Close calls and Celtic wisdom

I woke up alone; my hubby was already up feeding chickens and one remaining horse. I’m grateful for the simple routines my family shares. As I write this, Alison Krauss sings a soothing ballad from an adjacent room. Her music is part of a collection featuring Scottish folk singer Dougie MacLean. He’s the catalyst for other artists that bring me comfort when I’m anxious… especially after what happened.

Yesterday was almost my last. That evening the truth of how near I’d come resounded through tears and a pulsing heart. Retelling the story dissolved adrenaline and foggy shock. It was close. Close enough to feel the air whoosh as death roared by in the metal armor of a burgundy dually.

Suddenly a daily chore became dangerous. As I returned to the car with a handfull of mail, I watched two racing pick-ups speed towards Highway 20 and me. When they passed me within inches, they left behind the diminishing growl of hurried engines. It wasn’t the first time death almost took me. But this unexpected moment left me unbalanced and in shock.

The first time I almost died, I was ten. Two back tires blew out on our station wagon just south of Chemult. As the car careened towards oncoming traffic, then back into our lane, we ended up sideways going 55mph. The car rolled three times, and during the revolutions from roof to mangled tires, my young body was hurled through a shattered back window, across Highway 97 and finally against a ponderosa. I wasn’t crushed, wasn’t dead, just bloody and scared. I live with a scar that reminds me how close I came to dying that summer.

Then there was the dune buggy ride during college. The dare I accepted became another possible date with death. Riding over the Pismo Dunes with my cousin’s three drunk fraternity brothers, I knew in my gut how stupid it was to join them. I wasn’t drunk and had no one to blame but myself. I had to show them that nothing scared me. That I was not a coward, or someone who backed down from a dare. We drove away from the ocean over sand hills and jarring dips. When the dune buggy crested a rise and left the sand, it slowed in perilous suspension over a 100ft. cliff. I knew I’d finally taken my crazy antics too far. The engine revved as the tires left the ground. Then the vehicle arced and began three end-over-end rolls down a wave-shaped dune until finally resting in a dusty round ball of metal, sand, and four stricken people.

I needed help to stay alive that time. The only one not obliterated by booze, my body went rigid when we left the earth. I took a confused frantic breath and waited for the fall. Then a voice spoke in my right ear. “Relax, you’re not going to die.” The voice was deep and sure. It reminded me of my grandfather. I obeyed, forcing my body to soften and absorb the blows of unpadded steel rollbars against the back of my head and lower legs. When the chaos stopped, I heard my burly, tough cousin screaming my name. He thought he’d find the mangled body of his younger cousin, but I lived. The pain and scars took many months to heal. The crease in the back of my head reminds me of the second chance I was given. That’s when I finally woke up and realized I could die. I changed my life after that, shifting from “Crazy Kate,” to a wary woman who knew life could end anytime.

Then 10 years ago, cancer came calling. That proved to be a lesson in love, friendship, perseverance, and the value of choosing optimism over doubt. During a drive to Bozeman, Montana, to tell our daughter that I had breast cancer, I put in a Dougie MacLean CD. His Scottish voice, soothing guitar, and Celtic wisdom calmed me. Then his song, “Not Lie Down,” came on. I’d heard the song before, but its meaning transformed as I faced a possible death like my father and grandparents and cousin. “You can fall but you must not lie down,” spoke through speakers behind me. I didn’t know what lay ahead, didn’t know if I had the strength to absorb chemotherapy, radiation, and cutting away part of my body to save me. MacLean’s voice was soft and sure; so quietly strong. His was the next voice to guide me. During that year of treatment, I played that song like an anthem whenever I needed bolstering beyond prayer and hoping.

Since treatment finished in 2014, every year around July, I have blood drawn and roll into an MRI machine to find out if cancer has returned. Before those annual tests, my subconscious wears down my resolve to be strong. Fear finds its way in weakening my ability to choose healthy foods and thoughts. Eventually, I realize what’s happening and take control of behavior that doesn’t serve me. That cycle was just completed. The tests came back. Reading the results after opening the Patient Portal, I worried about what I might find. There was nothing written in red. Nothing to fear. I could breathe.

Then yesterday, death came at me again. The moment felt so mundane. I pulled the Subaru over next to the mailboxes on Fryrear Road. My sister sat in the front seat waiting for me to retrieve my mother’s mail. As I walked back to the car, I heard engines at a high RPM just around a corner. I stopped and watched two pick-up trucks come fast around the bend. The one behind was so close, I couldn’t see between them. I didn’t think much of it and walked back to my car and reached for the door handle. I heard the engines coming closer, looked back and saw the truck following pull out and begin to pass. As the two men passed me, I felt the burgundy dually miss me with only inches to spare. As the wind created by them fluttered my hair and shirt, I pushed myself against my car and heard my sister gasp. They raced by so fast I couldn’t see a license plate, just the roaring back ends of two trucks driven by men who didn’t care if I lived or died. I don’t know if it was road rage, a dare, or just stupidity. However it started, my life almost ended. I flipped them off as they went out of view and got into my car.

My sister’s eyes were wide, and her face drained of color. I felt empty and in shock. The adrenaline that demanded I retaliate with a feeble middle finger, left my body leaving me numb. We drove home talking about what had just happened. The retelling of the story to my mother and later to my husband had me holding back tears. I made myself a big gin and tonic with extra lime and settled into my favorite chair. We had an easy dinner, watched my favorite comedy, “Ghosts,” and soaked in the fact I was okay.

I’m trying to transform the incident into something positive; a way to make changes in the thoughts going through my mind and decisions I make every day. I’m not in the ER. Not in the morgue.

Why did the person driving the dually choose to pass just as he drove by my parked car? Was it anger, or testosterone, or thinking that winning is more important than anything else? I’ll look for that dually and if I see it, I’d like to think I’ll have the courage to go up to him and tell him what almost happened. There’s a fear that he’ll be packing, that he’d show his disregard for life and kill me with a bullet instead of a vehicle. Considering that makes me think about what I almost lost. He’s not worth it. I’ll let it go. Seize the gift of gratitude and watch out for the next person who hasn’t learned the lessons I have… life’s short, it’s precious, and worth holding onto.