Last year, I had an accident.

I took a break from Day 2 of Lollapalooza and went to lunch at one of those downtown restaurants where the burger alone costs $21.

I ordered the patty medium-rare. By the time I was heavy-breathing in a crowded CTA train, 10 stops plus two blocks away from home, I wondered if my stomach would have preferred it well-done. I made it off the platform and down the elevator, but when I was just half a block away from home, I couldn’t hold it anymore and it happened.

For the rest of the day, I locked myself in my dark bedroom reflecting on the humiliation I brought upon myself.

I told my friends about it because, no matter what, I love a good story. They consoled me with, “Hey, at least nothing worse could happen to you now. This should be it.”

Gentle reader, this year, I learned it can always get worse. I was part of another accident, but this time the mess wasn’t my fault.

The hit-and-run

It was suppose to be an uneventful Tuesday. I worked, went for a run and decided to walk to the grocery store with my brother for spaghetti ingredients.

On my way back, a block away from home, I was crossing the street where I had eight seconds left on the traffic signal. At the same time, a northbound gray car eagerly waited to make a left turn. While attempting to beat the red light, the driver sped up, hit me and left me in the middle of the street — about 10 feet away from the crosswalk.

Everyone immediately asks: “Did you get the license plate number and the vehicle’s make and model?” No! The world stops for no one, and neither does oncoming traffic.

I had to urgently drag myself to the sidewalk in order to dodge other cars.

After realizing I couldn’t get up, my brother called 911 and the paramedics arrived. Only when the shock wore off and I had to board the ambulance did I realize any small movement caused immense pain to my right leg. The impact from the accident left me with a femur fractured near my hip that required surgery.

This accident wasn’t just humiliating and painful, but also frustrating and infuriating because everything (that I was left to deal with) could have been avoided.

You see, those making a left turn are offered an exclusive green arrow allowing them to do so without risking anyone harm. If the driver had waited for me to use my allotted time to cross, there would have been a clear path to turn immediately afterward.

A victim on a mission

This experience was not only traumatic, it also challenged an attribute of the type of person I was brought up to be.

As a way to prevent having tattletale children who cry and complain about every inconvenience, my mom would always tell us, “No te hagas la victima.” (“Stop making yourself a victim.”)

And while I think a private self-pity crying session is good every now and then, I do my best to not act like a victim in public.

That was impossible to avoid from the moment the car sped toward me.

People felt sorry for me, but I couldn’t blame them. What happened to me was undeniably unfortunate.

And the person responsible? No consequences, just a mini victory by beating the light and getting home a few minutes earlier that day.

The driver is still out there, by the way, and I think about them often.

I thought about them when I learned how to stand and use a walker, when I got doctor approval to start walking with a cane, when I took my first steps without assistance and when I ran my first three miles a few weeks ago.

Yes, the driver ruined my summer more than I ruined my pants last year. But if I don’t look after myself and build my life back up, no one else will. We all know that driver won’t.

Write to Someone in Chicago at someoneinchicago@suntimes.com.