Winter, wiener, wonder

Last Sunday night Paul and I went out for sushi.  The weather was lousy, rainy with a temperature hovering just above freezing, but we left Charlie at the mercy of the babysitter (or vice versa) and went anyway, desperate for a break in a relentless two-week stretch of limit-testing, tantrum-hurling, and classic asshole three-year-olding.

As I drove us home, I kept up a fretful monologue about my family — my worries about my aunt's health, which may never improve a great deal.  The increasing age of my grandmother, who's currently sole caregiver for my aunt.  The pressure my mother is facing, regardless of what happens next.

And as I talked, the temperature abruptly dropped, turning the surface of the highway into a sheet of ice.  I wasn't speeding and I wasn't changing lanes, but the road was suddenly so fatally slick that the car fishtailed.  Once, twice, a few more times, and then went into a spin.  It went a little like this:

(Alas, I do not actually drive a Wienermobile.  I used that picture solely to reassure you.  Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes possibles, goes the primary tenet of Optimism: Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.  A corollary to this cheering principle holds that any post featuring a Wienermobile must have a happy ending.  Go on, prove me wrong.)

We spun.  I did not slam on the brakes.  We did not hit the guard rail.  We did not hurtle into the Jersey barrier.  The car behind us had ample time and room to stop without then sliding into us.  As I remembered something I'd heard once and turned the wheel into the direction of OH MY FUCKING CHRIST, I braced myself for the sound of wrenching metal and breaking glass, and it did not happen.

We just...stopped.

And everything was okay.

"Put on your flashers.  Put on your flashers.  Put on your flashers," Paul chanted to me as I hyperventilated.  I did, and then put the car into park and took a few seconds to collect myself.  Because OH MY FUCKING CHRIST, that was almost really bad.

And then I slowly backed the car into the correct lane, facing forward, and put it into drive.  Slowly.  We crawled the remaining 20 miles.  Even driving so slowly, the car fishtailed again, earning a terrified "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," from a driver whose heart was still thudding.  And then we fishtailed again; by that time it merited only an annoyed, "Oh, for fuck's sake," because how stupid was it going to be to survive the previous highway spin only to die half a mile from home?

We did not die.  We weren't hurt.  Our car wasn't damaged in the slightest.  I didn't even vomit in panic, largely because I was too scared to pull over.  It was all improbably fine.

We got home, paid the babysitter, and begged her to be careful.  I got undressed, cried a little, and went into Charlie's room to see that he was comfortable.  He was sleeping soundly but he'd pushed off his cover, so I pulled it up around him.  He surprised me by saying, in a cheerful daytime tone, "Thanks," and burrowing into the blanket, without ever waking up.  And I cried a little more, thinking about how improbable everything was.  What a jackass he'd been awake, and how sweet he was unconscious.  How lucky we were to be unhurt, how much worse it could have been for my mother.  How fragile we are, and how mysteriously resilient.

On the highway, once I'd composed myself and put the car back into drive, the words that bubbled up had been, "I have never been so scared in my life."  But I didn't say them because I realized as soon as I thought them that they weren't true.  The most frightened I've been in my life was after Charlie's birth, and the couple of nights when we thought he wouldn't live.  The spin was ten minutes of terror.  The other has yet to stop scaring me.

I have been thinking about Alexa and Simone.  After reading one of her posts I commented that she would worry for a long time to come, but that the worry would come with wonder.  I wished that wonder for her.  Consider the scariest experience you've ever had; that's what they've been facing, plus.  But also think of that "Thanks" in the night, the pinprick of tears of surprise, the surge of disbelieving gratitude.  That is what's in store, what still makes me weak in the knees three years later.  Impossible world-shaking wonder.

Posted by Julie at 08:21:07 PM in I've learned a lot...but I'm not sure it's worth it.

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Winter, wiener, wonder

Last Sunday night Paul and I went out for sushi.  The weather was lousy, rainy with a temperature hovering just above freezing, but we left Charlie at the mercy of the babysitter (or vice versa) and went anyway, desperate for a break in a relentless two-week stretch of limit-testing, tantrum-hurling, and classic asshole three-year-olding.

As I drove us home, I kept up a fretful monologue about my family — my worries about my aunt's health, which may never improve a great deal.  The increasing age of my grandmother, who's currently sole caregiver for my aunt.  The pressure my mother is facing, regardless of what happens next.

And as I talked, the temperature abruptly dropped, turning the surface of the highway into a sheet of ice.  I wasn't speeding and I wasn't changing lanes, but the road was suddenly so fatally slick that the car fishtailed.  Once, twice, a few more times, and then went into a spin.  It went a little like this:

(Alas, I do not actually drive a Wienermobile.  I used that picture solely to reassure you.  Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes possibles, goes the primary tenet of Optimism: Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.  A corollary to this cheering principle holds that any post featuring a Wienermobile must have a happy ending.  Go on, prove me wrong.)

We spun.  I did not slam on the brakes.  We did not hit the guard rail.  We did not hurtle into the Jersey barrier.  The car behind us had ample time and room to stop without then sliding into us.  As I remembered something I'd heard once and turned the wheel into the direction of OH MY FUCKING CHRIST, I braced myself for the sound of wrenching metal and breaking glass, and it did not happen.

We just...stopped.

And everything was okay.

"Put on your flashers.  Put on your flashers.  Put on your flashers," Paul chanted to me as I hyperventilated.  I did, and then put the car into park and took a few seconds to collect myself.  Because OH MY FUCKING CHRIST, that was almost really bad.

And then I slowly backed the car into the correct lane, facing forward, and put it into drive.  Slowly.  We crawled the remaining 20 miles.  Even driving so slowly, the car fishtailed again, earning a terrified "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," from a driver whose heart was still thudding.  And then we fishtailed again; by that time it merited only an annoyed, "Oh, for fuck's sake," because how stupid was it going to be to survive the previous highway spin only to die half a mile from home?

We did not die.  We weren't hurt.  Our car wasn't damaged in the slightest.  I didn't even vomit in panic, largely because I was too scared to pull over.  It was all improbably fine.

We got home, paid the babysitter, and begged her to be careful.  I got undressed, cried a little, and went into Charlie's room to see that he was comfortable.  He was sleeping soundly but he'd pushed off his cover, so I pulled it up around him.  He surprised me by saying, in a cheerful daytime tone, "Thanks," and burrowing into the blanket, without ever waking up.  And I cried a little more, thinking about how improbable everything was.  What a jackass he'd been awake, and how sweet he was unconscious.  How lucky we were to be unhurt, how much worse it could have been for my mother.  How fragile we are, and how mysteriously resilient.

On the highway, once I'd composed myself and put the car back into drive, the words that bubbled up had been, "I have never been so scared in my life."  But I didn't say them because I realized as soon as I thought them that they weren't true.  The most frightened I've been in my life was after Charlie's birth, and the couple of nights when we thought he wouldn't live.  The spin was ten minutes of terror.  The other has yet to stop scaring me.

I have been thinking about Alexa and Simone.  After reading one of her posts I commented that she would worry for a long time to come, but that the worry would come with wonder.  I wished that wonder for her.  Consider the scariest experience you've ever had; that's what they've been facing, plus.  But also think of that "Thanks" in the night, the pinprick of tears of surprise, the surge of disbelieving gratitude.  That is what's in store, what still makes me weak in the knees three years later.  Impossible world-shaking wonder.