These are terrible injuries, and yet, the other members of my family donвЂ™t walk around thinking, Am I still me? My brain injury has shaken my confidence in my own personality, my own existence. He remembers his father yelling вЂњJesus Christ.вЂќ He will have to live with the memory of his sister looking at my body and asking, вЂњIs Mama dead?вЂќ He remembers a woman in a ponytail calling 911, the smell of gasoline and burnt metal. My 13-year-old son is the only one who remembers the accident. She doesnвЂ™t yet know if she is the bikini-wearing type. She spends many days attempting to suss out whether she cares. She is 10, and one of her friends tells her that because of the scar she will never be able to wear a bikini. My daughter would have died if not for the surgery to repair her flayed abdomen. My husbandвЂ™s leg will take almost a year to heal. O f all the injuries my family is suffering from, mine is the worst. The brain is not meant to slam against the side of the skull. Bell clappers are meant to slam against the side of the bell. A doctor tells me I вЂњgot my bell rung.вЂќ This is a bad analogy. I wonder if this is why I am slurring my words, but am told that the slurring is from the anti-seizure medication I am on. One of the things I am told is that I have a brain bleed and a traumatic brain injury. Joshua Sharpe: We should all be more afraid of driving The days pass like minutes, a loop of sleep interrupted by people asking me questions and telling me terrible things. I am at Dartmouth for three days before I am transferred to the University of Vermont, where my husband and children are. They wake me up and ask me where I am and what my name is. Instead I am thinking about writing an exposГ© about the sexist seat-belt industry. I have yet to take in the reality of what has happened to me, to my family. I remember an article IвЂ™d read about seat belts not being designed for women, and I ask the doctor if he sees more women with these injuries than men. I lift up my hospital gown and am surprised to see an angry red line and industrial-size staples. вЂњYour daughter has fractures in her spine and damage to her lower intestine from the seat belt.вЂќ They tell me that my lower intestine was also injured, and that IвЂ™ve had surgery. She was born with albinism, and her existence has always felt improbable, and so now it must be over.Д«ut-thank God-itвЂ™s not. вЂњYour husband broke his leg and your son broke his collarbone.вЂќ These do not seem like horrible injuries, so I am waiting for the worse news, the news that my daughter is dead. вЂњYou were in a car accident,вЂќ they tell me again. вЂњWhere are you?вЂќ вЂњNew Hampshire,вЂќ I say, except for one time when I say вЂњVermont.вЂќ вЂњNew Hampshire,вЂќ they correct, and I want to say, вЂњReally, we are so close to the border here, canвЂ™t you just give it to me this once?вЂќ вЂњWhatвЂ™s your name?вЂќ they ask me, and I tell them and tell them and tell them. Surely if I had crossed the river to New Hampshire I would know it. вЂњYou are in Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in New Hampshire.вЂќ Another ludicrous statement. I had promised the think tank where I work that IвЂ™d call in to a 4 p.m. WeвЂ™re having lunch and then going on a hike.

What I do remember: being woken up, again and again, by doctors who insist on asking me the same questions-my name, where I am, what month it is-and telling me the same story, a story that I am sure is wrong.

We picked my daughter up from camp and talked about where to go for lunch: the diner or the burger place. My familyвЂ™s worst day was a perfect one in the summer of 2019. The worst things can happen on the most beautiful days.

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