In 1972, when I was not quite 7 years old, my mother and I got into the family station wagon in Miramar and went to pick up my sister from school in Pembroke Pines.
I remember the day. It was sunny and warm. There weren't many clouds in the sky.
We turned onto North Douglas Road, a road which connected with east-to-west roads Stirling, Sheridan, Johnson and Taft and carried traffic south to Pines Blvd and Pembroke Road.
I remember  that I was wearing my Mickey Mouse t-shirt and a pair of shorts.
I remember seeing the heavy work trucks and gravel trucks that were busy building Broward County go by as we headed to the school.
We got to the school but most of the kids were gone. The pick-up loop was empty.
Mom had me get out of the car and look down the hallway along the bank of lockers to see if my sister was there.
She wasn't. She must have taken the bus.
We started to leave.  The nose of Mom's wagon was at the opening in the fence.
The last thing I remember was looking to the left and telling my mom "There's a gravel truck coming."
The next thing I remember is waking up in a very quiet room and seeing the head of a nurse looking in my direction from a better lit room. She was a nurse. My mom was a nurse. Everything was okay. I'm in a hospital. I felt safe. I fell back to sleep.
There's not a whole lot else I remember about this time.
My Dad told me that I spoke to the policeman who saved my life by wrapping his shirt around my face. Apparently, I told him who my Dad was and where he was and what he did.
The gravel truck driver had been drinking and the impact of his truck spun our car around and tangled it in the fence that bordered the school. I went through the windshield and landed on the hood of the car.
In those days, seat belts buckled over your stomach instead of to the side. The seat belt my mother had been wearing had literally ripped her open.
(I just want to say here that I am a very strong advocate for the use of seatbelts. You have to understand that this was 42 years ago. Cars and safety standards have changed a great deal. If you say to me "I'd rather be throoown clear," I may have to slap you around.) (I'm codependent, yo.)
I don't remember much about the many weeks and months I was in Memorial Hospital in Hollywood, except that I was bored, that I shared a ward with about 5 other kids, that I slept A LOT and that one day I received a small box containing small toys and puppets from Dad's co-workers at The Miami Herald's Hollywood office.
I really don't remember much about the time after that, either. My sister said that I was in a lot of pain and was heavily drugged. I guess that would explain it.
What I do remember is the faces of the people who came to our house to be Mom to us while my Mom recovered in the ICU.
After the accident, according to my sister, I had way too much pity from all concerned. I wasn't made to be responsible for chores, though my sister - who is five years older than me - tried.
No one taught me how to make a bed, to clean my room, to cook, to iron or to sew.