The Night I Should Not Have Survived

I was driving home on I-90 outside of Chicago on a January night. Black ice, no warning. My truck went into a full spin at 65 miles per hour and crossed two lanes before leaving the road. I remember the guardrail coming toward me and then nothing until I was standing outside the truck in the snow, completely uninjured, watching the vehicle settle into the ditch with the front end caved in. I have no memory of how I got out. The door on my side was jammed shut — responding officers had to use tools to open it later. I was not wearing my seatbelt, which I am not proud of. The paramedic on scene kept asking me where I was hurting. I told her I was fine. She did not believe me and insisted on a full evaluation. Nothing. Not a scratch. She had been a paramedic for eleven years and said she had never seen someone walk away from that kind of impact. I stood on the shoulder of that highway in the cold and I wept. I knew something had happened that I could not explain.