Always Wear Your Seatbelt in Cabs/Uber/Lyft
On March 6, 2005, at about 12:35 a.m. my partner and I left a restaurant in Northern Liberties and flagged a cab to head home. Neither of us put our seatbelt on. We just never did in a cab. At worst, we’d get in a fender-bender and it was usually gross and disgusting jamming your hand down the backseat of a cab to find the seatbelt connector.
A car going the wrong direction at a high rate of speed t-boned our taxi. Fire/Rescue workers needed to the Jaws of Life to cut us out. Shout out to all the 1st Responders that worked on us. We made the news.
So here’s my PSA for buckling-up in cabs and ride-sharing cars. Below are photos captured from the television by family members followed my memories of the initial hour or so in Thomas Jefferson’s Trauma Unit. I have an entire book written, but you’ll get the drift just reading the first chapter. Enjoy and BUCKLE UP!
CHAPTER 1
I woke up hearing BEEPS and metal CLATTERING. I saw nothing but darkness and felt something go into my ass. Voices I didn’t recognize spoke with urgency about something or someone.
Whatever was in my ass came out. I grunted.
“Sorry,” a male said.
Someone shined lights into my eyes.
“What’s your name?” a woman asked.
“Greg Caputo.”
“What year is it?”
“2005.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Saturday night.”
“Have you had anything to drink?” the woman asked.
“Two Jack and cokes….I can’t breathe.”
“Did you have anything else? Did you take any drugs?”
“No. I can’t breathe.”
“You’re not gonna get arrested. I need to know. ARE YOU ON ANY DRUGS?”
I couldn’t catch my breath.
“No.”
“Push your feet down against my hands,” a male voice said.
Someone grabbed the bottom of my feet.
“Good. Now pull them up against my hands.”
I pulled my feet up.
“When did you have your last tetanus shot?” another voice asked.
“I dunno. I can’t breathe.”
“Can you feel this?” the voice asked while sticking my foot with something that felt like a needle.
“Yessss! I CAN’T BREATHE.”
“We know. You were in a car accident. You have broken ribs and a collapsed lung,” a female voice advised.
Hands probed my body. Each time I tried to inhale, a strong pinching pain ripped through my chest.
“I’m going to make it easier for you to breathe,” a male who sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger said, “I have to insert a tube into your chest to release the pressure.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
In my darkness, the attendant’s tone of voice suddenly went from reminding me of Schwarzenegger to a villain in Schindler’s List. I couldn’t catch my breath.
“A lot?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
A village of hands exerted force down onto my body and held me still. They stretched my right arm out at a right angle to my body. Then, something ripped into my chest. Was it the scalpel or the tube being inserted? Hospital rooms usually have a FACES pain scale sign on their walls for patients to identify the intensity of pain. One is a smiling face. Ten is a crying face. I needed a fifteen—someone screaming and pulling their hair out. I SCREAMED.
I heard a loud HISSING noise. Either someone just punctured a tire in the room or it was air escaping my chest cavity. The relief was immediate and the hands released their grip on my body. I could breathe again.
“Your friend is okay.”
She’s not my friend. She’s my fiancée! I caught a blurry view of a short, male police officer.
“She’s at Hahneman Hospital and we’ll have a report ready for you in a couple of days.”
I went back into darkness.
“Greg?” a male voice asked.
“Yes?”
“You’re at the trauma unit at Thomas Jefferson Hospital. Your cab was in an accident. Do you remember any of it?”
“No. Am I okay?”
“Well…I need to tell you that you have a broken neck.”
“Can I walk?”
“You can walk. You have a Hangman’s fracture.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s not great, but could be worse. We have to stabilize your neck and we have two choices. We can put you in a halo or you can wear a plastic cervical collar. The halo is screwed into your skull to keep it in place. If we do the collar, it must be worn all the time. It cannot come off.”
“There’s at least three dollars in my pocket. It’s yours if I can get the collar,” I mumbled.
“You can keep your three dollars. It has to stay on at all times. If you move your neck without it on, things can get terribly worse for you. Do you understand?”
Yes.”
WHO THE FUCK WOULD TAKE IT OFF? I remember thinking.
I don’t remember seeing any white lights or having an out-of-body experience. I wasn’t scared or nervous. I was just there, doing and enduring whatever procedures that the ominous voices advised. They sounded like they knew what they were doing. I don’t even remember getting to the trauma unit. Maybe I only had mild trauma. The only visual that I remember was the police officer and I think that’s only because mentioning my fiance rattled me back to consciousness for a brief instant.