Nancy’s nastiness keeps echoing in my head. Everything happened so fast, that I don’t really know what did happen. I wouldn’t hurt my sister for all the oil in Arabia. Watching Nan staggering out of those thickets, blew my mind. I overreacted. That’s all. I know, now, that I should’ve been gentler and more tactful.

Dear God, please help me!

What have I done?

I pull over at a roadside café and purchase two six-pack of Coors beer. Rowdy’s Roadhouse cashier tells me I’m heading to Missouri. Twelve hours and several stops afterwards, I enter Branson.

Rafter’s overlooks the lush Ozark Mountains. Their top-floor cocktail lounge has a circular bar covered with crystal-framed mirrors. The shelves are even crystal lined. Small, golden lanterns sit roundabout countertops, tables, and in-between fancy bottles of liquor.

I spend a week trying to drown my thoughts and discovering only—memories can’t be killed. They’ll temporarily fade, like stars on a cloudy night; but, though they can’t be seen, you know they’re there. And then when things clear, they’re back brighter than ever.

Visiting Branson’s various nightspots might be a good idea, if it wasn’t for this torrential rainfall and the ’73 Mercedes in front of me.

The driver is periodically walking his vehicle, stead of typically motoring along. Two white heads of hair are barely sticking above the headrests. And this senior’s, either speeding up and then hitting his brakes, or drifting into the centerline when I’m trying to pass. He goes fast around the curves and slows down as I close in.

Heading eastbound on Shepherd of the Hills Expressway, I veer right by that severe north-jetting curve, to avoid banging the Benz. But my bumper clips its fender—propelling me into the mountainside.

I half consciously hear the ambulance driver and EMT (emergency medical technician) discussing what hospital they should take me to. One suggests Branson. The other’s sure I’ll need a neurosurgeon and should go to Springfield. Then, I totally conk out.

For seven days, the world spins without any participation from me.

When I finally awaken, I’m in searing pain! My entire head’s throbbing worse than a migraine; jaw is wired shut; and face is completely bandaged—except for nostrils and lips. Left fingertips-to-armpit, is in a cast. My ribs are taped, neck and back are in a brace, and left leg is numb.

Emergency personnel found the Medical Alert Bracelet, warning of allergies but they’re uncertain what that covers. A nurse advises me to lift my right hand, if any of the painkillers or medications she lists, cause negative reactions.

They’re intravenously giving me morphine and streptomycin. The morphine’s helping ease alcohol withdrawal, more than relieving aches and pains.

It’s a miracle I’m not dead. I promise God if He gets me through this, I’ll quit drinking. And I mean it—right now anyways!

Six weeks pass, before doctors allow me to have ginger ale, Jell-O, and physical therapy.

In eight weeks, my jaw’s unwired and stitches are taken from my gums. Before they re-bandage my head and face, I question diagnosis.

Dr. Hollister Whoit gives me the lowdown in layperson’s lingo. Because I was thrown headfirst into an unbreakable windshield that doesn’t pop on impact, my face became embedded in glass. The best plastic surgeon at Springfield, Dr. Palmer Patterson, rebuilt my nose—which has 19 stitches. My face has more than 50 surgical closings. I have four broken ribs and two “pinched” nerves in the back of my neck—causing left leg numbness. My left arm has torn muscles and tendons. My chest and abdomen are multiply bruised.

Doctor Whoit’s warm, gray-brown eyes gauge my daily progress and his caring bedside manner offers heartfelt comfort.

Sixty days from when I begin speaking anew, Dr. Whoit removes the last facial wrapping. I hear him commenting to an associate how miraculously I’ve healed.

It’s been four months since I’ve looked at myself in a mirror. And today, that’s a frightening thing to do. From hairline to jawbone, dozens of disfiguring wounds mar my skin. A large gash starts at right corner of my top lip and creases upward into the right side of my nose. Both eyes are blackened. And my mouth is swollen.

I’ve been undergoing mental therapy; and, local AA members are stopping in for regular visits.

Rafter’s manager sent my suitcase to the hospital.

Personnel from Jumble’s Junkyard, where my Toronado was towed, sent my purse. Nurse Nordau brings it by on the day before I’m to be released.

Springfield Burge is one of the largest hospitals in the nation. And its excellent staff is thanked for being so attentive and kind.

But the morning I’m to be discharged, Sgt. Pannini comes and arrests me for having operated a motor vehicle while impaired.

I telephone The Club Paree.

Attorney Mark Mason sends the $5,000.00 bail and contacts Branson’s Court on my behalf.

Mr. and Mrs. Crawley, the couple in the Mercedes, dropped their complaint. However, other criminal charges are still awaiting decision, such as: 1) Having open beer, wine, and brandy containers; 2) reckless driving; and 3) destruction of property.

Judge Juarez glares at me, as I gimp to the front of his courtroom. His Honorable Judgeship asks how I plea.

I respond, ‘Guilty as charged.’

The sober-faced, runt says people like me are a menace to society. I’d better get help for my drinking problem! As he’s spieling, I’m silently questioning what gives this bloat the right to be so disrespectful? We’ve never socialized. He doesn’t know me from Queen Elizabeth.

But Juarez keeps on keeping on—pointing out that I’ve been hospitalized a considerable span. And although my attorney contacted him arguing that I be given a second chance, he tends to disagree because of my record. Nevertheless, The Crawley’s withdrew their grievance. Consequently, he’ll release me with time served.

On my way out, I’m to go with the bailiff, get the money Attorney Mark Mason put up, and then leave Missouri! If I ever come back to this state, get so much as a jaywalking violation, he’ll put me in prison and throwaway the key!

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