I always imagined my son’s first broken bone being due to baseball or climbing a tree. Because that’s what boys do; they break bones. Boys are wild and crazy. Boys will keep you on your toes. I never anticipated my son’s first broken bone being the result of a car accident. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare. It’s the very thing we hope and pray will never happen to us.

When he was first born, we drove him home from the hospital going 35 miles an hour on the highway with our hazards on. I sat in the backseat staring at his innocent little face as it peered out of his car seat feeling the weight and responsibility of loving something this much. It felt like we were coasting down the road with a ticking time bomb. It was at that moment that I truly understood the delicacy of life.

I was reminded of that feeling yet again as I sat on the side of a winding back road with my now 6 year old son tucked timidly under my arm as as blue and red flashing lights reflected off of the heavily damaged front end of my Honda Pilot.

A lot of it was a blur. The air bags hit me in the face and my head went through the dashboard. I surely had a concussion although I refused medical treatment because it was apparent that my son needed to be transported to the emergency room. I felt out of control, but in the calmest way possible. I was in a daze from the accident, but I also felt my maternal instincts gripping their way to the surface.

We hit a rock, or we came to a halt because of the rock. I’m not lost on the irony, because I’m not sure a better scenario could depict being stuck between a rock and a hard place. I remember navigating my car around a corner and suddenly losing control. The next thing I know I’m sitting in the front seat of a lifeless car with an air bag deflating dutifully in my face.

I don’t remember getting my son out of the car. This was one of the questions that plagued me. I remember sitting on the side of the road with him. The leaves were crisply crunching beneath our legs. We were wrapped up in a blanket because the people who lived at the home we crashed in front of were kind enough to not only call 911, but they offered warmth and comfort in more ways than I can express.

I recognized the couple. Not only have I known their family for years, but we are practically neighbors. I crashed less than 1 mile from home. It’s true what they say.

They were crucial in not only helping my son and I on the scene of the accident, but after as well. I spoke with them a few days later and they were able to answer a lot of my questions to help me better understand and process what happened.

They assured me that I was the one who got my child out of his seat. We were both out of the car and making our way to safety on the side of the road. This brought me a lot of clarity and peace as it was scary not being able to remember such a significant detail.

I remember sitting there starring into nothing, mutely taking note of everything unfolding around me. I could hear my child aching beside me, but it was muffled. I could see the flashing lights of various first responders, but they were dull. People were speaking to me, but my brain was answering almost in voice mail. I could recite birth dates and spellings of names but I couldn’t feel anything. My senses were paralyzed. I was in shock.

The couple who were first on the scene said that I was very calm, almost too calm. Part of me believes this is because of the concussion, but I also wonder if it’s a maternal instinct. I had to be strong and stable, so my baby could be vulnerable. I had to numb myself to the devastation until my son was taken care of. Adrenaline, it’s imperative to our survival.

I’ve been thriving off of adrenaline the last 5 years, which could also be why I was numb in those moments of uncertainty and fear. It almost feels all too familiar these days.

I’ve been slowly stitching together bits and pieces from that night. I believe that there is always a message and a lesson to be learned. At least it’s a coping mechanism that I’ve developed through out the hardships in my life. There is always something better and brighter waiting on the other side. I can confirm that to be true, but it doesn’t make the process any less exhausting. Can’t I just have the sunshine without all of the pain?

There is a detail that sticks out profoundly for me on the night of the accident. My son was handed a teddy bear by one of the paramedics. When asked what my son was going to name the bear, he immediately declared it to be “Timmy.” A typical name made up by him would be “Fart Face” or “Rock Dirt.” Timmy flew off his lips so organically and with ease. It was a moment that sat with me. It was the first time I felt anything on the scene of that accident.

It was presumed that my son broke his arm. My father in law was the first family member on the scene and he was able to transport us to the emergency room. I had burns and abrasions from the air bags defiling my face and a blooming black eye. I remember the receptionist asking me again if I was sure I wouldn’t be seeking medical treatment. In that moment I was still in a state of shock. I felt entirely okay besides the splattered blood on my pants and superficial scrape on the palm of my hand, I felt unscathed.

We settled in a little room with beeping monitors and a stiff arm chair. I remember my husband appearing from behind the curtain after rushing an hour away from work. We locked eyes and I felt a wave of safety and relief flash over me. It felt as though I could finally put some of the weight down. I could finally tune back into my senses. This is when the whiplash settled in, and it’s not in the way you think.

I remember the first thing I felt was guilt. I became crushed with the sinking realization that my son and I were in a car accident. I was driving that car. I put my child’s life in danger in a way that I never could have ever imagined. Accidents happen and some things are out of our control, but that’s still not enough to contend with the remorse of feeling responsible for your child’s pain. The doctor peered behind the curtain and reported that our son’s arm was broken. I physically sunk onto the floor right next to the stiff arm chair and the feelings I had been numb to erupted into tears. This is when the guilt truly poured over me. I suffocated in my own sorrow for long enough to allow the second emotion to radiate warmth throughout my entire body. This is when I felt gratitude. Thank goodness, he only broke his arm. Thank goodness we are leaving this hospital in a sling and not on a stretcher. How lucky are we that although we are battered and bruised, we will get to sleep in our own beds tonight. What a blessing it is to be alive. What a gift it is to see the light no matter dark it gets.

The days following the accident were a continued blur. I was starting to process the accident but my head was very much still in a fog. I was occupied on the phone with the insurance company and scheduling doctor’s appointments. There would be abrupt moments of tears and followed by mundane chores like emptying the dishwasher, and sometimes I would just have my mental breakdowns while doing chores. I would find moments of peace and then sink into a spiral of anguish. Family members visited with us and offered love and support in the form of kit kats, starbucks and happy meals. I will never forget who was there during those first few days.

The orthopedic surgeon at the Children’s hospital informed us that although the break in my son’s arm was in an ideal spot, if there were any, it would still take a solid 6 weeks for him to heal completely. The guilt lurked back in and I started to punish myself for all of the things that son would miss out on due to his injury. Baseball season was beginning that week and the doctor reluctantly suggested that he sit sit this season out. After another episode of self deprecation, I crawled out of my pity party and told my husband that we should get him involved in some other activity, like maybe music or art. I figured it would be a perfect distraction from what he was missing out on. Not to mention, he is a kid who expresses himself through creativity.

A few days after the accident I was walking the dogs along our normal route. We were approaching the road that I crashed on and I could feel my chest getting heavy. I consciously reminded myself to breathe and I braced myself for another breakdown. As I was turning around to head home, the woman whose house we crashed in front of pulled up along side me. This was the first time I had spoken with her since that night. We chatted for nearly a half an hour on the side of the road. It felt like it was the first time I truly let my guard down as I poured my heart out to this woman who had already seen me at my most vulnerable the night of the accident. I found a lot of peace and solace in talking with her. As we ended our conversation, I promised to add her on facebook and stay in touch.

I got home and added her on facebook. I was guided to her business page as well and this is how I discovered that she is an art teacher who teaches art classes to kids. This felt like a sign as her and I had just discussed how sometimes life leads us down paths for a greater purpose. The universe typically delivers synchronicities to me, but this felt special. It is exactly what my heart was seeking for both my son and me.

As I navigated her page it displayed a write up on the history of her beautiful nearly 300 year old home. This is the place in which she conducts her art classes, the place where my son and I crashed in the car . The name of the house is the “Timothy Lester Homestead.” The warmth of gratitude started to radiate through me again, but this time it’s because I am once again reminded of how profoundly connected and special my son is. Suddenly, another piece of the story connects. I’m brought back to that moment at the scene of the accident where I felt this sense of inner knowing and peace. It’s when my son named his teddy bear “Timmy.”

He hasn’t put the bear down. He has been dragging it along with his usual caravan of stuffed animals and oversized blankets. He speaks to it about the accident because that bear was a witness to something pretty traumatic in my son’s life. It connects the whirlwind of that night to the reality that is now. It has brought my son a level of peace and comfort that I never could have in those moments of fight or flight survival.

My son’s connection to that bear as its name connects to the house is a significant display of the magic that is always happening around us. Even in our darkest moments, when all of our senses are incapacitated, there is always light at work.

Everyday I begin making more connections. Everyday it becomes clearer to me why we were made to go through this. The ways in which it has already enriched our lives is immeasurable. There is a profound sense of gratitude that can only be understood after you’ve faced something like this. Gratitude is what is healing my son and I. We are choosing the light. Sometimes I really believe, there is no such thing as an accident.