When I was in college one of the popular songs was "What a Difference a Day Makes." The lyrics go on to say "24 little hours."

That song ran through my head last Sunday when it wasn't 24 hours that made a difference, but one second.

I was leisurely driving north behind the United Methodist Church when at one of those sleepy little intersections behind Cottey, the women's center and our church, our car was in an accident. Lester was in the passenger seat and only received some very minor cuts and soreness. I was driving and took the brunt of the blow since the other car tried to get cosy with ours right at the driver's door.

I do not remember a thing from just before the crash until I was loaded into the ambulance while strapped on an uncomfortable board. The nice lady in the ambulance asked me what my name was.

When I told her, she then asked me what was the date. Now even if I haven't just been in an accident I probably couldn't come up with the correct date. I

t seems that they change the dates so rapidly these days. I did know that it was Sunday.

Why else would we have been leaving the church's parking lot? A few bumpy miles toward the hospital passed and the lady again asked me what my name was. Now, I appreciate all the medical care that is available in our area, but if the attendant can't remember the patient's name for five minutes, is that a good sign? I told her again and that seemed to be all she needed to know.

When we got to the hospital and I was being taken into the emergency room, one of the people in white asked me again what my name was. Well, maybe the lady in the ambulance hadn't had time to give her the details, so I told them once more who I was.

Thankfully she didn't ask me the date. I suppose she had a calendar somewhere nearby so she could get that information more easily than asking me.

I guess I was put in one of the curtained rooms, I couldn't see much because of the wrappings they had around my head. Another person, maybe a man this time, I'm not really clear on that, came in and he also asked me my name.

This was beginning to be disturbing. If they couldn't keep track of the folks they were treating what else do they not know? About that time Lester came in and I relaxed. I knew he could tell them whatever they needed to know.

But then, lo and behold, a policemen came in, and guess what he asked me? Yes, he asked me my name also and then wanted me to tell him what had happened. I gave him my name but had to tell him he would have to have someone else tell him what happened because I couldn't remember anything about the accident. I did remember my name however.

After I was run through several machines and checked by a doctor, I was allowed to go home with my family since nothing serious was found to be wrong with me. I have some aches and pains and bruises but was told to rest, take it easy, and be thankful that I wasn't hurt more seriously. (No one else was injured but from what I am told there are two cars that don't look too good.)

OK, now I am ready to tell anyone that Carolyn Thornton was treated really well by all the officials and medical personnel and is indeed grateful that no one was seriously injured. I hope they got my nametag out of the glove box. I may need it some day.