"This injury will not keep me off my feet," I told Denise shortly after my near-death experience. A drunk driver in an F-250 overtook my lane on Interstate 30 just three weeks before. And he kept going, claiming not to have realized that his trailer swiped my little Mazda 3 into a wall of concrete in the middle of a construction zone. There was no buffer, other than my car -- and me.
The truck accident that ensued was worse than I could have imagined, even as it was unfolding before me. After the truck overtook my car, forces spun me out of control and across two lanes of traffic into a tow truck. My car rolled twice, before coming to rest in the median. I was unconscious, and later, I was dead.
"They told me I will dance again."
"You better," Denise replied with a tear in her eye. She's my dancing partner. My dancing queen.
"It won't be long. I don't even care if I'm Dancing While Injured."
"And here I thought, after this mess, you'd be against DWI."
We laughed, and laughed, and later... we danced.
