Here to Write It

This post should probably begin with a series of disclaimers: It's a hard one for me to pen; you will most likely need a tissue or two as you read; and it's going to be a longer than normal post. Having said that, I'd like to begin by telling you a story. As those of you who've been reading along with me know by now, I'm a sentimental gal, especially when it comes to memories that involve my extended family back in Tennessee. And I'm extra sentimental when it comes to two people in particular ... my daddy and my nephew Charlie. And when a certain memory involves the two of them together, well, suffice it to say that tears are already springing to my eyes as I recall the day I'm going to tell you about.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and Daddy, Charlie and I had gone to eat lunch at PoFolks Restaurant after church. I can't recall now why Mom and my sister (Charlie's mom) weren't with us, but it was just me and Daddy and Charlie. Now I need to stop at this point and tell those of you who are newcomers to my blog that my dad loved Charlie as if he were his own son ... in fact, I've often wondered if God's timing in Charlie's birth was His way of soothing Daddy's heart after my brother Jerry was killed in a car accident. You see, my sis was pregnant with her only son Charlie when Jerry died, and there was an instant bond between Daddy and Charlie from the moment he was born. And for as much as Daddy loved Charlie ... well ... to this day, the mention of my dad causes deep emotion to wash over my sweet nephew. Charlie wouldn't hesitate to tell you that he is the man he is today due in large part to my dad, and in many ways, Daddy was like a father to Charlie. But now, let's get back to my story.

Charlie was 16 years old that Sunday when he and Daddy and I ate lunch together ... a 16-year-old fearless young man who was quite a daredevil when it came to anything with wheels. He had already had more than his share of bicycle and motorcycle wrecks in his young life, and way more than a stitch or two. When we finished eating, Charlie hopped into his black 1982 Ford GT Mustang (and for you car guys out there, when I talked to Charlie to get the details for this post, he gave me way more engine info about the car and here's my translation of what he said ... it was a flipping, faster-than-lightning car). He stopped by Kroger's grocery store to check his schedule for the week for his job, discovered he was supposed to work that afternoon and raced home to change clothes so he could get back to work. I'm not sure of a lot of things in life, but one thing I'm certain of ... what happened next was nothing short of a miracle, absolutely nothing short of a miracle.

The road where Charlie lived was one of those hilly, winding, narrow Tennessee roads ... the kind of road that scares the daylights out of me to drive on now. But back then, we all drove much too fast on that road, and that Sunday was no exception for Charlie. The police estimated that he was traveling at 80 to 90 miles per hour when his car finally came to a stop ... wrapped around a tree about 300 feet down in a ravine ... literally wrapped around the tree, friends, the impact almost cut the car in half. I'm not going to tell you all the details that Charlie told me (hey, Charlie, I just had a thought ... you should write a guest blog!), but I do, however, want to share a few things about the accident.

Charlie lost control of his car and was trying to slow down and stop when he saw another car coming toward him. Being the man he is (and the man he was even when he was 16), rather than hit the other car and injure the people in it, Charlie cut the wheel of his Mustang, went airborne off the side of the road down into the ravine and hit the tree ... the only tree large enough to stop his car, I might add. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt, and he was unconscious for 45 minutes before the police and paramedics arrived and got him out of the car ... in fact, everyone thought for sure he was dead and they were completely shocked when he came to and hollered and said he was alive. He spent the night in the hospital, but ... but ... but ... he had no broken bones and no internal injuries. His face got sliced up pretty badly, and he almost lost his ear, but he had no life-threatening injuries, none whatsoever.

I remember when the phone rang ... I remember Daddy telling me to get in the car ... I remember his tears as I drove us to the hospital in my little blue Honda ... I remember the relief in his eyes when we knew that Charlie was going to be OK. But what is forever etched into my mind is the scene that unfolded when Daddy and I went later that evening to look at Charlie's car. Daddy walked all around the car and wept. He stood with his hand on what was left of where the driver's seat had been, where his beloved grandson had lain unconscious and bleeding only hours earlier ... Daddy stood by the side of that car, friends, and he sobbed. And then ... then my Daddy prayed right there and thanked God for saving his boy ... that's what he always called Charlie ... his boy. When I talked with Charlie earlier today, he reminded me that Daddy pulled his Bible from the wreckage of the car ... a Bible that Charlie still has today.

Today marks a somber anniversary for me, a very somber anniversary. One year ago today, I was sitting at my kitchen table writing my goodbye letters ... one year ago today, I had the pills lined up on my table ... one year ago today was the day I intended to die. One year ago today, I could fathom no other way to stop the pain, end the agony, silence the shame or erase the guilt that permeated every fiber of my being other than to take my life. One year ago today, I desperately wanted not to live another moment, breathe another breath or cry another tear. I didn't want to write another word ... I wanted the story of Terrie to be over, done, ended, finished. 

I'm sure you're wondering what the significance of today has to do with my story about Daddy and Charlie, and honestly, there's no life-changing lesson or earth-shattering link between the two at all. Except maybe for this ... I'm here to write about the day Charlie wrapped his car around the tree. I'm here to write about how Daddy wept as he thought about what could have been. I'm here to write about how I'm sure Daddy's mind flew back to another car accident 16 years before ... another drive to a hospital ... another boy he loved so much. I'm here to write about my children, my granddaughter, my family, my friends and my dogs. I'm here to even write about my life-saving head doctor. I'm here to write about walking on my trail, working at my job, watching the moon dance behind the clouds, wishing I was a goose and wearing suspenders. I'm here to write about sharks and Converse and woodpeckers and tattoos and butterflies and hammocks and spiky hair and vacuum cleaners and socks and weeds. I'm here to write about it ... that's the significance of Charlie's story and my somber anniversary today. I'm here to write about God ... I'm here to write about love ... I'm here ... to ... write ... about ... living. 

I'm here to write it. And for today ... for today, being here to write it is enough ... it's quite enough for today. Here to write it ... here to write it ... yes, yes I am.