Late this Spring, my parents were in a car accident. It was early evening. It was raining, and the car hydroplaned. It went over a guard rail, flipped over, and came to a stop on the side of a hill. My mom suffered some severe but not life-threatening injuries. She was beside my father as the first responders tried, but ultimately failed, to revive him on scene.
They were out of province, on their way home from their 33rd wedding anniversary vacation.
In the days and weeks since the accident, many, many people have reached out to me and my family to express their sympathies and well-wishes. It’s been touching and heart-warming, knowing that there is so much love and good still in this world. Truly, I have experienced and appreciated the warmth and generosity of the human race as never before.
But some things are hard to take.
Mine is a deeply, some might say obnoxiously, Catholic family. Have been for generations. So it’s to be expected that most of my relations turn to prayer and God in general during this time. I understand that it’s comforting to them, it’s their coping mechanism. But it’s not for me.
It started from the first moment I saw my mother in the hospital. My aunt was there, and she said “everything happens for a reason”. I do not agree with this sentiment, and was frankly insulted, but I let it be. Same for the many, many “God’s plan” and other destiny-related tripe. These people meant well, they think they provide comfort. It seems rude to tell them otherwise, because they’re grieving too.
Later, coming back from viewing my father’s body, my mother and my aunt assured me “he’s in a better place now.” “No”, I had to tell them “I do not think a meat locker next to the hospital cafeteria is, in fact, a ‘better place’.”
A few days after that, having just picked up my father’s cremated remains, I walked into my mother’s hospital room. She and my aunt were discussing my mother’s latest revelation, that angels had truly been watching over her for her to have survived the accident. Silently, I composed an annual performance review for whichever angel was on duty that day. It was not favourable.
The day I left New Brunswick, I woke up (much like all of the other days I woke up in that godforsaken province) crying. But I had a revelation of my own. During my entire week there, in fact from the very moment I learned my father was dead, not once had I reached out to God, not even to question why. And in that moment, I felt a little better. Freer.
Up until that moment, I had always considered myself as mostly agnostic. You know, maybe there is some sort of something up there, and maybe I should keep myself open to that possibility, just in case. But as I laid there, using up the fifth box of hotel Kleenexes, I understood that there’s no rhyme or reason to this world, except for what we force upon it. For me, that’s more comforting than thinking there is some asshole in the sky who feels the need to inflict tragedy because He thinks I’m pretty when I cry.
So, I still appreciate people reaching out, and I am deeply moved by people keeping me and mine in their thoughts. But if you are the prayer type, pray for my mom. It will mean more to her.
Image: Flickr
