THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, February 14, 1996 TAG: 9602150113
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Column
SOURCE: Larry Maddry
LENGTH: Medium: 83 lines
ONE OF THE things a pretty serious accident can do is put your priorities in focus. I had been fretting about a problem with my personal computer at home when it happened: a van crossed three lanes of traffic and plowed into my door, smashing the car into a wall.
There was a sickening crunch of metal. Glass shattering. My head shot forward; my chest pushed with overwhelming force into the steering wheel.
When I leaned back in the seat, I had completely forgotten about the computer. Blood trickled from my forehead. My chest felt as if Shaq O'Neal had slam dunked a cannonball onto it. My arms were numb. Breathing was difficult. I seemed to ache all over.
I was suddenly aware that my life was in the hands of strangers. Within several minutes, men in blue coats I took to be Norfolk Rescue personnel were smashing at the windshield of the car trying to get me out.
Somehow, a police officer suddenly entered the car, bouncing into the seat beside me. I was so dazed I don't remember how he got there, possibly after climbing through a rear window. He said they'd have me out in a few minutes. He checked my pulse and covered me with a blanket - protection from the shattering glass flying inside the car. A few minutes later, my clothes had been cut off me. I lay in the back of a police rescue vehicle. A team of doctors and nurses waited for me in the emergency room at Sentara Norfolk General, attaching gizmos, sticking me with needles.
Can you wiggle this? Does it hurt there? Did you lose consciousness? They were quick and thorough.
Turned out it was only a few cracked ribs, heart contusions and a very sore back. The car didn't do as well. It was declared a total loss. I was released from the hospital a couple of days later, grateful to the strangers who had cared for me, especially the nurses whose kindness was as unflagging as my sore disposition.
As nurse Lottie said, in a falsetto soprano voice weighted with sarcasm: ``I take it that we are not a happy camper this morning, Mr. Maddry? Please believe me when I say that I find your diagnosis of your condition refreshing. It will be interesting to compare it with that of your doctor to see how much it varies from reality.''
Since returning to my home, I have been touched by the get-well messages and cards from friends, and even more by those from total strangers who know me only from the column. Bless you, everyone.
I know one thing. I am lucky to be alive. And I've learned a few other things, too. One of them is that dogs know when you are hurting. Mabel the cocker spaniel, eases ever so slowly into the bed beside me at night, considerate of my sore ribs. And the other is that daily concerns are insignificant when compared to life itself. Mere trifles.
Yet, I continue to worry about trifles. I try to remind myself of Norman Lane, a toothless 68-year-old I interviewed in Silver Spring, Md., back in 1990.
Norman had become a celebrity around Silver Spring for the four words that had made him famous: ``Don't worry about it.'' Norman's face was spread with a broad, goofy grin and he walked with a loping gate all over town spreading his four-word message.
He lived on Social Security, slept in the back of a body repair shop and seemed the happiest man I ever met. Mention a personal problem or a national one to Norman and he had his ready answer: ``Don't worry about it.'' A pizza parlor sold T-shirts with Norman's face and his motto on them.
Everyone in Silver Spring seemed to know and love him. He kept his eyes open while roaming the streets and gave tips to the policed about break-ins or store doors left unlocked.
John Beale, a Silver Spring policeman, said he was driving Norman to court, where he was testify against a burglar, and was astonished to find Norman pulling a beer can from his coat. ``He drank on that beer and then tossed it out the car window,'' Beale recalled. ``I turned to him and said, `Norman, what in the hell do you think you are doing?!' And I guess you know what Norman said: `Don't worry about it.' ''
Norman was a man who knew how to smell the flowers and forget the day-to-day annoyances that seem to nibble at the rest of us like ducks.
Which is why I think about him while resting in bed between column attempts. And when the stack of insurance forms and medical bills mounts on the dining room table.
Hmmm . . . think I'll go the refrigerator right now, crack a beer in Norman's honor and just not worry about it. by CNB