older woman who had burgundy-washed red hair. She was wearing a housecoat, and a name tag which I didn’t read because I was looking at the floor.
I could feel her studying me intently. After a bit, she said, “Tired?” with a Russian accent. I glanced up as she gestured to bags under her eyes, and replied, “Sick.” “Hmmm, very sick,” she responded, with gravity. I nodded yes.
The elevator door opened and I dragged my feet down the hallway. The effort of walking along the corridor felt enormous, as if I was pushing an elephant uphill, step by heavy step. Once inside my room, I sat down on the end of the bed, and let out a long sigh.
Finally, I could rest.
I looked at the little coffee machine set-up, and noticed there were no tea bags; it hadn’t been properly re-stocked. I sat there, listening to the rain, unable to summon the energy to stand up and call the front desk.
The phone rang. It was the woman who’d checked me in, asking if I needed anything. She brought tea bags and some snacks to my door, and I babbled thank you, thank you so much, I’m so grateful, thank you.
I sat on the bed again, and called my husband to tell him where I was, then one of my teammates still in Montreal, to warn her about the snow storm. Before we hung up, she told me they’d come from behind in the bronze medal game, rallying in the third period to win it, after telling each other, “We have to do this for Maura.”
The room’s one window overlooked a parking lot. Rain was coming down harder and pattering against the glass. The lights were on over the parking area. There was no color; the snow on the ground was gray, the sky was darker gray, almost as dark as night at 3 pm, and the room was beige and brown.
I knew I was near the Manchester Airport, but there was nothing unique in view. In the quiet of my clean, comfortable, and completely generic room, I was somewhere, yet nowhere.
My fever started coming back, stronger than before as the ibuprofen wore off. Every joint in my body hurt, and the near-silence pressed on my ears, while the lights pulsed in time with my heartbeat. A strange thought came to me:
What if I had in fact died in that car accident? I shivered. Was I in God’s waiting room, one made to look like a well-worn Hampton Inn?
At this moment in life, I was between versions of myself; a year and a half into my marriage, trying to get to know people in our new neighborhood, while mourning the cancer diagnosis of a dear family friend, and slow dissolve of my main long-term friend group.
I struggled with a nagging sense that nobody knew what went on inside of me. I was often lonely, even at a party—like an isolated, unseen mote floating along, while everyone else rushed past.
Sitting in the hotel, I pictured my funeral and all the different people who’d be there: my husband, his family, my family, the hockey team, friends from different eras of my life, old neighbors, co-workers, and so on. They would gather, and pause, for me.
I saw these people grieving, and understood how I was part of a whole. I even felt connected to the woman from the front desk, because of her kindness. For a moment, I lingered in this view, this knowing.
And then I picked up the remote and turned on the TV, because I had no more fortitude, for deep thoughts or worries.
I drank some tea.
I ate an apple.
I took a bath, and went to bed.
I got up the next morning, which was sunny and dry, and drove home.
(And since then, every year, without a doubt, I get the flu vaccine.)
I felt like I was there, Maura.
Beautiful and sad and hopeful.