The Things We Should’ve Left Unsaid

Topics: grief, car accidents, loss, kindness, PTSD

Last Tuesday I passed an accident in the intersection of Hunter’s accident. (Because life is just that mean sometimes.) Two SUVs, both totaled. Two women, both in tears, but otherwise alive and well, standing on the sidewalk by the highway on-ramp.

I stopped my car and ran over. The younger of the women waved me away. With teary eyes she told me 9-1-1 had already been called. I said that was good, but I wasn’t there to call 9-1-1, I stopped to make sure she was OK. She gave a half-assed shrug and said she thought so.

She was probably 25 years old. Young, but still an adult. Adult enough that nobody else stopped. After all, both women were standing on the sidewalk, safely out of their vehicles, waiting for the police. What more could be done? Why would anyone stop?

Because being in a car accident is really f*$&% scary. That’s why you stop. 

I asked if I could give her a hug and instantly she began to sob. I wrapped my arms around her and she cried on my shoulder. We don’t know each other. I don’t know her name. I never asked. We just hugged and cried and felt that unique human bond that transcends words. We were strangers, but at that moment, we were best friends. Family. Siblings. Safety.

The other woman got off the phone with her husband and I asked her if she needed a hug. The same set of events occurred. Tears. Sobs. Hugs. Jumbled words. Hiccups of explanations.

Neither woman knew who was at fault. Neither one was pointing or placing blame. Neither screamed at the other or hurled insults. The three of us stood there, crying, hugging, and waiting for the police to arrive, staring at the smashed and maimed SUVs in the middle of the intersection.

When the older of the women said she was so touched that I stopped, my emotions got the best of me. I decided to bring my own embarrassment to the table and (arguably) make the situation worse. I told them I stopped because…

…my brother died where their SUVs were currently smashed together. I had to stop.

Apparently my destiny in life is to be that person. The one who always says the wrong thing at the wrong time, dragging up insane amounts of trauma, bringing up my dead brother as if it’s the only life event I’ve ever experienced (Ha. Ha ha. As if.) What a lovely gift for me to impose on humanity, no?

For another five minutes, the three of us stood huddled in a circle linking arms and shaking like leaves. When Walker PD showed up, it was Officer Campbell. I don’t know him by face, but I know his name. He was one of the first to respond to Hunter’s accident. So sure, of course, why wouldn’t he be the one responding five years later to this accident. Why not add a little more absurdity to the day? 

At that moment, despite my horrible word-vomit of my own tragedy, I knew why I stopped. I knew why I felt so compelled to be there. To wait. To hug. To hold hands. To be the shoulder to cry on. It’s because I remember those details. I remember it was Officer Campbell who was there when someone I loved needed someone to be there.

In a criminal case, the family/friends of the victim have the option to read aloud as many statements as they choose to be entered into the court record on the date of sentencing. Our family chose to only read one and I am its author. My thesis statement was a quote from Voltaire, “To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.”

For reasons I still cannot explain five years later, owing Hunter the truth meant one thing: I would know the truth. I would not accept that my brother died without thinking through the mechanics of what that looked like. No, I’m a messed up little weirdo and I wanted to know second by second what happened. I would not let Hunter’s last moments be lost to grief but rather they would be safely and completely kept in my head and heart. Quite literally, I made it my mission to be my brother’s keeper for everything that happened to him on August 21st. 

As such, I know Aaron is the one who called 9-1-1. I know Megan’s husband, Chris, stopped. I know a woman who lives two streets over from my parents’ stopped and prayed over Hunter until Officers Campbell and Huizinga arrived. I know the who, what, where, when, and how of every tick until the clock ran out at 8:23 am.

Those women will never know my name. They won’t remember my face. Heaven help me, I hope they don’t remember me blurting out that my brother died. But I hope and pray they remember my actions. I hope they remember I was on their side. I hope their memory of their accident is forever less traumatic than it could’ve been because that one lady with the pink backpack showed up for no good reason. 

Of course none of those rational thoughts crossed my mind in the moment. I texted Alyssa immediately after leaving the scene, hoping for some validation that I’m not a hot-mess-express of a human for letting my PTSD dictate questionable life choices (like stopping at the scene of Hunter’s accident just because it was there).

She validated all of the above and reminded me that what I said is likely not what they will remember about the day. My presence is what made an impact. I didn’t ruin the moment because there was no moment to ruin; there was only a space to fill. That space was for someone, anyone, to help make the situation a little less scary.

It reminded me of a similar conversation I had a few years ago with our small group leader, Jay Hildago. I told him I was talking about faith to a family friend and I think I did it all wrong. I wasn’t clear. I wasn’t succinct. I probably made it worse, not better. Jay said something along the lines of, “Tricia, you can’t do it wrong because only Jesus can do it right. You showed up and did it. That is all that’s asked of you.”

Oh. Right. I am completely, and totally, human and will behave thusly every moment of my ever-bonkers life. The words that I shouldn’t say (Or blurt. Or scream. Or blabber.) will never stop. But! But even my words can’t undo the most important act of being a human: showing up. Showing up is what matters. Showing up is my job. Love, support, and kindness are messages louder than jumbled words or weird outbursts of past traumas. 

Ask any good communications major to summarize this sentiment and they will surely quote Marshall McLuhan’s most famous phrase: the medium is the message. How we show up is more important than what we say when we get there. So stop for the accident. Hold someone’s hand. Give the sweaty, teary, nonsensical hugs. And give yourself a break for all the words that should’ve gone unsaid, because Lord willing, when it’s all in the rearview mirror, they won’t matter anyway.

~ Tricia