The Car Accident that Shook my Daughter
A few weeks ago…
It was the worst car accident I had ever seen with my own eyes. And it was the first one my daughter had ever seen with her (seven year old) eyes.
The slow white car pulled out into two lanes of traffic. The speeding green car couldn’t see it coming from the far lane, with another car blocking its view in the near lane.
We were driving towards the scene on the other side of the road.
By the time they were aware of each other, they were 20 feet apart. A split second later, the 50 mph green car sideswiped the white car.
All the green car’s weight x momentum got transferred into the white car. One tire flew off the white car along with window glass in every direction—a fireless explosion.
The sound of plastic crunching, tires screeching, and metal dragging.
The green car had stopped, airbags blown open. The white car slid towards our car, airbags blown open.
I slowed our car and pulled slightly away towards the side of the road. We were about 50 feet from the white car by the time both of us stopped.
Then everything else stopped. Traffic. Sounds. Time.
One guy in a truck behind us hopped out and ran over to the white car. Others from the sidewalk ran over. The guy in the green car walked out of his vehicle, flanked by two helpful folks. The woman in the white car didn’t seem to be moving. But there was conversation between her and the people nearby.
My nervous system had selected fight/flight mode for this moment. My adrenaline was on fire. My focus was sharp.
I took a deep breath and spoke to my daughter directly but calmly.
“This is a bad accident, Sweetie,” I said. “I think that woman is going to need to go to the hospital.”
“The white car’s tire jumped off her car,” she said.
“Yeah, I saw that too.”
I made a quick assessment:
Lots of amazing helpers were surrounding the car.
The drivers who had not been affected directly were frozen. Possibly in shock, or unsure how to take their eyes off the scene.
There were plenty of witnesses.
There was nothing more we could offer.
We needed to get out of the way so emergency vehicles could get in.
My daughter listened as I shared my assessment with her. I backed up slightly and made a careful u-turn onto a now very quiet 4-lane road.
We had been coming from a school event called the May Faire—a festive celebration with music and dancing and bubbles and make-your-own-wand tables. The contrast couldn’t have been greater.
Each grade had danced around the Maypole as a call for the earth's fertility. The music of one-handed flutes and an accordion lifted our spirits as we watched toddlers hop while their teachers skipped. The older children weaving the ribbons of the Maypole in a pattern and then unwinding it all by the end.
From just an hour ago, the contrasts were absurd and stark. Bare feet on grass vs broken glass on concrete. A playful call to the earth to bring flowers and food forth vs the violent smashing of vehicles putting lives at risk.
When we got to Burgerville, my nervous system had relaxed a bit. But not all the way—I had a slight buzz in my body.
We heard sirens. Watched the road from our booth as a police car, followed by a fire truck, followed by an ambulance headed towards the scene of the accident, less than a mile away.
I heard myself describing the job of the people in each kind of vehicle for a moment like this. A description like many others I never anticipate, but come up with on the spot—filtered for younger ears.
“The policeman’s job is to keep people away from the accident and tell the cars driving by what to do. He’ll probably put flares on the road. Do you know what flares are?”
“No,” my daughter said.
“They’re like fireworks that are just bright for a long time and never explode.”
“I bet people would see those and keep away from them,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s true.”
I went on. “The fireman’s job is to make sure that woman has a way to get out of the white car. The car’s door is probably very smushed and won’t open. They might use very large tools to cut the metal door off so the woman inside will be able to get out. They can also prevent a fire from starting.”
“The ambulance people will bring a stretcher to carry the woman into their vehicle. They will bring bandages and oxygen and all sorts of things to make sure the woman’s body is as safe as possible and can make it to a nearby hospital.”
We munched on fries. I finished my burger. When I stood up to get more ketchup from the pump, I could feel tension in my legs. A coldness in my face—like I was restricting a flow of some kind.
“My body is feeling tense,” I said. “That was a scary thing to see and I think my body was afraid it was going to be hurt. How is your body feeling?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
I stood up and said, “I need to shake.” And I shook my whole body. Hands, waist, face, knees, shoulders. All of it.
I took a few deep breaths as the Burgerville staff and some customers looked on.
“Do you know why I’m shaking?” I asked my daughter.
“No.”
“When a deer is chased by a lion it thinks it is going to die. If it gets away, its body is full of the same stuff as our bodies right now. It’s called adrenaline. So the deer shakes from head to toe. That shaking tells the deer’s system that the danger is gone and it’s time to focus on the next thing. The shaking moves the adrenaline through.”
“That makes sense,” she said. “Because humans are animals.”
“Want to do it with me?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
We did our best to shake it off. Taylor Swift would have been so proud.
About four days later, while driving back from school, I told her that I had thought about the accident every day since it happened. I asked her if she had thought about it at all.
“Every day,” she said.
“How do you feel about it?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you tell any of your friends at school about it?”
“I told everyone in my class.”
“How did they react?”
“They said it sounded really scary.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It was scary. I hope that woman in the white car is okay.”
This is a true story. I wonder what impact this experience will have on my daughter. I suspect she’ll not forget it. Possible ever. I imagine the imprint in her being a message like, “this world can be that dangerous.” And what she does with that, well…
I can feel the urge to pry. To make something of it when it may not be as big a deal to her. Or maybe it’s a very big deal to her and she doesn’t know what to do about it.
I’ll inquire gently, I suppose. See where it goes. Trust in her ability to process as/when/if she needs to.
All story. All true.
I am holding this memory for myself. Sitting in the question of how I might hold it for/with my daughter?
A good reminder to share your own feelings and thoughts with your kids and to normalize the sometimes lengthy impact of the external world on us! I thought it was so great that you told her you’d been thinking about it so she could also share that it was still on her mind.