Today we had to send our much-loved M3 to the car graveyard. Not because we wanted to, but because yet another driver who felt that their right to play with their phone while behind the wheel was more important than actually driving, smashed into the back of the car causing so much damage that the car cannot be made safe again. Miraculously, no one was hurt. But a car that we have loved and cared for these last 14 years and that we have shared countless memories in is gone (even though our mechanic recently told us we’d get another 100,000 – 200,000 miles out of it). While I understand that this was just a car, to us it was the car that took us on our first date, safely took us on numerous road trips, and hugged the coast road in Oregon on many occasions. The memory that is standing out the most to me in the car was the day when I took my Mom to her oncologist and they told us she had Leukemia. When we got back in the car, we were just sitting there for a moment. My mom reached over and took my hand and said, “Did I hear him right? Did he say I had the Leukemia?” (She was remarkably hard of hearing at this point.) I looked at her and said, “Yes, Mom, that’s what he said.” There was a long pause where her eyes filled with tears (as did mine), but not a single tear fell and then she nodded and said, “Well, at least we know what we are dealing with.” It was such a brave moment from a brave woman. I know that just because we’ve lost our car, we don’t lose these memories, but it feels like we have lost a faithful companion. We also know – and are tremendously grateful – that in its last act as our car it kept Rick safe. It could have been so much worse. I wonder if whatever phone call, or text message, or Facebook posting the person was making was worth it? Could we all just put down our cell phones when we are behind the wheel and remember that we have not only our own safety in our hands, but the safety of those around us?
Posted on: Wed, 04 Sep 2013 15:20:53 +0000
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