I remember giving my car a cleaning
that day that was even more thorough than the almost hourly one I gave it most
every other day. It
was my seventeenth birthday and I was taking my girlfriend out to eat at a nice
restaurant thirty miles up the road in Macon. While it is hard to imagine my
fifteen year old daughter navigating the distance and traffic of a town larger
than the little one we call home, it was no big deal for me; I had been banging
my father’s old Dodge truck through the woods for many years at this point and I was a confident pilot.
The evening began normally as we
launched our late afternoon trip to the big city. My girlfriend and I had been dating
for at least a year, so the conversation was light and relaxed; we were both
looking forward to a big dinner and a romantic evening. I admit that I considered
every evening with her special, but I had plans for an extra special one. It was my birthday!
A few miles short of the halfway
point I noticed a small car up ahead that seemed to be both in our lane and headed
directly toward us.
The car was at least a half a mile in front of us, and while I expected them to
correct the problem before we collided, I sat up a little straighter and
prepared for disaster. Everything happened very quickly at this point, and
while I did manage to avoid the disaster, the driver of the small car did not.
At the last second I veered into the left lane as it struck a large culvert on
my side of the road!
I had come to almost a complete stop
at this point, so a quick shift into reverse and I was staring through the
passenger window at a crumpled Volkswagen that I felt sure contained a deceased
driver; nobody could have survived that impact! I feel sure no more than a few
seconds elapsed before the driver climbed out of the shattered window, but it
seemed like several hours and multiple indecisions. What should I do?
What happened next has haunted me off
and on for most of my life. When the screaming blood-soaked driver flopped on the trunk of my car I
just sat there; I froze. Another driver had stopped to help at this point, and
when he grabbed the hysterical woman, I pulled my car up a few feet and out of
the road. I did manage to roll my window down and tell the Good Samaritan that I
would drive to a store down the road and call an ambulance, but what I really
wanted was to get away.
If it makes any difference, the
driver of the wrecked car was fine. I know this because I drove to the local police station the
next day and inquired. A small cut on her forehead had drenched her face and
shirt with blood, but she was otherwise unharmed. I was relieved for her, but I
admit that this did little to settle the uneasiness I felt for having failed
her when she needed me most. I remember my girlfriend being gracious in her attempts
at consolation, but this did little for me and it was really the beginning of
the end of our relationship...and the confidence of a seventeen year old.
I could have gone the rest of my life
without telling this story from so long ago; it is certainly not something I’m
proud of and few have heard it. But this
morning as my daughter and I walked the dog I decided to begin with her. No one
likes to give tragedies a name; if you speak of them you invite them. If you
slip you must knock wood.
But I want us both to be prepared. It breaks my heart to tell my baby
what I think she should do when (God forbid) the shooting starts, but what if I
never mentioned it? Do I believe that any amount of preparation will change the
outcome of how one reacts when it really matters? I don’t know and I hope I
never have to find out again. But as of today at least it has a name.
