Haunted

It's been several months now, and it's not that I haven't had much to say. Quite the opposite. I just haven't been able to talk about it. Not in an "I-just-don't-want-to-deal-with-it" sort of way, but because there are legal reasons that now prevent me from being able to do so.

It's funny how when things start going well in one area of your life, other pieces just fall apart. That was the case for me back in the late fall, shortly after my recovery anniversary (Nov. 7). My work situation took a ridiculous turn and at the start of the new year, just as I was hoping for a better start, well - I lost my job. It's a convoluted story, but not one that really matters anymore. It took its toll on my psyche, that's true - but it seems that my friends and family were right. It WAS a blessing in disguise – the stress and anxiety I experienced has dissipated. My outlook is far brighter, and I am a happier me. 

But there's one thing that keeps bothering me. It's far more personal. You see, during late fall in 2010, my grandfather died. An old man with the beginning stages of Parkinson's, Alzheimer's and a myriad of other issues. But it was none of those things that took his life. 

Instead, on the morning of November 4, as he crossed his country road in the rain to get his morning newspaper, he was struck by a car and killed. According to the reports, it was nearly instantaneous. I'll spare you the details, but I've heard them all, against my better judgment. 

His death haunts me and I'm not sure why. I'm trying to work it out, but it eludes me. But sometimes at night when I'm out and about, otherwise having a wonderful time, I see the headlights of oncoming cars in the city streets and I freeze. It's not at all the same situation; it's not morning, not raining, not a country road – yet I'm frozen, staring into the headlights. 

And in that moment, I think about the trauma of it all. What he must have experienced at the moment he was struck. How that must have felt. What it would be like to die that way and on a dime, change the lives of everyone who loves you. 

Did he know it was coming? The report indicates that he must not have seen the vehicle, but who's to know for sure? Did he feel the shock? The impact? The pain? Did he know it was the end? Were those last moments an eternity? 

And the poor woman who was driving the car. She wasn't speeding. She wasn't asleep. She wasn't under the influence of anything. She swerved to avoid him, but couldn't. And thus, unintentionally (and of no fault of her own) snuffed out the life of the patriarch of my family. I ache for her, too. For the anguish she felt and the traumatic effect it had on her. 

It was my sister who called me that morning to tell me the news. In fact, she called one of my dearest friends, who was also my supervisor at the time. He sat me down in his office to take the call; she had already told him the news. 

My very first thought when I heard my sister on the phone, hysterically in tears, was that our father was dead. My mouth went dry and I was weak, but ready to run as far away from that office as possible. But as I waited for the devastating news, I heard her say "grandpap was hit by a car this morning...." and my world came back into focus. I was in shock and couldn't think of much to say. She told me what she knew at that point and somehow we ended the conversation, though I don't remember how. 

It was days before I cried. The tears wouldn't come. I was restless and couldn't sleep. And even the executive team at my company sent me home. What they didn't understand is that inaction is not good for me in that kind of situation. Probably just an avoidance tactic or a state of denial; that if I go about my work as usual, I can delay the inevitable. 

So I went home. Sat there for about 18 hours before I decided to drive 700 miles to pick up my sister in her southern state. I needed her. Needed to be with her - and couldn't remain idle. Even while driving though, I fended off thoughts of my current reality with all genres of music. I talked to people on the phone, but when the conversation got too serious I made up excuses to end the calls. I wanted to talk, but couldn't. Just like writing, not being able to talk is not only rare, but debilitating for me.

My sister was worried that the tears hadn't yet come, but I knew they were welling up inside me like a tsunami. And it wasn't until the first viewing at the funeral home that the tears finally came. 

For the first time in days, the numbness went away and my body was racked with pain and grief. The next few days, surrounded by my extended family was a welcome change. I do not enjoy the numbness, but it's my body's temporary response - one that's quite common, I'm sure. As I've already told you, for me, pain is a reminder that I am alive. One that is at least a pleasant reminder that my body continues to function even when my heart doesn't feel like it can. 

Those were dark days, marked by the haunting strains of Taps replaying in my head. I can still hear the wailing drowning out parts of that song of honor. It took me quite some time to realize the wailing was coming from me.

So why is it that nearly a year and a half later I find myself paralyzed by headlights in a city street, taken back to an event for which I wasn't even present? I don't know that I'm going to find an answer today, but I think I'm getting close.

Perhaps my absolution is on its way.