Molly Tumanic

For most of us, wearing our seatbelt is something our parents have drilled into our heads ever since the day we were able to climb onto the seat and click the buckle ourselves.

There were probably times when your mom refused to leave the driveway or even start the car until she saw you were safely strapped in.

I am guessing, too, that just like me, you thought you were ultra sneaky when you could “trick” your parents by strapping yourself in for only the beginning of the drive. Yes, halfway through when dad wasn’t looking, you would push the silver button and sit there free as a bird thinking you were some sort of badass who could defy all the rules.

And you would giggle to yourself until someone realized what you had done and yelled at you – again! Ahh, the joys of the simple life.

Then, of course, you reached the point when you turned 16, and that once-imagined freedom became something real.

Most of us, by this point, were probably way too cool to wear a seatbelt. I mean, those are for kids and people who can’t sit still while riding in a car. You may have even had people tell you stories of how when they were 18, their car exploded on the side of the road and, thanks to the fact that they weren’t wearing their seatbelts, they were able to open the car doors and jump out, preventing major harm.

But here is my real story. I only hope you can get one-thousandth as much out of it as I have.

It was Feb. 13 this year … not a Friday, but an unlucky day nonetheless. I was driving home from Eau Claire to my parents’ home in Appleton, a three-and-a-half- to four-hour drive. No big deal. I have done it a gazillion times. It was not snowing here in Eau Claire, and there were no signs of any big storms in Appleton, either, so I didn’t think anything of the drive.

Three weeks prior to this day, I had purchased a used, but new to me, Chevy S-10 truck. About an hour-and-a-half into the drive, I caught some black ice and began to fishtail. I just remember taking a deep breath and trying to steer slowly against it.

Before I knew it, my right rear tire caught the snow on the right side of the road. The next thing I knew, I was being sucked into the ditch backwards, thinking to myself, “I am OK. Everything is OK. I just have to wait for it all to stop.”

Pretty much between that point and the point when I was upside down clenching the steering wheel with my heart pumping so fast I swear it probably skipped five beats, I do not really remember too much. It all happened so fast.

Once reality set in, I felt for my legs to make sure they were there. Then I unbuckled, flipped myself right side up and reached for the door handle. I tried to pull it, but it wouldn’t budge.

The entire cab section was smashed in from the top and buried beneath snow, so even if the handle had worked, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get the door open.

Taking a deep breath, I looked over at what was left of the passenger side. I could see the glass was broken, and so I knew fresh air was coming in. This calmed me.

I began scrambling for my cell phone. As I was squeezing it out from where it was jammed, I began to panic again.

It was so weird how the situation seemed to bounce in and out of reality. I dialed my dad.

My first words to him were: “Dad, don’t be mad at me, but I rolled my truck.” I could tell he was in disbelief because he kept saying, “What? What happened?”

It was no more than three minutes later, and I could hear voices outside yelling to see if I was OK. Two men were scrambling to dig snow out of the way so they could pry the door open.

Once they got me out, they said they had already called for help and an ambulance was on its way. I thanked them numerous times and told them while I appreciated it, an ambulance was not necessary; somehow I did not have a scratch on me.

One of the men who dug me out was an off-duty officer. He told me I was extremely lucky. He said he had seen accidents that weren’t one-fourth as bad where the people involved didn’t even come close to walking away. He said that as he was approaching the situation, he was thinking to himself, “There probably isn’t anyone left alive in there.”

I could never even begin to explain to you the numerous concepts that emerged and were reinforced because of this extremely humbling experience.

First of all, life is precious and short. No one ever promised you a tomorrow. If there is something you like to do or want to get out of life, do it.

I feel as if I have been given a second chance at life, and I am going to continually try to make it worthwhile. That doesn’t mean I have to go conquer the world, but I can start by trying to carry out the little, everyday things in life with more enthusiasm.

Secondly, it is important to let people know what they mean to you. A few days after the accident, I called and wrote numerous friends and family members and told them what they meant to me. It is always a good thing to let people know these things. We don’t say them enough and too often are embarrassed to act upon them. Don’t wait until it is too late. Do it now. Go, pick up the phone, call your mom and tell her you love her.

Third … WEAR YOUR SEATBELT.

Think about it this way: Take everything that ever meant something to you and everything that means something to you and everything that ever will mean something to you in the future.

Would you be willing to give everything up simply because you are too cool to wear a seatbelt?