All the Christmas trees have been taken down and the last of the New Year's confetti has been swept away. Winter Break has reached its end and been replaced by early-morning walks to class and late-night papers to write. For many first-year students, the start of spring semester is a landmark. Like Chimney Rock on the Oregon Trail, it lets us know we're almost - OK, more than - halfway finished with our first year of college.
That being said, for first-year students who were hit by trucks, the start of second semester also signals a fresh start - the beginning of a new set of classes that won't be sullied by nerve pain and endless trips to Student Health. Even before I returned to Grounds, I told myself that this semester would be better. Easier. Definitely less painful.
Nevertheless, once I had moved in again, picked up my textbooks and waited for the first day of classes to come around, I was worried. I felt it was like a one-year anniversary of an accident, even though it was only a one-semester anniversary and the day of the week wasn't even the same. My fretfulness felt more like superstition than anything - it was unfounded, unnecessary, absurd. Lightning never strikes twice, and I was hoping the adage would hold true for white GMC pickups.
The morning of the first day, I put on my pearl necklace - the same one that broke during the accident and has been soldered back together. I packed my bag, took a deep breath and walked to chemistry class, checking both ways many, many, many times before I crossed the street. Jaywalkers looked quizzically at me as I waited for the little white walking figure to light up, even though the intersection was clear and there wasn't a car in sight.
I felt like I held my breath the whole day, or at least while I was in transit: walking to the dining hall, walking to the gym, walking back to my dorm. In the middle of the afternoon, I picked up the severed pedal I kept on my desk and looked at it, spun it once and put it back. I looked at my watch and waited for it to hit 4:23, the time that the police believe I was hit.
My parents had preemptively asked that I call at the end of the day to verify that I was indeed alive and ambulatory. In any other situation, I would have laughed, but in this case, it seemed logical, reasonable. I found myself counting the hours until I'd be safely back in my dorm room - if I could get through the first day unscathed, I knew the rest of the semester would be fine.
Once I was safely ensconced in my dorm room - and had called my parents, who congratulated me on making it through the day without significant injury - I took off the pearl necklace and studied it for a minute. The three black pearls had hit the pavement hard in the accident and they each were scarred with little marks reminiscent of my healing road rash scars. I traced the thin chain, and the barely noticeable bump from the soldering iron made me think of the callus forming over the three healing fractures.
As I tucked the pearls back into their box, I watched how they took the fading sunlight from the window and reflected it back softly, scratches and all. There was hope. The sun would rise tomorrow. My second semester was just beginning, and now that I was healed, there was so much more to do: club meetings to attend, places to go, people to meet. Things are looking up.
Courteny Hartnett's column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached at c.hartnett@cavalierdaily.com.
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