Shit Will Always Happen...
Why the Hell Did I Name My Blog “Shit Happens”? Well, not only do I find great enjoyment in cussing, regardless of how “un-fucking-lady-like” it seems, the title is actually based on a poster that my dad designed of me when I was a senior in high school. Yes, it was labeled with big, bold, white letters claiming “Shit Happens” below an enormous picture of me and my bike. My bike, leg cast, and helmet pieces, I might add.
In 1988, I had been in a horrible bicycle accident during my ride on a 50 mile bike tour that my brother, my friend Heather, and I decided to participate in. We had all been riding regularly and were attracted to the haunted name of the tour, The Ride of the Living Dead, to take place in beautiful Lake Perris around Halloween time. The t-shirts we received for this particular ride were black with a neon colored skeleton riding a bicycle, which, ironically, ended up being a great symbol of foreshadowing for me, so it goes.
The day of the tour had finally arrived and about half-way through the ride, following a few Chips Ahoy and some electrolyte-providing Gatorade served at one of the rest stops, I pedaled back into the groove on the road. Shortly thereafter, a 91-year-old man plowed into me from behind going about 50 miles an hour in his old Buick station wagon. A Buick. Not even a flashy Porsche or Caddy. Nope, a fucking Buick.
So, following a few weeks in Riverside General Hospital, several surgeries from a severely broken leg and jaw, interacting with a neurologist from South Africa who tested my memory each day (apparently he was memorable), and being home-schooled for several months of my senior year, my dad (who I had never heard cuss a day in my life) decided to make this poster of me. Shit Happens. It’s important to find humor in almost everything, right?
Fast forward 31 years, and I came across a letter that I had kept from the adult children of the guy who hit me. Of course, his kids were in their 70’s when they wrote to me back in the 1980s, but they had sent it when I was still in the hospital and were wishing me fast healing, well wishes, and the subtle “please don’t sue my dad because we’d like something left behind for us” and yadda yadda yadda. At the time, I couldn’t read this letter because I was busy being in a coma, but that’s beside the point. Yet, as I recently reread this letter, it suddenly occurred to me that if my dad or grandpa had ever caused such a tremendous accident, I would always wonder how that person ended up doing/surviving/getting along in life, or not. Cue the internet and a weird/crazy/perhaps stupid idea.
After searching the names scribbled on the old, wrinkled letter from 1988, I found someone in the same Lake Perris area with the same last name, so I emailed and asked if they happened to be related to the letter writers. A few days later, I got a response from the grandson of the guy that hit me, son of the letter writers, and he relayed that his parents had both passed away the year before.
Damn! I had just missed my chance to tell them how wonderfully fabulous I had turned out. You’rrrrre welcome.
He then inquired as to why I was looking for them.
So, as strange as this whole situation was, I explained who I was and that I just wanted the family to know that I came out okay in life. I didn’t specifically say I could “walk upright” and talk in “complete sentences”, but just “okay” seemed to be enough said. He responded, after getting over the initial shock of simply hearing from me, about how tragic that experience was for their family back when it happened. I paused... Of course, I wanted to reply with, OH, YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA!!!!... But, that wasn’t the point of me contacting them. Ultimately, he thanked me for communicating with him, and said he’d be sure to let his siblings know about our conversation.
In (my) life, forgiveness is a difficult thing to give out sometimes, especially when my leg hurts, my jaw is sore, or I can’t remember something. But after 31 years, I found that I had forgiven Pete, the 91-year-old guy who hit me. Making peace with him, through his family, was something I felt I needed to do in order to let it go. I realized I had been holding onto this story for over three decades and it wasn’t necessary; I was ready. I thanked the grandson for responding to my email and that was the end of that.
As my dad once said, “Shit Happens.” However, I presume it all depends on how you react to it is all that really matters.
