Doing the Wrong Thing

In 1958 before I knew Christ, I had a terrible car accident. A car full of women going home from work ran a stop sign and I hit the car broadside going 50 miles an hour. Bodies flew out the window, including Bob’s, my best friend. Two women died and all of us were severely injured. I wrote the following late; trying to report my feelings as a young boy of only 15.

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The ambulance began to move slowly, but was soon racing at top speed in and out of traffic. As I looked at Bob’s helpless form lying on the stretcher, I wondered if we would make it in time. Just moments before, his head had penetrated the windshield of my car as I collided with another vehicle.

As I bent over the broken body, I placed my index finger on the pressure points below his ears; pressing in an attempt to stop the gushing flow of blood coming from the huge gash on his forehead. I pressed in vain, for the crimson life giving serum continued to stream in torrents, flooding into Bob’s eyes and running down my hands. An uproar of anxiety came upon me, “Why doesn’t the bleeding stop?” “If it continues he’ll die*. Oh Lord, don’t let him die!”

The driver continued to make his way professionally through the Friday night traffic. I wondered why he did not go faster, as the seven miles to the small town hospital seemed like seventy. “Will he make it in time? Will a doctor be on duty?” These thoughts raced through my mind as I renewed my grip on the pressure points. “Why can’t I stop the bleeding? Will Bob die in my arms? Am I holding the right points?”

We arrived after what seemed like an eternity. Outside the emergency room I paced, my head ringing with the question, “Will he live?” A door opened, revealing the small form of the doctor. He walked toward me, and a smile crossed his lips as he spoke words sweeter than honey, “He’s going to be okay”. (I found out later that I had held the wrong pressure points).

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