At Least They're Committed

I’m agitated. I was going to just take half a pill, but I don’t think I did. I can’t remember taking a pill at all, but I dare not take another. What is it? What is it? 

Oh, that’s right. It’s Becky. Dez, this one is for you.

I never met Becky, in fact, until she’d died I’d never heard her name. But she had connections to the family: Your Aunt Lisa was dating Becky’s boyfriend’s big brother and she recalled that horrible day and what she’s realized since not long ago in her blog. It was beautifully written and I wanted to tell her so, and I wanted to tell her how that day turned for our family, for YOUR family, but I couldn’t because it hurt too much.

I love, love, love my dentists and the dental hygienist and their assistant (bear with me here). Throughout the years, they’ve become like family and a good deal of the two-hour cleanings are because of all the getting caught up we do. But that’s what triggered this, this anxiety, this fear and the heartbreaking memories of Becky.

The hygienist and I were talking about the color change in the mountains and I told her of your grandpa, Uncle Dante and me speeding 17 miles down Vail Pass on bicycles last weekend and how it was beautiful except for the couple miles in which we were biking right next to eastbound Interstate 70 and how fearful I was for my son. It reminded her of the time our dentist had been biking up there a few years back and he’d seen lights and sirens and the Flight for Life, but wasn’t until later that he’d found out that there was a fatality . . and it was a patient of theirs, one they’d known since she was a baby. It was Becky.

And then I couldn’t help recall that awful day a couple months after your parents graduated from high school, as the excitement of college was ripe in the air and then everything turned. I remember the tearful, nearly hysterical call from your mom: a girl she knew had died, Danny was waiting with Patrick (also her friend) . . little more. You see, Becky’s boyfriend was not only Aunt Lisa’s boyfriend’s brother, he was your dad’s best friend. Your dad had dropped everything when Patrick got the call about the accident from Becky’s father, had been told it was bad, and gone with his friend to the hospital, panicked, waiting in fear, trying to comfort his friend and Becky’s family before the helicopter arrived. When the minutes that seemed like hours finally passed, and they wheeled this beautiful young girl on a gurney from the helicopter into the hospital, she was already gone and there was nothing peaceful about her death. Rather there was the brutal damage from the car accident coupled with the tubes and braces and wires from the frantic attempts by the paramedics to save her life. It was something no one should ever have to see, let alone a frantic family and two young men.

As your mom received updates from your dad throughout the night — there was so much to be done, so much to be processed — we sat with her, she was so badly shaken, and I cried with her, so worried about your dad, so heartbroken for Becky’s family. It was dark when at last we got word your dad was leaving the family and coming over, and your grandpa and I headed to our room. Your grandpa crawled into bed, but I couldn’t. I sat in the darkness on the floor by the 8-foot bedroom window peering through the screen, feeling the breeze and listening to the chirping of the crickets mourning that nothing would ever be the same — not for that family, not for our family — and waited.

You dad pulled up and parked. I sat motionless as he walked up the drive. Your mom ran to him and held him, wrapping her whole self around him. Your dad, no longer having to be brave or strong, let out a cry like I’ve never heard before and pray to never hear again. Anguish. That’s the only way to describe it. Anguish.

Yes. That’s why I can’t beat the anxiety today. Years ago, and yet so fresh in my mind. How do we keep our children safe? Dear God, how?