I love Thanksgiving. It’s the one time of the year when I peel potatoes, whip-um up with heavy cream, butter, and cream cheese (I mean that’s a call for celebration alone). Pair my mashed potatoes with all the other turkey day deliciousness, a glass of wine and most importantly great company and there you have it-a lovely holiday. Normally my house is filled with loved ones on Thanksgiving. The bird gets cooked in my oven. Last year was an exception.
I was driving to work on a Tuesday morning-a Tuesday like every other. It was the week prior to Thanksgiving. I was chatting with my hubby through Bluetooth-our quick “hey I’m off to work, have a great day” conversation. I was turning from one county road onto another-following a green traffic arrow through an intersection. When, much to my husband’s horror, he heard the sound of screeching tires against pavement, crushing metal, and finally…my screams. The driver of the other vehicle had barreled through his red light. He struck the drivers side of my vehicle propelling and spinning it through the intersection.
A moment later there was a man at my broken drivers side window, a window I was certain I had broken with the force of my head. I looked in his direction but couldn’t make out the features of his face. He told me that an ambulance was on its way and that he would stay with me. That was my last memory of the accident scene-as if someone switched a light off. The police officer told my husband that I wasn’t lucid and could only follow simple instruction.
The rest of that day, and even the hours leading up to the accident is a discombobulated string of memories with whole chunks of time unaccounted for. I remember lying on my back, seemingly tied down wondering where I was, when I saw my husband’s face over me. His face I could see clearly. He explained where I was, what day it was and more importantly where my kids were (safe at school, thank goodness). I asked him in a matter-of-fact unemotional way if I was dead, and then I asked if he was dead (so sorry my Love).
It’s taken me months to process what took place that day. Just a month or so ago, thinking about the events of that day, I realized that I never saw the faces of the people who helped me that day. Not a single one-not the crash witness who came to my side, not a police officer, not an EMT, not a single doctor or nurse. My memories include looking towards them but unable to process their faces. I’m sure there is all kinds of science behind this-my bruised brain not being able to take in a new face.
Here is the beautiful thing…in that same hospital room where I couldn’t take in the face of a stranger, the faces of my loved ones were as clear as any other day. My very alive husband (again, sorry Love), my dear friend, who made it to the accident scene, announced she was my sister and climbed into the passengers seat of the ambulance, my mother, my sister, my brother-in-law-all crystal clear and comforting. My brain-my heart, already had a place for their images…what a blessing.
So, this Thanksgiving when my house is full and I’m on my second piece of whip cream loaded pumpkin pie, I’ll be thankful for the faces I love.
My Thanksgiving reflection, well this year it’s so simple.
“Thank you Jesus for the faces of my loved ones, for images that are etched deep inside of who I am-certainly, this Lord, is a reflection of abundant blessings.”
Oh-and Yes…I guess I must confess, apparently I have ugly step children. When you’ve been hit in the noggin doctors and nurses come in one after the next to ask questions-seemingly this helps determine just how many lights have been knocked out. When asked how many children I had, with an unsympathetic seriousness I told a doctor that I have four (nope, not true-just two), the oldest two were from my husband’s first marriage (umm…married to my high school sweetheart-I’m his first and only), making them ugly children (hmm, this one is tricky, I guess I’m quite comfortable, even on a subconscious level, with my husbands frequent declarations similar to “Thank Goodness you look like your Mother.”, My Love, seriously…terribly sorry). The kicker, I won’t claim them as my own (you know on the account of their ugliness). Really? Yikes-this-I have no answer for. Perhaps…it’s time for some self-reflection.