The Car Accident Effect

I call it, "The Car Accident Effect."

You spot a car accident from a mile away.  Maybe you see an officer directing traffic or flashing lights ahead.  Drama ensues.  As you approach the site of the incident, your initial reaction is to cringe and turn away, but curiosity gets the best of you.  Your car slows.  You can't turn away.  Perhaps you stop to offer help.  You wonder what might have happened to the driver.  You think, "How did the car end up in that position?"

"How must that have felt?"

"I wonder if everyone is okay?"

"I saw the most horrific accident," you tell your friends, family or coworkers.  Later on, you might even google to see if a small town newspaper covered the accident.  "Maybe I can find out what happened," you tell yourself.  Your heart is heavy for the people who might have experienced loss that day.

The Car Accident Effect.

I feel like I lived my very own accident effect.  I was the figurative accident.  My husband and our families were the figurative accident.  People spotted the drama and slowed to stare.  Some offered help (to which I am forever grateful), others spread the word.  We were the sad, jumbled car at the side of the road.

And though I am unable to communicate thoughts and feelings of my family members, I can tell you that, for me, it was difficult to be the focal point of pity.  In 2009, I lost my mother, at the age of 58, to Ovarian Cancer.  Truth be told, it was one of the most difficult experiences of my life.  To lose your mother at any age is difficult.  Your mother is (or should be) your best friend.  There is no love that compares to the love a mother can give.  And to watch the woman that took care of you, went the extra mile for you, all of your existence, waste away...It's truly an experience that I do not wish on my worst enemy.

After she died, I was determined to show my family and friends that life could go on.  I was determined to show them that we didn't have time to feel sorry for ourselves.  I wanted to honor my mother by carrying on, bravely and happily, with my life.  I wanted others to follow.

During this time, I found out nothing upset me more than being pitied.  The sadness in eyes as people asked how I was.  Their pursed lips.  It truly drove me insane.  I had the best mother a girl/woman could ask for, for 29 amazing years.  I had an amazing support system, including a loving and understanding husband, a superior family and badass friends.  How could anyone pity THAT?

After we passed a year of firsts (first Christmas with out mom, first Mother's Day with out mom...), life was finally feeling like it was back to our new normal.......  Until January of 2011, when my husband decided to take himself to an emergency care with flu-like symptoms.  He did, in fact, have the flu.  It's what else he had that no one could have expected.

Do you ever watch Grey's Anatomy?  4 or 5 doctors will file into a room and everyone will stand around the patient and their families and give serious news.  That's kind of how it all went down.  They filed in the room, stood around and suggested that Tim may have a cancerous tumor on his colon.  Tim immediately turned his head towards me to observe my reaction.  And can I just say, that moment of pure selflessness has never left me.  He didn't worry about himself.  He worried about me.

Shortly thereafter, surgery was scheduled and the tumor was removed from Tim's colon.  His surgeon approached us in the waiting room, pictures in hand, and asked us to step into a more private room off to the side.

Most people know me to be quite calm when it comes to illness, death and sadness.  The only emotion I tend to exude publicly is happiness.  This is one of the the few moments that I truly lost my cool.

Tim's surgeon happily told us that his colon was repaired, good as new, to which we all sighed with relief.  THEN came the "but."  It had spread to his abdominal wall and he used the words, "No cure."

I remember looking out this window that overlooked a makeshift courtyard.  In the courtyard there were white rocks that are often used instead of wood chips in fancy (or tacky) yards.  I focused in on those white rocks, no longer listening to the words Doctor Doom spoke, and thought to myself, "I'm going to be a widow."

Somewhere between that thought and "doom and gloom" offering me a photo of Tim's cancer, I slowly stood, announced to the room that I'd had enough and exited.  I grabbed my purse and my stunned girlfriend patiently waiting outside the door, and cried all the way out to the hospital parking lot.  My poor girlfriend sat calmly in the car with me as I threw a child-like temper tantrum, sobbed, and smoked a pack of cigarettes. (You can judge all you want.  I'm learning not to care.)  Not only did my heart ache for what my husband was about to go through, I wasn't sure that I had the strength to do it all again.

And before you deem me as selfish for even making an inch of anything about myself, please understand.  Anyone who has or has had a family member with cancer can relate.  Every day you wake up worrying about that person.  You worry about chemo, doctors appointments, CAT scans, etc.  It's an exhausting worry.  And for me, that exhausting worry last ended in heartache.  Lightening wasn't supposed to strike twice.

Once I had gathered myself, I returned to the hospital in time for Tim's arrival from surgery.  This is where we had our first few laughs.  The hospital staff informed us that Tim probably wouldn't be coherent for 24 hours or so.  Little did they know the strength of Tim.  He was sharp as a tac within, what felt like, minutes.  He asked if midgets were rubbing his legs (not so coherent) and pointed to the television to tell me that my Tim Tebow special was going to be on at 6:30 (pretty damn impressive and coherent).

But being coherent meant questions would be asked.  Earlier, his mother and I discussed not telling him the outcome of his surgery.  Sure enough, as the last person left the room and Tim and I were left alone, he quietly asked me to tell him the truth.  "How bad is it?" I pulled my chair close to the side of the bed, grabbed his hand and by only the light of the Tim Tebow special on ESPN, I told Tim that it had spread.  He asked what was next and I took a deep breath and told him, "Now we fight."

And fight he did.  He fought like a champ.  He repeatedly liked to tell the story, "I thought my brother was the tough one, man....But I think I'm giving him a run for his money."

And I won't tell you what he went through.  I won't tell you what I saw.  But I'll tell you that my faith, and the faith of our friends and family, has truly been tested.  I cannot tell you how many times I sat quietly and wondered why, how, God could let such cruel things happen to such a wonderful man.  We put murderers to death in more humane ways.  Why does God let good people suffer?

And please make note, this is in NO WAY a "Whoa is me" blog post.  This is in NO WAY an attempt to take away from the extreme amount of human decency, kindness, thoughtfulness and generosity that we were shown by others that still humbles me today.  And I want you to know that I still believe in God.  The day my mother passed away, I drove home to Tim and I looked up and said, "I am still grateful."  The day I drove home alone, I reminded God of the same thing.  I am still grateful.

And I am still determined to live my life, bravely and happily, as I vowed when my mother passed away.  I know this behavior confuses some.  But just as my happiness baffles, other's sadness and refusal to heal baffles me.  It always will.

But the car accident effect remains.  People stop to stare.  They stop to look at you with pity.  I would go to the store and run into someone who would stare.  I would go to dinner and someone who knew someone who knew Tim would hug me and offer condolences.  It wasn't easy.  And it wasn't fun.

"I've lived in this place and I know all the faces / Each one is different, but they're always the same / They mean me no harm, but it's time that I face it / They'll never allow me to change."

....A little Rascal Flatts for you.... Which is hilarious because I vowed to never like country music.

The point is, and to make a long story longer, I chose to move away.  Not too far away, but far enough that when I went to the grocery store, the lady behind the counter wouldn't ask me if I was still okay, the men at the bank wouldn't know my name and the kind people at PetSmart wouldn't cry at the mention of Tim. (This all happened.)

There is no guidebook for a young widow.  There are no rules to follow....so I made my own.  Some people don't like it.  I'm learning not to care.  But I'll tell you more later.