On April 21, 2000, I was hit by a car as I was walking across the intersection of the Bowery and E 4th St. in New York City. While I was entering the crosswalk spanning the southern side of the intersection, a Lexus sport coup made a right turn from E 4th onto the Bowery, heading south. The car, which had initially been traveling parallel to the crosswalk and had been racing to beat a yellow light, struck me in the back of my knees.

I was flipped onto the car's hood, where I slid across the wet white surface to the side-view mirror on the passenger's side. There, my momentum sent me sailing from the windshield to the pavement. For a moment, as I flew through the air, I experienced a sensation of utter lucidity; my mind seemed to be working faster than reality, processing stimuli faster than I could perceive them.

I landed flat on my back. My head snapped backwards and smashed the pavement just above my occipital lobe. A deafening high-pitched squeal rang in my ears like a smoke alarm. I began to fall into a sort of narrowing tunnel. Then, my adrenaline kicked in before I completely lost consciousness. My first instinct was to pull my knees to my chest, not to console myself, but to get my legs out of the way of the oncoming traffic, which I doubted would brake for me. I opened my eyes. Again and again, the world seemed to be moving rapidly away from me.

Cars honked.

I could see the flashing indicator of a white Lexus half a block down the Bowery, which had pulled to the side of the road. A man was standing by the passenger's door.

"Buddy, are you all right?" he called.

"No," I called back. "Call an ambulance."

Despite millions of pedestrians in New York, cars rule the streets. More so than any disease, crime, or other kind of accident, automobiles pose the most significant threat to the safety residential population. There were 95,117 motor vehicle crashes in New York City in 1998, (the most recent year for which statistics are available) according to the Metropolitan Transportation Authority of the Tri-State Area. Of those crashes, 80,399 resulted in injuries to 129,147 people-an 85 percent rate of crashes yielding injuries, and an average of 1.6 people injured per crash. 374 people were killed in crashes. 60 deaths occurred in Manhattan. 9,149 crashes involved pedestrians (2,872 of them occurred in Manhattan).

Crossing the street in New York City puts the pedestrian in a predicament. New York City intersections are never devoted entirely to foot traffic (except in especially crowded areas, such as the financial district). Never are four crosswalks available at once, nor are eight walk signals illuminated simultaneously. There is only one permitted direction of foot traffic at any given time: pedestrians may travel parallel to green-lighted automobile traffic. In other words, if cars are passing through an intersection and you are strolling in the same direction as they are, you have the right of way.

Consequently, a motor vehicle making a turn in a New York City intersection is forced to make its turn through a crosswalk in which pedestrians are almost always, lawfully, crossing the street. As such, turning can be a precarious task in the city. To make a turn, a driver must slow almost to the point of stopping as s/he rounds a corner; if there are pedestrians in the crosswalk, s/he will have to stop and wait for them. Because of parked cars, it's often difficult to see pedestrians in a crosswalk until they're right in front of you.

But a lot of the time, crosswalks are clear. And for many drivers, the noise of taxis and delivery trucks breathing down their necks, and the fear of being rear-ended, is often cause not to slow down adequately. Thus, street-crossers are on the lookout. Like zebras in the Serengeti wary of the approaching lions, pedestrians are wary of the car that doesn't see them in the crosswalk--the car racing to beat a light, its tires screeching, piloted by an out-of-towner unfamiliar with the delicacy of a New York City turn.

I met Ross Corsair, a cameraman for NYT Productions and the Discovery Health Channel at around 6:00 PM on April 21, about three hours after I was hit by the car. He appeared at my bedside in St. Vincent's Hospital carrying a digital video camera. Tubes ran into my nostrils connecting me to a respirator. My neck was stabilized in a tight plastic brace. My pillowcase was covered in brown, dried blood, although I did not know that yet. I was just beginning to return to a normal mental state.

Entering the hospital.

He introduced himself, and informed me that he was a cameraman for the Discovery Channel--rather than the Discovery Health Channel--which was filming a documentary about St. Vincent's paramedics. Coincidentally, he happened to have been in the ambulance that picked me up. He and his crew had been filming my treatment from the time of their arrival on the scene. He explained that they wanted to use me in the documentary.

One of the paramedics from the ambulance came by to check on me. His name was Joe. He was handsome and I could see why the Discovery Channel would chose to document his particular ambulance. Joe and I chatted while Ross stood at the foot my bed panning between our faces. The camera was attached to a tripod with a slender metal arm at the base of the head. Joe and I shook hands, and I thanked him. He looked slightly embarrassed and told me it was all in a day's work.

After Joe had gone, Ross and I discussed Terry Zwigoff's documentary "Crumb," about the cartoonist R. Crumb. "Crumb's life was such a mess and the only thing that seemed to pull him through it was his art," Ross said. I liked that the movie was so dense, I told him, that it managed to give voice to so many personalities and ideas. "Yeah," Ross said, "every time you go back you see something you didn't notice before."

Ross showed me a consent form, a small sheet of white paper on a spiral note pad. I signed it and asked if I would get paid. "Well, no," Ross said. "We pay actors and narrators, who play a part or read lines."

During the next several hours, Ross followed my progress. I was moved to Coleman Tower, Room 1123. Ross set up his camera along the route and took cinematic shots of the gurney rolling by. 1123 was a double, already occupied by a Chinese man named Ben who had the window bed. His area was sectioned-off by a curtain. Ben had fallen from his bike a few weeks earlier, had hit his head, and had, just recently, been having dizzy spells and difficulty walking. St. Vincent's had admitted him for the night.

Ross set up his camera again to conduct a more thorough interview. I told my story: I was walking home from a New York University computer lab to my apartment on the Lower East Side. Sheets of rain were sweeping through the streets, the hardest rain I have ever seen in New York. I was wearing a Gore-Tex jacket and my waterproof hiking boots. Inside my jacket, my 75-page honors thesis for my English major was curled in a large interior pocket. I was scheduled to graduate in less than three weeks.

As I told my story and answered his questions, I realized Ross wasn't getting good clips or sound bites from me, although I wanted to give him good material. I told him, "The strangest thing about the accident was that there was no moment of impact. There was no "Oof! I've been hit." I was just walking down the street and the next minute I was flying, my feet in the air, rather peacefully."

After a few more questions, Ross closed the interview by asking: "If you had to be in the hospital for an extended period of time, what three books would you want to have with you?"

"I would want to have Dante's Inferno, on my girlfriend's recommendation," I explained. "I would want to have a Shakespeare play I haven't read. And I would want to have Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy."

"All books you haven't read?"

"All books I haven't read."

Before he left, Ross had me sign a postcard that would inform me of the documentary's air date when it was scheduled, probably in December or January.

The next morning, my parents came to visit. I told them that I was recovering well. I also told them about the documentary.

My parents went out to get some clothes for me to put on. (Most of what I was wearing during the accident had to be cut off in the hospital.) When they returned, my father told me excitedly that he had run into Ross in the lobby downstairs. My father said, "I mentioned your name, and Ross said, "Adam? Of course I know Adam. We'll definitely be using Adam.'"

Lifeline is a program that regularly airs on the Discovery Health Channel. The program's self-described goal reads: "Lifeline offers the daily, behind-the-scenes stories from hospitals and other medical centers. The series provides full access to the doctors, nurses, students and staff whose jobs are saving lives, and profiles the patients and their families seeking critical care." So far, eight episodes of Lifeline have been devoted to St. Vincent's Hospital in Greenwich Village, New York City.

The Discovery Health Channel's mission is:

[To] bring viewers instant access to the rapidly changing world of health, medicine and wellness. From real life medical experience to breakthrough documentaries to reliable advice and an exchange of the latest health news and information, the Discovery Health Channel empowers viewers to lead healthier, more vigorous lives.

With its exclusive focus on health, the Discovery Health Channel is a spin-off of that cable staple, the Discovery Channel, which has also served as the inspiration for a number of other spin-off channels. Usually, the other channels are accessible exclusively through satellite and digital cable providers.

All of the channels are owned by Discovery Communications Inc., which is privately owned. Their offices are in Bethesda, Maryland. The company also runs a Web site, Discovery.com, which features relevant news, program descriptions, and TV schedules, as well as the usual features of a search engine/home page such as Yahoo.com or MSN.com. Recently, I have seen several Discovery Channel Stores pop up.

The Discovery Health Channel claims that it is available in 20 million American households. Nonetheless, during the average weeknight primetime, the major networks (ABC, NBC, Fox, etc.) and the major cable channels (TBS, TNT, ESPN, etc.) soak up 97.5 Nielsen ratings points collectively. In other words, during the average primetime, 97.5 percent of American households (or about 100 million televisions) are tuned to a major channel. The remaining 750 or so small-audience digital cable channels, such as the Discovery Health Channel, compete for 2.5 Nielsen points (about three million households). No ratings are available for the Discovery Health Channel. (As a relatively new entity, Discovery Health is not yet a Nielsen-rated channel, although they are making arrangements to become one by the end of 2001.) However, if those remaining 2.5 points are divided evenly between the approximate number of remaining small-audience channels, the math suggests a market share of about 3,500 households per small channel, per time slot.

The episode of "Lifeline: St. Vincent's Hospital" in which I appeared aired Monday, November 27, 2000, at 9:00 PM Eastern Standard Time. It was the fifth episode in the "Lifeline: St. Vincent's Hospital" series. That same night, approximately 19,293,000 American households were watching "Everybody Loves Raymond" on CBS, the highest rated show of the evening. Another 18,435,000 were watching ABC's "Monday Night Football."

They never sent me the postcard. At least, I never received anything from Ross or the Discovery Channel or the Discovery Health Channel. I had moved a few times since April. And I wondered what address I might have written in my post-traumatic state. Nevertheless, by November, I decided to investigate.

I went to Discovery.com and searched for "Ambulance," "Paramedics," "St. Vincent," and "Adam Van Loon." I have bad luck when it comes to search engines, and I didn't find anything.

I sent them an email. A few days later I got a response from April in Viewer Relations. She explained that they didn't find a listing based on the information I provided, but she recommended I call Viewer Relations to speak with them in person.

I called them a few weeks later. April--presumably the same April that responded to my email--nswered my call. She was from Kentucky, and she spoke with a light, cheerful twang that made me want nothing more than to make her proud by watching the Discovery Channel regularly. She asked me what day I was hit and if there were any significant features of the day. I told her it was raining very hard. She asked if I was a bike messenger. I told her no. She asked if my name was Adam Van Loon.

"Yes it is," I said.

"Well, you are featured in Episode 5 of Lifeline: St. Vincent's, "Heavy Rain, Healing Arts.' It's actually playing tonight on the Discovery Health Channel."

I asked if it was playing on any other dates, and April went through a list of dates. After our conversation, I went back to Discovery.com, episode title in hand. I searched the television listings for "Heavy Rain" and was directed to a page with the episode's program description. It read:

Lifeline

Heavy Rain, Healing Arts, HIV Diagnosis

In this episode, we meet the following men and women: Dr. Arlene Curry (one of the ER attending physicians), Paramedic John Balem (an EMT), Volunteer David Fries, and physician assistant Gary Feinberg. Dr. Curry arrives in the ER and attends to Stacy Guerreseva, a hit and run victim. EMT John Balem comes across an [sic] unconscious man on East 4th Street. He is a bike [sic] named Adam van Loon and he is on his back, bleeding from the head: a possible victim of the harsh rain. David Fries, a hospital volunteer, uses art - human contact- to bring hope to people with terminal disease. He goes and visits Paul Allerton who is suffering from the HIV virus. His task is to help Paul see joy and beauty again. Meanwhile, physician assistant Gary Feinberg has a new patient to attend to: Michael Shugrue, a retired college English professor in his sixties who has been living with HIV for sixteen years. EMT John Balem attends to another call: an elderly woman with an irregular heartbeat.

I sent an email to my friends and family, inviting them to watch the episode from their respective locations. Then I set out to find somewhere to watch the thing. In November, I had just moved to Portland, Oregon; I didn't even own a television, let alone cable, let alone a digital satellite dish that would carry the Discovery Health Channel. I needed to find someone with a digital provider.

Renee and Margaret Pinot met my father's parents in Nashville in 1953. Renee was working for the General Board of Education of the Methodist church, on which my grandfather, a Methodist minister, was a member. As part of the church's effort to create community and save money, it was arranged for the two couples to share a duplex near the Methodist church in Nashville. Several years later, when my grandparents could afford it, they moved into a larger house and allowed the Pinots to live upstairs until they were able to find a place of their own. After my grandparents became close friends of the Pinots, they asked Renee and Margaret to be my father's godparents.

Renee is originally from Cuba. In 1937, when Renee was in his teens, he came to the United States as a part of a small delegation from a Methodist church in Cuba. By 1944, Renee had been drafted for the war effort. He was stationed in Gulfport, Mississippi, where he worked as an Air Force clerk. In January of that year, he met Margaret, who was working in the same office. In May, they married.

At age 82 and 81, Renee and Margaret live with their daughter and son-in-law. They are in good health, although Margaret takes her meals through a tube that connects to her stomach because she can no longer eat solid foods through her mouth. Renee's accent (which sounds to me like a slow French accent) is still thick. Their son's house, located in a pleasant Portland suburb, is designed such that Renee and Margaret share a private apartment. The walls are decorated with Margaret's watercolor paintings. A sign on their garage door reads: "Parking for Cubans only."

When my girlfriend Susie and I moved to Portland, we stayed with the Pinots during our first weekend in the city while we looked for an apartment. Then, in November I asked to watch my Discovery Health Channel debut at their house--their son-in-law had outfitted the apartment with DSL and digital cable. They welcomed me happily.

By the time Susie and I arrived, Renee had set up his VCR to automatically record the program. Margaret sat quietly in the kitchen. "It is time for Margaret's tube-feeding," Renee said, "but she will be joining us shortly." While we waited for the program to begin, Renee told us where each of Margaret's watercolors had been painted.

Then the VCR came to life and Lifeline: St. Vincent's Hospital, Episode 5 began.

The episode, which was wisely retitled "Balancing Life and Work," opens with a montage sequence of ambulances, doctors, nurses, footage of surgery, and other typical hospital iconography, very similar to the opening of ER. Frantic violins play over a tense piano melody. The succession of images accelerates. The sky above the New York City skyline fades to night and returns to day.

What follows in the next sixty minutes is day-in-the-life-style coverage of the four aforementioned St. Vincent's Hospital employees, and their treatment of various patients. After the opening story of Stacy Guerreseva's broken collarbones, I enter the scene. John Balem is sitting in his ambulance, commenting on his life as a paramedic. A Spanish-style guitar strums briskly, adding tension to the scene:

Balem: I celebrate being a paramedic for 21 years, two days, Ninety-five percent of the time it can be very boring. But we all know what it can be in the next couple minutes. You go from inactivity to you have somebody's life in your hands.

Radio: [Crackling]`East Fourth and Bowery'[crackling]

John starts the ambulance. A sequence of quick cuts ensues: John turnS the key and adjustS the rearview mirror, the ambulance's flashers spin. As the ambulance arrives on the scene, Balem's comments are interceded by commentary from Lifeline's invisible narrator. The narrator says, incorrectly, "Adam Van Loon was riding his bike when he was hit by a car. He was hit head on by the car, smashed into the windshield, and landed on his back, banging his head on the pavement.

Balem: [Voice-over] We see a lot of human tragedy. We go in on the front lines. It's emotional, 'cause the person's a human being and right now there's a family sitting somewhere that doesn't know about this. It reminds us of our mortality.

In the ambulance, I am pictured strapped to the gurney, dappled with plastic tubes and small adhesive pads.

Paramedic: [Addressing me] Any medical problems? What's your name?

Adam: My name is Adam Van Loon.

Narrator: First, the paramedics have to stabilize Adam. John waits for the signal from his partners before starting the ambulance.

Paramedic: [Pushing on my torso] "hurt when I push on your belly here?

Adam: Ugh. Makes me feel a little nauseous.

Paramedic: Okay, I'm gonna take your blood pressure. Okay. Just relax man, relax.

Adam: My skull's not broken, is it?

Paramedic: We didn't get to look at that, okay?

The paramedics exchange analyses. It becomes clear that there are at least two paramedics in the back of the ambulance, one of whom is Joe. John heads the ambulance for St. Vincent's. The episode cuts away to check in with Stacy Guerreseva. Dr. Curry talks with Stacey's relatives about her condition. Then the ambulance carrying me arrives at the St. Vincent's Emergency Room.

Adam: We're at the hospital?

Joe: We're at the hospital.

Paramedic: Yes we are.

Adam: [Being wheeled into the E.R..] I'm cold.

Balem: You're gonna be warm in about a minute. You're soaking wet. That's why you're cold.

I appear in close-up for the first time. My face is oily and ghostly white. My lips and eyes (which are closed almost throughout the episode) are crimson. My hair is matted under a think band of clear tape that wraps across my forehead, securing my head. I look very little like myself.

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The paramedics wheel me into my stall in the emergency room.

Adam: I'm really cold.

Joe: I'll get you that blanket.

Adam: Just tell me that my skull isn't cracked open.

Balem: We don't think so. It looks like just a laceration. But we can't tell you that for sure. They'll take an X-ray and make sure.

On that suspenseful note, the episode cuts to a commercial. An eponymous housewife appears on screen. She attempts to tape a Christmas bow onto a present she has wrapped. The bow falls off. A woman's voice asks, "Are you tired of wasting money on store-bought bows? Fed up with bow-makers that are complicated and hard to use?" The exasperated housewife angrily sweeps a table full of ribbons and cloth flowers onto her kitchen floor. A woman in a pink blazer appears: "I was. I'm Sandy Sandler, developer of Bowdabra, an incredible bow-maker that's so fun and easy to use, anyone can make beautiful professional bows in seconds!" The words: "Sandy Sandler, Inventor of Bowdabra" appear at the bottom of the screen.

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Throughout Lifeline: St. Vincent's Hospital, "Balancing Life and Work," low-budget commercials are run. The viewer is solicited by: a law office with "an important message for families who have suffered a death or liver transplant after taking [the prescription drug] Rezulin"; the Time-Life 100 Songs for Kids Collection on four CDs; The Stalking of Laurie Show, a USA Network Original Movie, "based on the shocking true story of a prom queen [who] wants to eliminate her competition"; the Miracle Eraser, a "fabulous lightweight sponge [that] races through any stripping job so fast you won't believe your eyes"; the Eagles: Selected Works 1972-1999 box set on four CDs; 800HotDeals.com, the largest shopping site exclusively for "As Seen On TV" merchandise; and the Professional Career Development Institute, a vocational and associate's degree learn-at-home school.

During the third commercial break, a commercial comes on for the Ab-Force, "a quick, inexpensive way to get in shape." The Ab-Force looks like the wheel assembly of an in-line skate attached to a rowing machine handle instead of a boot. "The Ab-Force combines a tried and true workout with modern technology."

"At the moment," Renee said as we watched the episode, "that is my favorite exercise."

Susie and I assumed he was joking and laughed, but Renee pointed to a small device tucked beside a bookcase. "I have a different version of the Ab-Force," he said, "But that one on TV looks a bit sportier. And I think I paid more for mine."

After the first commercial break, Lifeline resumes with another close-up of me. John and Joe are waiting by my bedside.

Adam: This is scary.

Balem: I know it is. But you're gonna be okay.

Balem: [Voice-over] I use humor to just put them at ease, 'cause your mind's a powerful thing. Laughing can help. It takes your mind off what's going on.

Adam: But there's nothing spilling out of my head?

Balem: Nooo. [Pause] A pizza with anchovies came out a few minutes ago. But no brains or anything.

Adam: I get it. [Laughs. Then cries.]

Balem: [Off-screen] Is all this his? [On-screen] We got your paperwork here. How much do you want to pay me for your thesis? How much is it worth to you?

Paramedic: What's that, John?

Balem: This is your thesis, I heard you say?

Adam: Yeah. It's a fifty-page paper.

Balem: You got five dollars? Fifty-pages! A dollar a page!

Adam: [Chuckles. Then weeps.]

Balem: Okay. We saved your paper. It's in good shape.

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The narrator explains that until the emergency room can do a complete examination, the extent of my injuries is indeterminable. The episode then cuts to spiritual healer David Fries, who does line-drawings of terminally ill patients and has them color-in their portraits with magic markers.

The most emotionally affecting moment of the episode for me is a scene in which David Fries is counseling a man with HIV, who has just been diagnosed with AIDS. Both men are in their early forties. Fries draws two portraits of the man, each on an unlined index card. Then he has the man color-in each of the drawings. He asks the man to define himself in a single sentence, and the man hesitently says, "I love the human spirit." Fries then pens the aphorism onto one of the cards in calligraphy: "I love the human spirit." After he laminates the two cards in a desktop laminator that he carries with himself, Fries asks the man which card he would like to keep, since he himself always keeps the other one. The man chooses. Then Fries, who is wearing rubber gloves during the segment, quickly leans over and plants a kiss on the man's cheek. Then Fries leaves. The scene closes with the man, who we see at this point is strangely missing one of the ear-pieces to his glasses, looking at his colorful index card.

In the following scene, Dr. Gordon appears at my bedside. She rolls me on my side to check my spine for injuries. "Oh, I'm dizzy," I say, "I'm dizzy. I'm dizzy." Wearing only my wet white briefs, I begin to vomit into a yellow bucket next to my bed.

I am then taken upstairs for a CAT-scan and X-rays of my chest and neck. The narrator speaks dramatically of the possible negative results of the tests. John Balem says, "Things can happen like that"-snaps his fingers-"You could be seriously injured. Your life could be changed forever. You could be killed."

Adam's cranium.

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Then, a pair of CAT-scan technicians report that there are no fractures or internal bleeding. A disinterested X-ray technician looks at the X-ray of my profile and says dryly, "I don't see anything." A minute later, Joe stops by my hospital bed, and I express my gratitude. After our conversation, the camera follows him as he walks toward the end of the E.R. The image fades into a slow-motion, soft-focus shot just as he reaches the door.

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Like that, my appearance in Lifeline: St. Vincent's Hospital, Episode 5: "Balancing Life and Work" comes to a close. The documentary did not feature any part of my interview with Ross; nor were many of the on-going experiences during my treatment included, such as my post-adrenaline lethargy and my pleasure at realizing that I would be able to sleep during the CAT scan.

Compared to network docu-journalism, such as 60 Minutes, Dateline, and 20/20, Lifeline is rather poorly produced--albeit its budget is only a fraction of those of mass-market programs. Nevertheless, with so many people and cases to follow, Lifeline's plots are jumbled and hurried. The sound quality is poor; it's often difficult to make out what people are saying. I was walking when I was hit, not riding my bike, as the narrator says. Although the episode deals at great lengths with John Balem's relationships with his patients, I was never formally introduced to him, nor do I have any memory of him from the accident (although I do remember meeting Joe).

At times during the program, you are left with the impression that the producers were settling for whatever footage they could shoot (particularly during the David Fries segments). What the producers are successful in evoking is a low-fi version of the stylized, shoot-from-the-hip sensibility that pervades recent medical drama television programs. A second Lifeline description on Discovery.com boasts: "Lifeline offers an unflinching and sometimes frenzied look behind the scenes at some of the world's leading medical institutions. No scripts. No "do-overs.' This is life and death. You see the unfolding stories of trauma, illness, compassion and care."

The effect of that "frenzied" style of television, however, is nothing like the actual experience of trauma, particularly head trauma. The experience of trauma is akin to a separate continuum of existence: it is incommunicable and timeless. It is impossible to describe trauma in such a way that another person will truly empathize. And the human brain seems to be wired to forget exactly what trauma feels like when it is not experiencing it; what it remembers instead is an apparition, an objectification, rather than a sensation or an experience. To experience trauma is simply to experience fear and suffering, the slow, primal horror of mortality.

In its attempt to transmit this incommunicable experience from the isolated reality of the individual to the shared, cultural reality, television falsifies and dilutes the experience.

Before my accident, I had had some limited, vicarious experience with head traumas. My brother incurred a concussion one winter while he was skiing. He ran into a lift pole, fell, then got up, shook it off and skied down the mountain. On his way down, he began vomiting through his ski mask. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill, he had lost two weeks of memory.

During a different winter, a family friend ignored a blow to his head when he was skiing and fell. He was fine for three hours, until he suddenly passed out at the wheel of his SUV as he was driving his family home from the ski resort. One of his children, who was in the passenger seat, managed to take the wheel and grind the car against the guardrail until it stopped.

Just after I was hit, as I lay on the sidewalk, curled in a fetal position, I knew that I was concussed. I could not open my eyes, and something was distinctly wrong with my mental processes. A diagnostic mental-checklist appeared in my mind; I began to run through it. I put my hands around my head and didn't move my neck, a precaution for possible vertebral damage. I thought, "Right hand," and squeezed my right hand. "Left hand. Right foot. Left foot." I wiggled my fingers and toes. They responded. I went through my memory. I knew my name. I knew where I was. I knew what day it was. I knew where I had just been. I focused on my head and neck, and fortunately discovered that the pain was localized in those areas. I did not have internal hemorrhaging.

I wondered if anyone would come to my aide. Then I heard voices, and I felt a hand placed gently on my side. "What happened?" a woman's voice asked. I glanced up and saw an umbrella. Another voice said it was a medical student. "I hope they're not a first-year," I joked to myself.

"My name is Adam Van Loon," I said. "I was hit by a white car as I crossed the street, and I hit my head. I need medical attention. If it hasn't been done, could someone please call an ambulance? My wallet is in the front, right pocket of my coat. I live at 245 E 2nd St, although my license is from Massachusetts. Is an ambulance coming?"

Suddenly, I imagined Susie standing over me, looking at my helplessness. I was a fallen child: unsure whether to cry until mother gasps at my injury and I realize I should. I began weeping uncontrollably. "I don't know why I'm crying," I whimpered. "Sorry about this." It seemed impossible that anyone would stop in the freezing rain for a stranger lying on the New York sidewalk. I cried harder. Then I touched the back of my head and felt what seemed to be jagged fragments of skull protruding from my cranium. I wondered if I would have permanent brain damage.

Eventually, a fire truck and then an ambulance arrived. They stabilized my neck, strapped me to a backboard, and loaded me into the ambulance. I tried to remain calm. The neck brace pressed on my Adam's apple and made me feel that I would vomit. I insisted, as forcefully as I could, that the paramedics tell me what to do if I needed to vomit, so I wouldn't choke on my own sick like Jimi Hendrix.

"Just tell us and we'll tilt you," they instructed, finally.

The ambulance lurched back and forth. The lights grew brighter and then went dimmer. I couldn't hear sirens or see flashing lights and I wondered if they had bothered with them. I asked if I had brain damage and someone told me they didn't know yet.

I cursed.

"Don't curse," a voice scolded me. "It's Good Friday."

"Are you Catholic, Adam?" a second voice asked.

"No," I said. "No, I suppose I'm Protestant. Not that I go to church."

"That's okay," the second voice said. "I'm not Catholic either."

I wondered why, if it was Good Friday, I hadn't seen anyone with ash on their foreheads.

During the next few hours, I oscillated between feeling reasonably lucent and feeling utterly and completely trapped within the fear and pain in my own mind. Later, lying in my hospital bed, I thought of Yossarian, Joseph Heller's existentialist bomber pilot in Catch-22. During a combat mission, Yossarian's gunner, Snowden, endures what at first seems to be a massive leg wound. Despite the horrifying site of mutilated flesh, Yossarian gathers himself together, ties off Snowden's leg with a tourniquet, and reassures Snowden that he will be fine.

"I'm cold," Snowden says.

"There, there," Yossarian says.

"I'm cold," Snowden repeats.

As he patches Snowden's wound, Yossarian notices a small puncture wound under Snowden's armpit, just inside his protective flak-suit. "Yossarian ripped open the snaps of Snowden's flak suit and heard himself scream wildly as Snowden's insides slithered down to the floor in a soggy pile and just kept dripping out. He wondered how in the world to begin to save him."

In St. Vincent's, I wondered if I would be haunted by the memory of my own mortality. I felt that for the first time since reading Catch-22, I understood Yossarian's paralysis. The alternative seemed to be to simply ignore my body's fragility, to pretend, on some unconscious level, that despite all appearances, I could not be harmed. Because the scariest moment of the crash was when I lay on the pavement in the rain, and Rose Ottey (or Ottey Rose, the police report isn't clear what the driver's name was) asked me if I was all right, and I had to be the one to answer.

It took me almost two weeks after the crash before I could leave my apartment. Besides the whiplash, which kept me bed-ridden for four days, the act of walking made me dizzy and gave me a headache. The April sun seemed particularly bright, the spring air especially cold and crisp. I had to sit while showering, once I began showering again. My parents left after a day, and Susie took care of me.

When I finally felt up to it, I went to the 6th Precinct on E 5th St., made famous by NYPD Blue, to get the accident report. I needed it for insurance reasons, but I also wanted to send thank-you cards to the people who waited with me in the rain until the fire department and paramedics arrived. Unfortunately, the report didn't list any witnesses.

After visiting the police station, I walked to the site of the crash on E 4th St. and the Bowery. It was a hazy day, warm but not humid, unusual for New York. A construction crew was doing work in the intersection. I crossed the street. A line of cones directed me around an open pipeline. On the other side of a cement truck, I could see the spot where I had been hit. Oddly enough, the construction crew had just finished pouring fresh cement for a new sidewalk on the corner. Strings were tied taught between popsicle sticks that were poking out of the concrete. The sidewalk was smooth and white.