at four thirty tonight we joined as a family at my sister’s house. to spend time together, to celebrate the birth of my new niece, the third child in three months from three sisters. we ate, we fed our kids, we talked. it was a comfortable mix of mayhem and bliss and noise. as the sun went down my brother-in-law opened the windows to let in the cool night air. holding harper in my arms i looked around, took a deep breath, took in the scene. the air outside smelled of wet dirt. had it rained outside?
as things began to wind down we packed our things and said our goodbyes. each of our kids made their rounds hugging and kissing aunts and uncles. i realized that this was the first of many goodnights to come, and that with each night of goodbyes we would be forming tighter bonds with one another, shaping a new generation of family. as we made our way out of the door it was sprinkling outside.
tom and i had taken separate cars to my sister’s house so we split up the kids, each of us taking two, and headed home. by the time we made it onto the highway it was pouring. we drove slowly, tom following me so that we could stay together. i thought for a moment about the roads and how tom had mentioned earlier in the week that we needed new tires on the corolla. i think we both kind of blew it off, laughing about not having money to do it.
just one mile short of home, i changed lanes, moving to the left. right before i drove over them i saw the deep puddles of dark water in front of me. i breaked to slow the approach, and we slid a bit but kept moving forward. tom was seconds behind me, in the corolla, maybe ten car lengths. again, for a moment i thought about the tires and as i glanced in my rear view mirror i saw him collide into the barrier. i stopped.
oh my god. oh my god. oh my god. i know that is him in that car.
it was too dark to tell what kind of car was there but i had no doubt it was tom, with gunter and harper in the back seat. the car sat there. it did not move. i threw the van into reverse on a highway and backed up until i got closer to the car. tom pulled up alongside the van and we rolled down our windows. he said they were all fine.
i drove the rest of the way home with the need to get there quickly but also keep us alive.
no other details from this point matter, you see. only this: in five short hours i moved from the warm cocoon of family to the cold fear of losing it all, or at least half of us. and the five second scene i saw played out in my rear view mirror is fresh in my head two hours later. i hurried inside to hold harper and cried with her in my arms, thanking God that i had not lost them, but asking Him,
when will this get better?
2 comments:
I've asked myself that question about a million times over the past six months through incisions, would infections, barfing, fainting, needles, medical bills, etc. but all I know is: Things do always get better. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not the next day. But soon. They will. You'll see and I will too.
Whoa. It's always an incident like that one that really hits those feelings of vulnerability, and always right after a hugely happy event, as if you didn't appreciate it enough or something - like punishment. I remember the day after my wedding, I was sitting around with my family and hubby opening wedding presents, just reveling in the utter happiness and shear joy I was feeling, looking around at each face and wanting to cry about how much I love them. And then my dad had one of his coughing spells, but instead of it ending with a drink of water or something, his eyes rolled in the back of his head and he slumped over, not breathing. I jumped over a room full of furniture to get to him and I began screaming his name in his ear and shaking him until he came to. He didn't even believe that he had passed out, let alone had been near death. And that's what I could have almost associated my wedding with was his death. It just made me that much more appreciative of the good times (and when they're not so good, I remember that episode).
Thank God y'all are safe. I was so happy to read that outcome. I can't imagine the panic you experienced. I will think of it today as we head to the pediatrician in our Corrola in the rain (but our tires are in check...I think...). Thanks for reminding me of how precious times can be and how quickly things can end - to appreciate every second.
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