Look both ways
The chaos of being hit by a car
Hailey Tessman
Madi Patton
Red and blue lights make it hard to see. Blood is dripping down my forehead as I press a once-white shirt into it. The curb offers little support to my shaking legs and my numb hip. I can hear people shouting and asking questions while my mom is talking on the phone.
The only thing I can think is, “Why didn’t I look twice? Why didn’t I look to my right? Just why?”
Three hours earlier
The week before Thanksgiving is always long. By the end of it, my roommate, Abby, and I were ready for the quizzes, busy work and boring classes to come to a stop, even just for a short while.
There was a hockey game on Nov. 21, 2025, kicking off what was supposed to be a perfect weekend. We were two girls who may know little about hockey but love watching our team.
Except not this night.
The arena is packed to the brim, everyone standing shoulder-to-shoulder as people fight for seats.
“Are these seats taken?” a stranger questions.
“Unfortunately, I’m sorry,” I respond.
Saving three seats for our late friends turns out to be more stressful than we originally thought. The number of “Where are you?” or “Are you here yet?” texts sent becomes obnoxious.
The game turned out to be pretty boring. One team scored, then the other team scored. Typical hockey things.
At the end of the second period, Abby and I decide that we’re done watching. Our bodies were sore from the freezing rink, and our ears hurt from the roaring sounds of the game. We had been texting our friends who were at home that weekend and decided to FaceTime them back at Etheridge Hall, our dorm, only a five-minute walk away.
We start calling our friends as soon as the doors closed behind us. We are met with misty, frigid rain, and our eyes take a second to adjust to the darkness around us.
We aren’t the only ones running down the Goggin Ice Center stairs trying to avoid the rain, as others had a similar idea of leaving the game early. We stop at the curb, and I put my phone down at my side. We were about to cross the street, so I couldn’t be focusing on that, right?
I look to my left and see the blinding headlights of a large white truck that stops for me to cross. Technically, the closest crosswalk is a block away, but no one uses it. Unfortunately, I forgot that there are two sides of the street.
I look back at Abby and yell, “We can make it!” Then I ran. Too caught up in my own mind. Too caught up in getting across the street.
Too distracted to hear Abby scream, “Car!”
Next thing I know, I’m sitting in the middle of the road. Something must have happened, but I can’t seem to remember. Where am I? What was I doing? The blurriness of my vision starts to clear, and the sounds around me come into focus.
“Hailey, you just got hit by a car.”
“Oh my God, you're bleeding.”
“Should I call 911? I’m calling 911.”
“They are on their way.”
“I’m calling your mom.” Abby cries as she says all of these things. I get up and walk to the curb.
“What are you doing? Just sit still!” She says.
“I didn’t get hit, I don’t know what you are talking about,” I persist.
About 20 people surround me as I go to sit down on the curb. They were giving out free t-shirts at the game, and someone offers me one to hold to my forehead. The white shirt becomes bright red almost instantly. The color spreads through the shirt's fabric in the blink of an eye.
My mom is on her way. No questions asked. Even though I messed up. Even though I’m the idiot.
The cops show up first.
“Can you tell me what happened?” they ask Abby.
“Hey, Hailey,” one of the officers says, squatting in front of me. He gives me a look over, then starts to ask questions.
“What’s your name?”
“Where are you?”
“What’s the date?”
“Who’s the president?”
Annoyed, I answer his questions, anger lacing every word.
Then the EMTS make an appearance. I tell them my hip is killing me, and they pull out the stretcher. They don’t know if I have any spine damage, so I’m put into a neck brace. Before I can ask what is happening, the stretcher is put into the ambulance and the doors close, blocking the blinding lights and the only familiar face I know.
Once the doors close, I lose it. My legs jump on their own from the adrenaline and anxiety rushing through my body. My tears that I bravely fought off the entire night spill over the edge. All I can think is, “Why is it so cold in here?”
They run my vitals and take tests. The head EMT comes over to talk to me.
“I don’t like hospitals,” I say while crying. That’s what I was worried about. Not the fact that I could be broken beyond repair, but that I would have to go to the hospital. I hate how dirty and cold they are, and my anxiety doesn’t let me step within 20 feet of one. I tell this strange man that. He laughed.
“No one likes hospitals, but we have to get you checked out,” he says while smiling down at me. He continues talking to settle my nerves..
“Where’s Abby? Is she OK?” I question.
“Did she get hit as well?” they concerningly ask.
“No, but she saw it happen, and I just want to make sure she's OK, and I need her with me in the ambulance.”
I was just hit by a car, yet I had to make sure everyone else was OK first.
“She is fine, and since you are over 18, she can’t ride back here. Is it OK if she rides up front?”
I eagerly nod my head. I can’t stop shaking. The pain in my hip is starting to become more of an issue. The sterile lights burn my eyes, and the rain patters against the ambulance window. Goosebumps break out across my arms.
“Hey, Hailey. We are going to turn on the sirens as we take you to the hospital. This doesn’t mean that you are dying; we just need to get there fast. We are taking you to the UC West Chester Hospital.”
All I can do is nod again. And then we are off.
Forty-five minutes have never seemed that long before.
My dad and brother happened to be at a soccer tournament only 10 minutes away from the hospital. Once the ambulance doors open again, I see Abby and my dad. The tears restart. My dad reaches out and grabs my hand. His warmth travels through my arm instantly.
“I’m so sorry,” I sob.
“Don’t be sorry, Hailey.” I can see the love in his eyes.
Test after test after test. I’m put into an MRI machine, which isn’t good for someone who can’t stop shaking. My dad, Abby and I are put into a room in the ER as we wait for the test results.
“How close is mom?” I groan. Abby grabs my phone to check. She’s pulling into the parking lot. I feel the relief through my body. All I want is to see her.
***
After a couple of hours, the doctors return with my test results. I have a minor concussion and a fractured pelvis. However, they don’t have an orthopedic doctor in their ER to tackle my pelvis, so they have to transfer me. They schedule another ambulance to come pick me up and take me to the UC Medical Center ER. As we wait, the doctor stitches me up. She glues the gash on my forehead and my hip closed.
From what I can understand, my hip took off the car’s left mirror, and my head smashed the windshield. I am lucky that my concussion was minor. The doctor takes the time to explain how concussions are on a spectrum, and I am lucky enough to be on the lower end.
As I’m rolled into the new ER, my EMTs take bets on which room I’ll be put into. The nurses are extremely polite as we wait for the doctors to return later in the morning. My main nurse is wearing a tie-dyed Buc-ee's T-shirt, which surprisingly calms me.
It’s 5 a.m., and we’re in a holding pattern. My dad returns to his hotel room, and my mom sleeps in a recliner holding my hand as I try to get the rest my body aches for.
Every hour on the hour, my nurse comes to check in on me. It's hard to sleep with the heart monitor beeping loudly behind me. I don’t have a room with a door that closes, so the light peeks through the curtains. Finally, I drift asleep.
Roughly 7 a.m., we get the news we’ve been desperately hoping for: I don’t need surgery. I could go home. I’m given crutches and sent on my way. The walk out of the hospital is humiliating. I can barely move and have to be lifted into the car.
Abby left after the first hospital to pack my things so I could go home early for Thanksgiving break. After leaving, we drive to Oxford to grab my stuff, then head back to Columbus, a two-hour drive.
My life hasn’t been the same since.
***
I was on crutches for a solid three weeks. At home, it was a breeze. I just didn’t leave the couch. But coming back to campus was hard. I lived on the third floor of my dorm building. Before, I would try to take the stairs. Since returning, the elevator was my only option.
It wasn’t just my dorm. It was every building I had class in, too. I’d have to search for elevators hidden in the deep corners of buildings, on the verge of breaking down and smelling suspiciously of weed.
Luckily, I was able to drive around campus. I was given a temporary handicap placard that allowed me to park anywhere. This made my life somewhat easier. Especially since it was December and starting to get cold.
Somehow, I was able to maneuver around a campus that is definitely not handicap friendly. Sure, there are ramps and elevators, but they are so far out of the way that I needed extra time to get to my destinations.
But that’s not where the struggles ended.
“Oh, my God!”
“Are you OK?”
“What happened?”
Every time I entered a room, that was all I could hear. I was stuck in an endless loop of explaining one of the worst nights of my life to all of my teachers, classmates and friends. I probably told the story hundreds of times. It was nice to know people cared about me, but I wish I didn’t have to be hit by a car to realize it.
Each time I explained what happened, people would gasp, cover their mouths and sit in silence. To be honest, I was still in shock too. But over time, I was able to laugh as I told the story. I got hit by a car and lived to tell the tale.
However, there's one thing that people always get wrong about my story. You do not get free tuition — it's a complete myth. What you do get is a ticket for crossing in an area without a crosswalk. Even though you're the one who got hit by a car.
Now, months after the accident, I am on the path to full recovery. The saddest part is my handicap placard expires soon, and I will have to start walking to class again.
There is still something that doesn’t sit right with me. Sometimes, when I tell people the story, they will reply with a story of their own. Most of the time, it was a friend of a friend or just someone they had class with.
“Someone else I know got hit by a car, too,” and then they go on to explain all the gory details.
How many times is someone going to get hit by a car on this campus before something is done about it?
Cars often drive way too fast down roads filled with parked cars, making it difficult for drivers to see pedestrians. There are crosswalks, but not where students need them.
Something needs to be done before another person like me gets hurt.
