Tessa
“Okay, Tessa. It’s time. You cannot put this off any longer,” I said to myself. Sternly. Sometimes I talked to myself thinking I would hold myself more accountable. Sometimes it worked. Although I’d just told myself a fib, because I knew very well I could put this off longer, but how would that be helpful? Heck, the van had been sitting in the exact same spot in my driveway since Gray delivered it three weeks ago. The thing about moving forward and creating a new life was one actually had to move forward.
I’d already loaded my freshly baked dog treats into the van. I’d even promised some friends that I’d show up at their dog’s birthday party with the treat truck. (Yes, dog parties were an actual thing.) I had to light a fire under my behind somehow.
“I can do this. Right, Sully? Yes, yes I can.” I reached out, grabbing my set of van keys from the key holder on the wall, my hand shaking only a little, and marched outside before I lost my nerve. Sully, faithful companion that he was, trotted at my side looking every bit confident that I could handle this. “Thank you, Sully.”
I opened the van door, stepping back to let Sully jump in. He went right to his position next to the driver’s seat and waited expectantly. Here I go... I slid onto the driver’s seat, shut the door, attached my seatbelt, and held my breath. So far, so good.
Taking my time, I looked in each mirror, readjusting them for my height since Gray had been the last one to drive. Okay. Driver side mirror, check. Passenger side mirror, check. Rearview mirror, check. I adjusted the seat, scooting it forward a few inches. And then I was ready.
Wait! Keys! Where were the keys? Ha! Found them. They were clutched in my right hand. I inserted the key into the ignition, cranked the engine, and it started right up. That was all on account of dad; he’d been coming over once a week to start the engine, just maintaining the battery. My dad had faith in me. He was ready to move on. And, oh my goodness, if he was ready, then I needed to be.
“I think I’m ready, Sully boy.” My palms were sweating, my hands shook, and a slim spike of pain stabbed at my left temple. Life down-shifted to a slow-motion freeze-frame except for my heart. My heart raced double time and sounded like it was playing over a pair of speakers in my head.
Three years had passed, but the idea of driving, the feel of my hands on the steering wheel threw me into a panic. My breath sped up. I felt the pressure build in my lungs as my breath caught. I could look over to the passenger seat and see my mom next to me, laughing at me rapping to a song on the radio. If you knew what a nerd I was, you’d know why my mom had laughed so hard.
We were on our way home from a mother-daughter weekend in Asheville for a quilt show. Mom had picked up some new fabrics for her many quilt projects. We were two miles from our exit when it happened. Two miles. Mom and I were heading east. The truck driver west. Two miles from our exit, the driver of the eighteen-wheeler fell asleep, crossed the center line into our car. And changed our lives forever.
I could hear the windshield wipers. Hear the rain on the roof. Hear the blare of a car horn. Hear the truck’s tires lock up as the driver tried to change the direction of his truck. I could feel the steering wheel tight—so tight—in my hands. I remember jerking the wheel, trying to get out of the way. I heard my mom’s scream. I heard glass shatter and metal crumple. I felt excruciating pain.
I felt my mom hovering over me. I felt her arms wrap around me. Her hand soft on my face. She told me everything would be okay. She told me to hang on. Hang on because Daddy would need me. Hang on, baby girl. I need you to hang on. She whispered she loved me. And then there was nothing for a long, long time. Silence. Numbness.
“I’m hanging on, Mom.”
But I wasn’t going to make it out of the driveway today. So much for thinking a commitment would force my hand. I was wrong. I felt horrible about not showing up as promised. Angry at myself for being absolutely ridiculous about this. I sat in the van, my throat tight and on the verge of tears, and called my friend to let her know I wouldn’t make it today. Of course she was super sweet about it, offering up support and encouragement. Don’t worry, Tessa. It’ll happen. You’ll get there.
I hoped so. I tried to think about how far I’d come. After the crash, I’d spent a week in a coma, then on to ICU for more weeks until bits and pieces of memory came back. The next few months involved more surgeries than I wanted to remember and too many hours of running more “what if” scenarios through my head. Each one making another dent in my already broken heart.
What if I’d taken the exit when mom said she was hungry? What if we hadn’t decided to wait until we saw a sign for our favorite burger chain? What if I hadn’t been driving for four hours? Would my reactions have been quicker? Could I have avoided the truck? Turned the steering wheel just a bit more to change the impact and saved my mother’s life? What if I had died instead of Mom?
I didn’t know how my dad did it. How he made it through. How he didn’t blame me in his grief. I just know he didn’t. And his love for me, while he was processing losing the love of his life, was what had helped me go on.
Each morning when I woke up in the hospital, not wanting to face what was ahead, I’d look at my dad, who came to visit me every day, and told myself if Dad could do this, I could too. So I made a deal with myself. Even on the days I wanted to lay in bed and feel sorry for myself, I had to get up and try. Just a little. Give a little each day.
I made it a day at a time. Surgeries. Moving from the ER to ICU to a six-month stay at a rehab facility. Recovery from a traumatic brain injury. Being bedridden, navigating a wheelchair, and therapy. Lots of therapy. Upgrading from a wheelchair, to a walker, to crutches, and then finally, finally to my own two feet. Relearning how to use my right arm. Relearning how to walk. Another surgery. More therapy. Every day I gave a little.
I honestly don’t know how long I sat in the van. Could’ve been ten minutes. Could’ve been an hour. I sort of checked out mentally. My sweet Sully rested his head on my leg, eventually falling asleep while I fell apart.
It was the light tap on my window that woke Sully from his nap and pulled me out of my pity party.