So I had this car accident on Friday.
I knew it was coming. After all, I have been driving up to 90 miles a day for the last 10 months, on some of the worst roads around. It was bound to happen.
And as far as accidents go, this wasn’t bad. It was the other guy’s fault, of course–which can be seen in these photos: my car’s a mess, his doesn’t have a scratch. Not a scratch. Because HE HIT ME.
The interesting thing happened about 20 minutes later. It took awhile for us to share our information, mostly because this was a “transfer” car, and there were three of them driving together (the lead car actually causing the problem), and now they’re on the phone talking to their boss and I’m wondering what to do because the 911 operator told me there was no need for a cop car to come if no one was hurt.
Now, readers of this blog will recall that the whole reason I ran away to Ireland two years ago was because my Dad had gotten sick and passed away and the whole experience left me bereft and traumatized and I had to do SOMETHING to pull myself together and get back to life. The red Ford Fusion in the picture was my Dad’s car–the car he swore, from one of his many hospital beds–that he’d drive again. He didn’t, and the car became mine and I have been precious about it, parking away from cars so swinging doors won’t hit it, etc. My first thought on Friday then was, ‘oh no, not the car.’
Eventually, I had to call the boss myself–who promised me he’d take a picture of the insurance card on his phone and send it to me (that was Friday; today is Sunday and I still don’t have it, surprise!). After we hung up, I put my phone into my back pocket, leaned into my car to put my stuff away, and heard this from the pocket: “Are you saying, ‘call Dad’?”
WHAT the what???? I pulled the phone out and looked at the face; it was the phone number I’d just called. Then I heard: “cancelling call.”
I was so freaked out, I told the driver, then later, told the Progressive customer service girl.
“See?” I told her, “my Dad’s mad about the car.”
“No he’s not,” she said softly. “He’s just happy you’re okay.”
Oh, yeah. That sounded more likely.
After my Dad passed away, I had many “signs” that he was around. Then it all stopped, and I haven’t had one in a long time. But now I have to wonder…was it him? Or was it that I was saying “this was my Dad’s car” to the other guy, then my butt hit some weird thing on my phone and…?
Who knows? Certainly not I. But I’d like to think it’s true, because it makes me feel better. xo