Tragedy on the Front Page

Several years ago I picked up the newspaper and discovered that a couple I knew were killed on impact in a car accident.  Their daughter was the mother of a child in my son’s class, the boys even had the same name.  We had some of the same friends, had attended some of the same parties.  These were exceptional grandparents, like movie characters.  They had moved out of their large home, given it to their daughter, and lived in a smaller back house on the same property.  The scene went from technicolor love story to black & white horror flick in an instant.

The man driving the car, the grandfather, was a retired police officer.  Nothing about this guy would indicate he could ever do anything that would cause his car to plow off the road, hit a tree, and kill himself & two passengers.  To the contrary, you’d actually consider paying him to drive your family after a wild night out, insuring everyone would get home safely.  He reminded me of my own husband in that way, which is probably why the incident blared so loudly in my brain.  Like, isn’t there something solid you can trust completely?  Evidently not. 

It made me a little crazier than usual, for a while.  I had just had a baby, I was hormonal, and I began feeling a sense of panic in the car, especially on long trips.  As we flew down a highway I would be consumed with the belief we were all going to die, especially fearful for my infant daughter.  I’m better now, ten years later, although my husband still would occasionally like to muzzle me in the trunk.

A headline this past Saturday took longer to register as a familiar name.  At first I didn’t realize what I was looking at or who it involved.  As my confusion cleared the story just got worse:

Years ago I became great friends with a woman who had a handicapped daughter.  She was incredibly frustrated with the school system until her child was assigned a wonderful teacher who made everything better than okay.  Jackie was an answer to her prayers.

Not only was she a great teacher, she was young, pretty & well liked by everyone.  She had a little boy & was pregnant a second time.  Parents felt fortunate their children were in her class, numerous students wished they could go home with her at the end of the day.  It’s not easy to please everyone, but she did.

Fifteen years later I asked her to be our realtor.  She was the first person I thought of, professional & energetic enough to do not one but two jobs incredibly well.  I had complete faith in her, which says more than I can explain in words.  

Saturday morning the headline was about an 18-year old boy; it took a few minutes to realize that the person I was reading about was her oldest son.  He was hit by a passenger train.  It occurred only two months after another boy purposely did the same thing at the same intersection.  The difference for me, of course, is I didn’t know the other boy’s mother.  I guess we must subconsciously imagine some kind of errant parenting, a fatal flaw, allows such a thing to happen.  It helps us believe it could never happen to us.

In this instance it’s impossible to come up with a defense.  I trust very few people with my children, but this woman I would, in some ways more than I do myself.  If the world were progressing in its’ proper course, this particular incident could not have happened, not to her, not ever. 

How can anything matter when this is what’s potentially hiding behind tomorrow’s promise, even for those who behave & act & live with perfect grace?

I begin thinking crazy thoughts that make it even more difficult to accomplish normal daily tasks:

How can we force our children, let alone ourselves, to take out the garbage or even go to bed at night?  Why do we care if they wear the same stained shirt 300 days in a row, refuse to wash their hair for a month or eat fudge sauce & Dorito’s for breakfast? 

It makes me think it makes more sense to: A) buy my son a red Ferrari on a credit card or B) surprise him at midnight with a cute little hooker or C) buy him a new computer when he suggests a career at on-line poker.

Perhaps I should give my daughter a $1,000 gift card to Build-A-Bear even though her birthday is three months away and I don’t have a job.  Why not take her to the grocery store & let her fill the cart with cookies & chips & ice cream & comics, maybe even let her drive home?

I must occasionally bite my tongue so I don’t begin to cry.  This is not my tragedy, but it doesn’t seem to matter.  I can’t seem to get it out of my head.  I imagine the permanent impact upon their lives, one son missing from the party at every single future event.  I obsess.  And then I obsess that it’s wrong to obsess because this isn’t about me.  I know one day I will forget to think about it, but her son will still be gone.  She won’t forget.

My husband tells me that our old neighbors are building a house on a mountain, the complications involved; I wonder how anyone could be motivated enough to do such a thing.  I begin thinking perhaps I should be on anti-depressants. 

I then argue with myself, saying anyone with decent intelligence & knowledge is depressed for good reason.

I win the argument, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I consider giving up my newspaper subscription.  Bad news interferes with my ability to blog. 

And once again I am amazed at how I am able to eventually make everything all about me.  It’s so much easier than focusing on tragedy on the front page.