When I was 4 years old, I was with my babysitter, my brother and my brother’s friend Tyler.  We wanted to go for a bike ride.  On the way home from our ride, we were right across the street from our house. Our babysitter said we could cross the road.  We got off our bikes and walked them across the street.  There was a van that pulled out from in front of the house two doors down.  The driver was on her cell phone and didn’t see me.  She hit me, and I was under the car just laying there.

The house next door to me was being built, and there was a man on the roof and saw the whole thing.  He jumped down and got me out from under the car. The other neighbor called 9-1-1.   My brother ran inside and called my mom. She was golfing in the neighborhood, and she rushed home. By the time she got home, there was an ambulance, a firetruck and 2 police cars in front of my house. The cops were talking to the lady that hit me, and the paramedics came to check on me.  They took me to the front porch and sat and asked me a bunch of questions to see if I was ok. I remember crying the whole time and asking for my mom.

The ambulance took me to the hospital. I was so scared and didn’t want to go.  When I got to the hospital, everyone was so nice to me.  They knew I was scared, and they made such a big deal over me.  I ended up being fine. Just a few scrapes and bruises.  For the next six months, I was afraid to go outside and play.  I use to sit inside the house, take the screen out of the window and sit there and watch my brother and his friends play in the backyard.  My mom use to tell me that there wouldn’t be any cars coming up the driveway and around the back of the house, and I should go out and play. I don’t remember how I ever got over that fear, but eventually I did.