Well, It was quite some time ago, but quite frankly, even then, I didn't get mad.

At the scene, I focused on getting my buddy out of the street (not hit, but standing there in shock -- she swerved to miss him and got me) and controlling trauma. My goal was to make sure the scene was safe, access and control the damage, and get higher-level care (meaning something other than the old shirt I was using to control bleeding and hold my head, arm, and shoulder together). Getting mad at the lady or interacting with her wouldn't have helped me accomplish these goals, and in-fact, would have kept me from accomplishing these things in a timely fashion. I pretty much ignored her and focused on me and my buddy (who was way more freaked out than I was).

After getting rebuilt (no broken bones, but multiple lacerations, punctures, and avulsions with wounds full of glass and road grit), I focused on healing and beating the infection that set in in my head. Again getting mad wouldn't have helped me accomplish these goals. It would have only made me mad, and ultimately, who cares if I'm mad. No one as far as I know.

At the time, I was a section sergeant in the 82nd Airborne (if lazyass reads this, it happened on the corner of Yadkin and Gruber). I had 12 paratroopers to lead. I was in incredible shape at the time because my job and my hobbies all included a lot of physical exercise and endurance, as well as a clear head and positive mental outlook. I came back and went on a five mile run with them four days later. It wasn't easy, but what in life is? I had to quit running after that one for about 2 weeks to beat the infection, but that run with my troopers meant more to me than getting mad at some poor lady eating chicken on her way home ever would have. She made a mistake, we all do, it happens.

Hope that makes some sense.