So at work this afternoon, somebody who works on the other side of the building from me came by my cube and said I'm supposed to let him know about these things. What things, I asked. Turns out there had been an accident on the Dulles Toll Road, which is right behind our building.

You couldn't see much from the corner by my cube, but if you went to the far corner, you could see the remains of a red car (we're on the eighth floor, and it didn't look much like it had when it came out of the factory, so I'm a bit vague on the model) surrounded by firemen. There were several fire trucks, and they had blocked off not only the Toll Road but the airport access road -- where an emergency helicopter was landing right as we came to the window.

From what I was able to gather from the appearance out the window and what colleagues had seen, the red car had gone out of control on the airport access road, swerved across the median into the Toll Road (which at least is going the same direction), rolled, and came to a stop pointing backwards, angled towards the access road. A passenger was thrown from the car, and the activity we saw from the windows was the firemen attempting to extricate the driver from the vehicle. I went back a few minutes later and saw that the firemen were gone and the top of the car had been completely removed (apparently the Jaws of Life are of minimal use in these situations, as it's apparently easier and quicker to cut the front posts and peel the top of the car off). The helicopter had gone off to the southeast.

Half an hour later, there was an email from Koog -- the transplant people had called, telling her to go to Inova Fairfax Hospital, that there was a kidney waiting.

Normally when you see an accident, you're horrified, but it's not quite real to you. This is how an entire floor of people can line up along the windows to watch, as a few hundred feet away the rescue team fights the clock and circumstances to save lives. It's gruesome and strange, but your brain tells you, "they'll be all right," and since that's so much nicer to believe than the alternative, you go along with it. Seeing Amanda's email sent me into a daze. Most likely, at least one of those people in the car wasn't all right. I found myself thinking, "was it the driver? Was it the passenger thrown from the car? You know, sometimes it's the person who's thrown clear who survives ..."

I hung around work until about seven, then I went to Tower to look at magazines and kill some time, figuring if I hadn't heard anything from Amanda that I'd go by the hospital. I got a call from her at eight, I guess. She was in great spirits, said they hadn't yet told her to go home, that somebody else already had the liver from the donor, and barring unforeseen circumstances (of which there could be any number), that later on they'd wheel her in, cut her open, and give her new insides.

I dawdled around Tower a while longer, looking at the alternate covers to McSweeneys #5 than the one I'd picked up Monday, fielding a phone call from Nicole, and then eventually buying a copy of said McSweeneys (Ted Koppel cover) for Amanda. I drove to the hospital -- you have to pay for parking, which seems like a cruel insult on top of what medical treatment costs nowadays -- and set about finding her.

The information desk wasn't staffed anymore. I was looking at an elevator pondering if I should head up to the tenth floor (labeled Transplant Center) when a man in a lab coat offered to help. He started to send me to the tenth floor, then corrected himself and sent me to nine instead. That's cancer treatment. They sent me to ten. Nobody at the transplant receiving desk either. The people at renal/dialysis looked up Amanda's room number and sent me down there (six). The girl at the desk there had no idea what I was talking about, but eventually pointed me to the right room. Amanda's stuff was there, but she wasn't. I got some paper from a nurses' station, left a note on the McSweeneys, and went to exit.

Passing through the lobby, I ran into her mom. I didn't tell her about the accident we'd seen. It's a little too weird to tell her now, I think. We hugged, she thanked me for coming out, I said I'd left something in the room, she said the doctors had said it's about a six hour procedure, I said I should probably get going as there wasn't much for me to do there, she took my phone numbers, and I left. The parking was two bucks.

I was reminded today of two things.

One, I was reminded of how my brother died. A car accident is a hell of a way to go. What will happen to the relatives of the person or people in that car who lost their lives today? How did they find out? Who was there with them? Do they have any way at all to find any meaning in this? Do they believe in a God capable of taking those dearest from them away, and if so, will they keep their faith now?

Two, I was reminded of a simple thing -- the checkmark on my driver's license that says, "organ donor." I've had it checked ever since I was eighteen and got a new license. It's a little thing, but it's a big, meaningful thing. The crash that took my brother became an explosive fireball, so I doubt that his remains would have provided any life to anyone, but I feel that the gesture is extremely important. If, in dying, you may allow someone else to live, please do so. Perhaps that is one way that others may find meaning in your death.

(19 oct)