On safe driving and saying good-bye.

Some
Keith died the other day.



 



I’m
going off the theory that parallel realities do exist and other versions of
ourselves live lives echoing our own. Maybe they were born a few minutes
earlier. Maybe later. Maybe he made a few different decisions in life. A few
better or a few worse. If he was traveling where I was, when I was, we couldn’t
have been too far off from each other. Maybe our lives were the exact same up
until the point that he clipped his fingernails the other day and I hadn’t. But
we both had to get where we were going. With that moment of time he’d lost, he decided
to drive just a little bit faster. We’ve both taken the bridge from I94 East to
696 West so many times, knew on a typical day he could maintain a speed of 60mph
without breaking and get through just fine.



 



I
slowed down. The snowfall sudden, blinding and the salt trucks hadn’t made
their rounds. Up until that moment, the roads had been just fine. I was going
slower than usual, but not enough. As I rounded the turn, just before the
concrete wall became a guardrail, I lost all control of my Aztek. I turned, my
foot on the break, and the car slid forward.



 



It’s
funny how everything seems to go in slow motion in moments like that. Your
senses heighten just enough to account for the entirety of the moment. At
first, as the car started to spin sideways, I remember thinking how it was odd
the anti-lock brakes weren’t kicking in. I cranked the wheel, trying to divert
my path toward the guardrail. With no success. Somewhere in the back of my
mind, I questioned if there had even been a “Bridge may be icy” sign. Wouldn’t
it have been funny if I was spinning out on the only bridge in Michigan without one?



 



Beneath
me I could see I94 continuing below. I envisioned all the horrible things that
could happen if the guardrail wasn’t strong enough to support my car at this
speed. Would just the front break through? Would I fall over the ledge? If it
did fall, how should I position myself to survive? Would the front hit first
with most of the car’s weight in the engine? Or was the drop far enough for it
that I’d land on the roof and be crushed to death by my own car? What if I
survive the fall but get hit by oncoming traffic? Or what if the guardrail was
strong enough to support the impact and all that happens is I get hit by the
truck coming around the bend behind me?



 



If I
died, I’d never know what grade I got on my last chemistry exam. And that
annoyed me.



 



Somehow,
the Aztek didn’t go straight over. You’d never notice it, but before the
guardrail there’s a small curb on the side of the road. My wheels hit that and
the car ricocheted off. For an instant, I felt saved. But I still wasn’t
slowing down, and the Aztek spun twice as it slid to the other side of the
bridge.



 



I
managed to straighten the car enough so that I was now heading directly for the
other guardrail. I questioned if there was enough time to send a quick mass
text out to everyone I know, telling them I love them. And then another to a
couple of people who may have received the previous text in my panic, but I
really am not all that wild about.



 



“Before
Keith died, he texted me, ‘I love you. …Oh!
But more just think well of you as an able bodied coworker. If I survive, I still don’t want to hang out
or anything.’”



 



Except
I didn’t really think that. Mostly I was just trying to regain control of the
car. Some thoughts leaked in though. My family. My friends. I thought about how
my muse had designed the coolest book cover for my upcoming novel, and I really
wanted the world to see it. I thought about how I’d miss out on my brother’s
wedding, and wanted to apologize to a friend if this made me unable to take
over his classes and teach them after he retired. All in little flashes. My
parents. A few friends. An old dog at home and a few really fat cats. I had
just recently started being open with people about my bisexuality, but not my
family yet and- oh god! Do I have any porn on my computer? If I die, please let
nobody find any porn!



 



Yep.
All that and more while fighting the brakes and wondering if I was trying to
turn the car the wrong way. Not to get all sentimental or anything, but it’s
funny how it all sort of snuck its way in there. Like I was preparing myself or
something.



 



I
felt a bump, and the car continued moving forward. For a second I thought I’d
broken through the guardrail and was about to drop down to I94, directly in the
path of an approaching semi.



 



But
I stopped.



 



I
hadn’t hit the guardrail at all. Just the opposite curb. There must have been
some traction on the other side of it because I came to a halt a couple of
inches in front of the guardrail. The brakes finally came through. I was still
on the bridge. Granted, sideways, taking up an entire lane. But stopped. Alive.



 



To
relive everything I actually said during my entire spin out, my final words in
this world were very nearly, “Ahh hell. …Oh shit. Oh shit! Oh shit! OH SHIT!
SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! OH SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! OH FUCKING HELL! SHIT!”



 



But
I did stop. I did survive. At least long enough to look at the oncoming traffic
and brace for impact. One truck passed in the other lane. The rest of the cars
had slowed down and were coming to a stop. I took a deep breath, a sigh of
relief, and yawped to survival with the eloquently chosen phrase, “Jesus
fucking shit.”



 



It’s
a funny thing. Some people would start to cry. Others shake uncontrollably (I
do, but wouldn’t start until later. Not until I was sitting in class and the
adrenaline finally starting waning off). Some people get angry or even violent
from the stress of a situation. And I always laugh. After that near accident, I’d
even go so far as to say I cackled.



 



Not
to get into the whole fragility of life thing, or how mine nearly ended from
either fresh snow or a thin film of ice and perhaps some less than perfect
driving. If anything, I just wonder how it all looked to the other drivers. I’m
sure they were all thinking of what a dumb ass I was, or how I should stay off
the road. We’re never polite in our thoughts to strangers behind the wheel, and
I’m sure I was a source of great annoyance. But it had to look interesting to
those who could see me. Sitting sideways on the bridge, holding up traffic, was
me, laughing my head off.



 



Only
for a moment. It didn’t take me too long to pull back into traffic and lead the
20mph charge along the rest of the bridge and onramp. Then where the speed
limit hit 70pmh, we all continued at a modest 35. And while on that drive, I
remember thinking, “Some other Keith just died there.” In some parallel
reality, the bridge didn’t have the curb, or he was driving a little too fast. He
either went over the bridge, got hit by traffic, or randomly exploded in the
driver’s seat. But I got to go on.



 



Is
it me, or is there something about mild near-death experiences that makes you
feel indestructible for the rest of the day? Or full of life. That sort of
feeling where you just want to conquer a mountain, eat a massive steak, chug a
tall beer, and fuck like a Viking.



 



Yes,
even after cowardly screaming, “Oh shit!” in excessive repetition.



 



Replaying
the spin out in my mind throughout class, I kept thinking of the height of the
bridge, my dumb luck, and just how thrilling it was.



 



At
least until I got home from school.



 



Walking
in the door to my house, all the joy and thrill of life was punched straight
out of me when I saw my dog, Chloe, lying in her bed with her hind leg covered
in her own piss.



 



I
tried to get her to stand, or at least wag her tail. I tried lifting her a bit
to clean her, but she just wouldn’t budge. I called my mother, asking how I
should try to move her. She’s an old dog, and aging quickly over the past six
months. Over the holidays, she started having trouble walking straight and
wouldn’t always keep food down. We were told this was due to an ear infection
dogs get that effects their equilibrium, but over all she was in good health. She
still played. She still wagged her tail. She was still happy when we came home
and thrilled when we’d sit and pet her. She was just old and needed more care.
Of which we were always happy to give. But the feeling was setting in. She wasn’t
even standing to get out of her own urine. She was barely even lifting her
head.



 



My
mother and brother came home from their jobs, and we all sat around her,
petting her, showing her all the love we had to give. Still, hardly any response.




 



…You
guys know the rest of this story, and I’m having a hard time writing it. To
summarize, all three of us were petting her, hugging her, and telling her how
everything was okay, right up until the end. She was put to sleep in the same
room as some of our other pets. A room I’ve grown to hate for that very reason.
It was the last room I saw two of my cats in, Mack and Molly. Our previous dogs
from growing up, Sugar and Corona,
also passed in that room. Any other time I’ve taken a pet to that vet, I always
secretly hope to not have to enter that fucking room.



 



It’s
probably the dumbest thought ever. But As Chloe laid down, the sedative making
her rest before the final injection took her from us, I was looking down at her
and sobbing. My tears were running down onto the lenses of my glasses. The
dumbest through struck me. “Some other Keith in some other world died today. But
this world is taking back my Chloe.” And I would’ve given anything to exchange
places with her. Myself in that accident for her strength to live again.



 



Well,
like I said. You guys know how that story goes. Here I am writing about her. I
cried a lot over the weekend and tried to figure out exactly what to write for
this blog. Sort of my way of saying good-bye. And low and behold, I’ve mostly
written about myself. As for Chloe, she was at least part golden retriever. I
don’t know her exact breed. My mother adopted her while I was in college across
the state. It wasn’t until I moved home a few years ago that she became a part
of my life. I’d been told the first year or so of her life was pretty much
spent living in a cage. My older brother, Mike, found about her through a
friend, and said we’d take her. But the story is that the previous owner just
ignored her all day, kept her in a cage, and wasn’t good about feeding her or
letting her out. Nobody ever said anything about abuse, but when I was visiting
home prior to the move, I noticed that whenever somebody lifted their hand,
Chloe would cower a little. I’d scratch my nose and she’d brace herself to get
hit.



 



She
never did though. Not with my family. I’m allergic to dogs, so it took me quite
a while to warm up to her. After I moved home for school, I was very resistant
to go near her. But a few allergy meds and enough time together under one roof
and eventually I found her sleeping on my bed and greeting me at the door whenever
I’d get home from school or work. She made it difficult to keep my distance. She
liked big stuffed animals, and carried them around like they were her babies. Then
she’d place them at my feet. Sometimes for a game of catch. Sometimes as a
gift.



 



I
suppose I won’t have go too much more into detail. Just go hug your nearest pet
and you’ll know the feeling and the story. The point I’d wanted to make was
simply that a couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch, studying some
all too exciting algebra, and I lifted my hand to pick up my calculator. Chloe
was nestled in next to me, and when she saw my hand go up, she lifted her head
for me to pet her. She didn’t cower or shrink away like she had in her younger
years. She saw my hand and knew that it meant I loved her. So I scratched
behind her ear and rubbed her belly.



 



For
any of my mountain and Viking bullshit, that was significantly better.