It was a pretty joyous occasion to be discharged from rehab. My sister got all teary that I was actually “walking out of hospital”, which I thought was sweet but odd until I considered the alternatives she was referring to.

Mum drove us home, and we put on the kettle as I flicked through the mail that had been redirected from the two properties I was tied to: the apartment I was living in, and the apartment I was moving to. Bill, flick, flick, notice of something or other, flick, flick, letter from AAMI (insurance company). It was addressed to “Joshua Dale”, and had only the street address of the old apartment – not the apartment number. I opened it up to have a read:

Dear Mr Dale,

Our records show you were involved in a car accident on September 11 with Mr Avraham Weinfeld that has been determined to be your fault.

The car has been repaired at a cost of $4,500, which is your responsibility. Please forward this amount to us at your earliest convenience.

Regards,

Some Cunt at AAMI

Helpfully, AAMI had provided a number to call. I rang. Bring, bring.

“Hello AAMI.”

“Hi. I just got this letter (reels details).”

“Yes, how can we help?”

“I know all about the accident – all about the accident – because this dude hit me, I was in a coma and then rehab. For the past two months. I was only discharged from rehab today, actually, and read your letter.”

“Oh sorry to hear that,” said Miss Empathy 2008.

“I’m not paying to repair the car that hit me.”

“But it is on record as your fault, it says here that you ‘ran out in front of the car’…”

“Listen, I have amnesia, and no idea how it actually happened. I won’t be giving you money to fix the car that almost killed me.”

“Well sir, I’ll make a record of that…”

“You can make whatever the fuck you want, I’m not paying.”

And so on.

The best thing about the whole endeavour for me was that I learnt the guy’s name: Avraham Weinfeld.

It’s not the first time I’d thought about the driver. In fact, it had come up in quite heavy rotation with people who visited me in rehab. A friend told me that when he was younger, his Dad was driving the family somewhere and a P-plater hit them. Someone in his family had to be hospitalised, and you apparently could not get rid of the father of the P-plater – he was there almost every day apologising.

People asked if I had heard from the driver that hit me. Which hadn’t, until the insurance claim letter.

The only indication that he may have tried some follow up came from my mother. Y’see, he was Jewish – it’s a pretty Jewish area, so no real surprise – and the first ambulance to the scene was a Jewish ambulance. (I think the Jews are instructed to call the Jewish ambulance first.) The ambulance driver that came out to the scene later called the hospital in an attempt to reach my Mum and find out how I was. To take that as constitution as a check up from the driver involves a certain amount of quasi-anti-Semitism: an assumption that they all speak to each other.

I have no doubt that he has thought about the accident since. In fact, I have always half-heartedly maintained that, given the option, I’d rather be the one that was hit rather than the driver. (However, I’m sure if I was given the option I’d go for the one without extensive rehabilitation.) That dude probably has a conniption every time he turns the key in the ignition; and has flashbacks of my tall lanky ass coming through the windscreen every time he drove down a suburban street at night.

So, although contrary to the title I don’t wish Avraham any particular harm, I do think it was fairly poor form to not attempt to make sure I was OK.