It’s not a secret that I live 3 miles from my job and from K’s school. A few weeks ago, K and I witnessed a horrific accident. We watched as a Toyota 4-runner careened into a moped. Sadly, both K and I watched the whole thing. I immediately pulled over, left K in his car seat and went to the man’s side. I called 911 and did my due diligence in making sure they knew where we were and what was going on. Because he was unconscious, I didn’t move him. With other bystanders and good Samaritans, we checked for a pulse and if he was breathing. Both were barely there, but there none the less.
I stayed with the unconscious rider until the ambulance got there and volunteered to give a police report. While I tried to shield K from the horrors or what was going on with the injured rider, he saw that he wasn’t moving; he saw that the firemen rushing him to the trauma center. He heard them say it and asked me what a trauma center was—I lied. He saw the blood coming from his nose and mouth as he lay there, on the asphalt, motionless.
The next day, we drove that same way and K pointed and said, “That’s where we saw that man die!” I knew I had to change our route home. Since then, we have been taking a different route home. He has asked me why we’re going a new way and I have told him that I want to have a new adventure, but it’s my attempt to curb any future damage to both of us by revisiting the scene each and every day. Maybe I am using K as an excuse. Maybe not. All I know is that I can still envision the accident and how that young boy looked on the pavement. I can only assume that my sweet, precious son is doing the same.
So, for now, we will take the long way home. And it will be our new adventure.