Nine Years

Hello all,

My thoughts on the anniversary of the crash are not clear this year. My usual feelings on the matter have been sublimated by time and more immediate concerns. I didn’t even think about the anniversary approaching until a few days ago, and it didn’t come with the usual preternatural heaviness, but rather a sort of “oh, right. There’s a thing that usually happens at this time.” It’s not surprising that my annual meditations have been supplanted. Very few things that usually happen are happening this year. The surreal truth of my experiences during and after the crash somewhat pale in comparison to the global surreality in which we all find ourselves right now. The future seems a daily question and our anchors of reliability have been winnowed to the most personal. It is difficult to focus on the past when the present lacks all normality. 

My trauma surrounding the crash is a function of my flight or fight response being stoppered. My lizard brain was not given the opportunity to choose, because escape was not an option. When my human brain eased back into control, that startled instinct to flee was still lodged at the tip of my reflexes. In the first few years, it remained close to the surface, easily triggered by sudden shifts in movement or reminders of Alex. Over time, with a lot of help and effort, it was pushed further and further back, surfacing infrequently and more easily subsumed. Incidents that might have led to a week of sleepless nights eventually led to a single restless sleep, or even just a few hours of buzzing anxiety. Earlier this year we got in a minor fender bender on the highway. It was I80 on a Saturday afternoon, so we were only going about 15-20mph and only minor damage was done, but the sound of metal on metal was the same as I remembered and the impact to my body was similar, if significantly reduced. All three of us were in the car at the time. I looked immediately back to Jack. His eyes were pained and filled with tears of fear and confusion. I was not prepared for him to know that impact so early in his life. I went through the motions of collecting information and calling the insurance company from the shoulder. The whole time I was coursing with anger and adrenaline. I knew it was just an accident. The other guy simply didn’t look while merging. It wasn’t the affront of the inconvenience, it was being forced to feel this again, of putting my son in that position. I barely spoke to the man. I focused on the call, on keeping myself in control. My body was tense on the drive back home. Each time the car went over a bump, Jack would ask with a tinge of fear, “did the car get hit again?” The need to comfort and assure him somewhat diffused my own swirling response, but I was certainly less present for him than I could have been at that moment. I was able to be there for him the rest of the day, putting aside what I might like to do in favor of returning to normalcy for him. That night was rougher. Flashbacks to the crash and trouble closing my eyes. But it was just that night. Whereas in the past I may have spiraled for several days or even a week. 

I know that story because I’ve been telling it every month since at the monthly MADD speech I give. I planned to tell it here, knowing I would likely write something, as I do every year, but I don’t feel it now. It seems almost silly to bring up. There are bigger things happening to us and to my son. Almost every day we field questions about whether he can play with his friends, whether he can return to school, why he can’t. We are thinking about employment and rent and eggs and toilet paper and the uncertainty of invisible dangers and the unpredictability of weird, petty leadership and the loss of school and of a certain kind of time and the gain of a different kind of time all together. We’re focusing on providing stimulation and education and food and health. We’re thinking about masks and soap and how far away everyone is and whether people will think we’re too close and how we’d rather be so close we’re just touching everyone all the time. (And we’re certainly nowhere near as bad off as many) I’m not saying it is suddenly less important to deal with trauma or check in with myself, just that there is less time and energy to do so. Just as there was time to grieve Alex after I got through the immediate daily struggles of the hospital and rehabilitation, there will be time to think about April whenever the world re-opens to something closer to normal. Probably.

I wonder what Alex would think of all this. He was a largely rational man, but also often a skeptic. I can’t see him walking around with a mask on, but I can see him worrying about the health of his friends and family. The truth is I don’t know what he would do, because it’s been nine years since I last saw him. I knew him for a year and a half and I’ve loved him for ten. I have the luxury of loving him as he was, because he’s not here to tell me otherwise. He is a reliable anchor, because he has not had the opportunity to move.

I could say more about worsening acrophobia and driving and anti-depressants and death and connection and survival, but I’m not going to right now. This is what it is today. Tomorrow might be something else. 

I hope you are all as well as can be expected in these weird, uncertain times. I hope you have some measure of stability and are finding unexpected pockets of joy in the confines of your homes. Much can be done with cardboard and tape.

Thank you for being someone who has helped me in some way or another. If you see this posted on Facebook as well it is not because your importance is diluted, but because I have a weird thing about things being seen.

Take care, have fun, drive safe,

Love,

David