Naming the beast

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.