Standing in Traffic

December 11, 2011

Yesterday, I stood in traffic.  I posed with a bride, a groom, and 3 other bridesmaids on the median line on State Street, one of Chicago’s busiest thoroughfares, half a block from the stoplight.  With the historic Chicago theater as a backdrop, no doubt the photo will look amazing.  But all I could think about as we shivered and smiled was how our lives depended upon the competence of the drivers whizzing past on either side.

Not only crazy people or bridal parties (or is that redundant?) stand on the center line.  That is how my parents died.  They were crossing the street to attend an evening church service at St. Barbara’s in Brookfield, the suburb where I grew up.  They crossed at a spot where many churchgoers do, in a direct line from the church parking lot exit to the church entrance across the street.  Unfortunately, there is no crosswalk there, despite the number of people who walk that way.  I was told the church tried to get the village to add a crosswalk, but it’s only half a block from a stop sign, so the request was denied.

The man who hit my parents lived in Brookfield, and his parents belong to the parish, so he would have known people cross there.  Not only that, but the crossing sits in between a jog in the road that has a stop light and a stop sign, so cars usually travel at a low speed. 

On the night of January 22, 2007, traffic on one side of the street stopped for my parents, who had crossed half-way and paused in the median to wait for the road to clear.  An ambulance driver, who later sped my dad to the hospital, saw my parents and stopped.  A passer-by noticed they were smiling and holding hands.  But the man driving to his home, which was only a mile away, who had stopped for drinks after work, didn’t see them.  He didn’t stop.  My mom died in the street.  My dad died six and a half weeks later.

I didn’t see the crash.  But even nearly five years later, the way that crash happened never leaves my mind as I walk to work each day.  In downtown Chicago, construction is frequent.  Saw horses, yellow tape, and barricades often block all or part of designated crosswalks, requiring me to edge around them, partially exposed to the street.  I look over my shoulder, I scan the cars ahead of me and on the cross street, I check again, I check again.  Finally, I walk, stomach clenching, holding my breath until I make it to the other side.  I get angry with friends who walk with me and insist on crossing against lights, in the middle of streets, or where there is no signal.  Of course, the idea that being in a crosswalk or abiding by the lights will keep me safe is an illusion, one in which we all indulge or we’d never leave our homes.  Traffic laws provide safety only when people opt to follow them, and that only works when the people on the road are competent to make that decision and care enough to make it. 

WGN radio personality Garry Meier was kind enough to speak at the annual benefit for AAIM, the Alliance Against Intoxicated Motorists, as was Illinois Senator Carole Pankau.  Garry likens drunk drivers to terrorists because you never know when they will strike.  At first, despite my parents’ deaths, I thought this metaphor might be extreme.  But then I thought about how I look over my shoulder, and I check, and I check again.  And I never feel safe.  Garry’s right.  It’s not police enforcement that keeps roads safe at least some of the time.  It’s that as a culture we believe that those laws, if followed, will protect us, so we follow them.  If a person opts to violate that most important traffic law – refraining from driving while intoxicated – the others go out the window, along with the safety of any person in or near that driver’s path.

Until as a country we decide that drinking and driving is unacceptable, we are all standing in traffic.

Author's Note:

In honor of my parents, all royalties this year from my short story collection THE TOWER FORMERLY KNOWN AS SEARS AND TWO OTHER TALES OF URBAN HORROR will be donated to AAIM. Horror writer Carrie Green referred to the stories as “horror in pinstripes,” a description I wish I’d thought of myself and which I’m happily adopting.  

For Kindle or any laptop, smartphone or computer with the free Kindle app:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005PTWKJ0

To learn more about AAIM, or make a donation in honor of someone you love, click here:http://aaim1.org/

Lisa M. Lilly is also the author of the Amazon Occult Horror Best Seller The Awakening

Will Tara Spencer’s mysterious pregnancy trigger the first stage of the Apocalypse?  Or bring the world its first female messiah? 

On Amazon:  http://amzn.to/pFCcN6

For the Nook:  http://bit.ly/uGyLfS

"Thank You For Everything" (DUI Loss Entry No. 15)

“Thank you for everything.”  That is the last thing my mom ever said to me.  Like a lot of mothers and daughters, we had some difficult times.  There were a few years when she hardly spoke to me, as she was unhappy my boyfriend and I were living together (a little more unusual in the late 1980s than it would be now).  But by the time my mom reached her 80s and I my 40s, we’d found a way to leave the hot button issues alone.  She stopped asking if I was going to mass, I stopped trying to get her to understand what I believed and didn’t believe and why.  I felt she was pleased I became a lawyer and kept writing and was doing well in the world.  But I often felt she’d be happier if instead I’d married a lawyer and had kids.  Perhaps partly because it would have given us more in common. 

In the last few years of my mom’s life I really tried to find things we could do together.  The last day I saw her, I read through and explained her and my dad’s insurance and social security issues, helped her balance my aunt’s checkbook (my mom’s sister lived well into her 90s, and Mom was handling her affairs), and shoveled snow.  And so, after all the ups and downs and difficulties, when I left that day, my mom said, “Thank you for everything.”

The next night she and my dad were crossing the street and were hit by an intoxicated driver.  My mom died at the scene.  My dad lived about 6 weeks before he died. 

Neither of my parents were much for expressing emotion.  I knew my parents loved me because my mom always stocked a refrigerator full of food when I came over and clipped coupons for me, and because my dad insisted on giving me a ride to the train every time I visited, even though the walk was only a few blocks, and saved newspaper and magazine articles for me.  When my dad was in the hospital, I came in during one of his speech and cognitive therapy sessions.  This was after a couple surgeries.  Before them, he’d been clear headed and understood what was happening, after he sometimes was confused and didn’t know exactly where he was and who was who.  So the therapist asked him who I was.  He said, “Lisa.”  And she said, “And who is Lisa?”  And he said, “My daughter and close friend.”  It never occurred to me my dad thought of me as his friend, and that made me happy.

Of course I never expected my parents would die in a traumatic way, or so close in time to one another.  But because they were in their eighties, despite their good health and history of longevity in their families, I knew they might not be with us much longer.  So I thought a lot about wanting the time I had with them to be good, about not wanting to let past differences keep us apart, and about how I could best have a good relationship with them.

Not everyone gets the chance to hear kind words from, or say kinds words to, the people they love before they are suddenly gone.  On an on-going basis I talk with people who lost children or spouses because one day someone else chose to drink alcohol and get behind the wheel. 

We all have conflicts with people we care about, and we can’t always say something kind.  Sometimes we’ll say something angry, and even if that is the last thing we say, it doesn’t cancel out or define a whole relationship.  At the same time, it’s so easy to take for granted the great things about people, and life, and focus on the negative, on what we don’t like or would like to change.  Every morning now, I ask myself, what am I grateful for?  Often the answer is that I am grateful for someone being part of my life.  I try to remember to tell that to whoever it is, whether by phone or email or in conversation.  At first I felt a little awkward (I grew up in a family where people don’t talk much about feelings remember).  And then I discovered it means a lot to others to know how much they mean to me.   And whether it is the last thing I say to a person or one of many things, it makes life richer for both of us.  For me, that has been the best way to live with loss and focus on what’s good and wonderful in this world. 

Lisa M. Lilly

The Awakening  ($2.99) by Lisa M. Lilly

Tara Spencer’s mysterious pregnancy alters her life forever.  Will it also change the fate of the world?

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005CDXXY0

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-awakening-lisa-lilly/1104252756?ean=2940012849618

What God Wants (and Does it Matter?)

At my dad's wake, people told me my parents’ deaths were “God’s will,” “God’s plan,” or “what God wanted.”  Even when I was religious, I’d had trouble with that sentiment.  Was it really supposed to be a comfort to believe God wanted my mother to die by being hit by a drunk driver?  And wanted my dad to survive two operations and emerge from a week-long post-surgery coma, struggle to regain some function, and then die as well, uncomfortable, confused and in pain in a hospital bed? 

One friend explained how a tapestry looks like knots and zigzags from the back but is beautiful and perfect from the front.  This has never appealed to me – it can be used to justify humans doing awful things in the name of a mysterious greater purpose that only their version of god understands.  Then my friend asserted all the pain on earth passes quickly compared to an eternity in heaven, so it doesn’t matter what happens to us here.  That may or may not be so, but if I stab someone repeatedly I doubt that person would feel much better if I argued it I only did it for ten seconds.  I’m not sure why a god who does awful things should get more leeway.  Shouldn’t we hold our gods to a higher standard?  And, regardless of the theoretical arguments about why an all-powerful god would cause or allow terrible things to happen, none of the things people said made me feel any better.  Just the opposite, my whole being cried out against them. 

The greatest comfort I found during the months after the crash came in a dream.  My dad and I stood on the steps of the rambling house where my brothers and I grew up – steps my dad built out of scrap lumber when the original stairs wore through.  Though he stood with me and alive in the dream, the crash had still happened, and my dad knew all about it.  He said to me, “Sometimes these things happen.  We don’t know why.”  My dad was a very religious person, yet I believe he would have said exactly that to me.

Before I turned fourteen, I’d attended at least five funerals.  I belong to a large extended family with aunts, uncles and even cousins 40+ years older than me, so death was something I learned about early on.  Perhaps because of that and my Catholic upbringing, I am fascinated with themes of whether there is a god and, if so, what that god wants.  I don’t subscribe to the authors’ view, but I read several of the Left Behind books.  That apocalyptic series begins with people belonging to a certain Christian denomination being raptured away into heaven.  The books then follow those left here on earth during the end times, some of them being tortured by beings sent by God because they’ve refused to accept God’s teachings.  (That’s when I stopped reading the series; I found that world view too disturbing.)  My first novel, The Awakening, focuses on a young woman who is mysteriously pregnant.  Throughout it, protagonist Tara struggles to survive and searches for the purpose of her pregnancy.  She's surrounded by people who hold completely conflicting views about her experience, some of them bent on Tara's destruction, each certain he or she knows what God wants.

What does God want, if there is one?  Perhaps someday I’ll find out, perhaps not.  In the meantime, I’ve tried to stop asking why bad things happen and instead do things that might make the world a better place.  Things like supporting Make-A-Wish, which sponsors wishes for seriously ill children (and sent my 11-year-old niece and her parents on a trip to see the Minnesota Twins spring training the spring before my niece’s death from cancer).  Like volunteering with AAIM, a non-profit in Illinois that every day does its best to prevent further deaths from DUIs.  Like offering a hand to hold, or a listening ear, to others in times of trouble.  I don’t know if there is a god or if that god has a plan, but this is mine.

Author's Note:

In honor of my parents, all royalties in 2012 from my short story collection THE TOWER FORMERLY KNOWN AS SEARS AND TWO OTHER TALES OF URBAN HORROR will be donated to AAIM. 

For Kindle or any laptop, smartphone or computer with the free Kindle app:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005PTWKJ0

To learn more about AAIM, or make a donation in honor of someone you love, click here:http://aaim1.org/

Stillness and Grieving (DUI Loss Entry No. 13)

Asking “What if the worst thing happens?” is a great way to up the stakes in a thriller. Or help a client plan and pursue legal strategy. But it is not a recipe for a peaceful life. The same mind that helps me take every possible plot line or legal question to nth degree also imagines or replays painful and tragic events and ideas. For months after my parents’ deaths due to a drunk driver, I imagined the scene, which I’d learned about through police reports and witness statements. My dad’s body flipping over the top of the SUV that hit them, my mom lying in the road alone. My dad survived about 6 weeks after the crash, and even now, 4 years later, I flash back to holding his hand and telling him my mom died, or sitting in the straight back chair by his hospital bed with my brother, sister-in-law, and niece through his last night with us.


Before my parents’ deaths, I mediated fairly regularly, not as a religious or spiritual practice, but to help clear my thoughts. My practice was to focus on one word as I breathed in and out, letting go of all other thoughts. Eventually I simply focused on the breath itself. It rested my mind during the fifteen minutes a day that I sat, and also helped me focus more on whatever I was doing at any particular moment, rather than letting my mind run off in all directions (unless I was actually plotting a story or writing a legal brief, in which case I let it run). After the crash, sitting still, or only handling one thing at a time, felt impossible. To not multi-task – such as by eating while listening to public radio while paying bills – seemed like a terrible waste of time. Every free moment lost was a moment with my dad I wouldn’t ever get back. I also couldn’t handle stillness emotionally. I played the TV whenever I was home, I paced when I talked on the phone, I read and ate and ruminated about what else I could be doing for my dad or how angry or sad I felt all at the same time. To stop, to sit, to simply breathe to me meant opening floodgates of emotion I might never contain. Yet as I raced away from my pain and anger, it rushed back to me, overwhelming me.

About 5 months after my dad’s death, I took all my vacation time in one block. After visiting with family and friends, I spent a few days in Hawaii alone. Often I just sat on the grass, listening to the ocean, breathing salty air, and crying. At night, I stared at the stars spread across a sky darker than I ever see in downtown Chicago, and I cried. It was such a relief. No place to run to, nothing to do. Just the chance to be, to feel sad, to miss my parents.

I won’t say I felt wonderful from then on. I still struggled with grief, loss, anger, all the feelings that go with a traumatic loss. I felt ungrounded with both my parents gone almost in an instant. After that break, I still felt sad, angry, and afraid. But I spent just a little more time each month being with people I loved, doing things I enjoyed, and planning my future.

Recently, I started meditating again. And focusing on doing one thing at a time. I’d forgotten the peace it can bring. There are moments when it’s hard, when it intensifies feelings of sadness or pain. But it also means I am truly present for good feelings and good times too, rather than letting them rush past me in the scramble to juggle my law firm, my writing, my friends and family. I still miss my parents and always will, and still grieve for them. But I let myself remember the wonderful things about them, and notice how much of who they were exists in all the people who knew and loved them. Something I would have missed had I just kept running.

Lisa M. Lilly
Author of The Awakening 
 

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005CDXXY0

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-awakening-lisa-lilly/1104252756?ean=2940012849618

Taking Care of Yourself (DUI Loss Entry 12)

My dad was in the hospital, struggling to survive, for six and a half weeks before he died. We planned and attended my mom's funeral during the first week he was in the hosptial, during which he had two surgeries, both on an emergency basis. Even when I was home to sleep, which was rare, I often couldn't.

The months that followed my dad's death were no easier. I felt overwhelmed by anger and grief, and by everything that needed to be taken care of, from my parents' home to the will to the hospital and doctor bills and insurance issues. I tried to go back to work full time (which in the world of large law firms generally means far more than 40 hours a week) a little too soon and had trouble handling the stress.

With all of that going on, I assumed that feeling exhausted and sometimes faint had everything to do with grief and lack of sleep and nothing to do with anything physical going on. I'd read that in times of grief it was good to go to the doctor for a check up, but I didn't. Part of it was I felt all the doctor could do would be to prescribe sleeping pills or some type of anti-depressant, and I didn't want that. Then, in the summer, I went to the doctor because I thought I had an ear infection. I was flying the next day and couldn't imagine getting on a plane with my ear hurting so much. It turned out to relate to my allergies and was fixed by a strong decongestant. But I also learned, because my doctor did a blood test to look for infection, that I'd become somewhat anemic. At my physical the previous year, my iron count was so good the doctor had told me I could stop taking iron supplements if I'd been taking them. Now she recommended them, and I was amazed how much better I felt. I still had some trouble sleeping, still felt sad and angry and exhausted at times. But the feeling of being dragged out all the time, the faintness, and most of all the overwhelming sense of hopelessness improved significantly. I mark that as the time when I started moving toward feeling better, though it was a long journey.

So if you are grieving, I hope you will consider seeing your doctor for a check up. Grieving may be affecting you physically as well as emotionally. And while not everything can be fixed, if it helps you just a little with all you need to deal with, it is worth it. I wish I had done that sooner. I feel like it might have made that first six-eight months just a little less awful.

Does It Get Easier Part II (DUI Loss Entry No. 11)

One of the blessings in the past year is that when I think of my parents, the crash does not always come to mind. For years after it happened, my first thought about my parents was to imagine how my mom died in the street after she was hit, lying in the cold and snow. I'd imagine my dad flying over the SUV that hit them, landing in the road beyond. I'd remember how much pain he suffered during the six and a half weeks he was hospitalized, how hard he tried to communicate, how hard it was to make the decision to stop treatment and to say good-bye to him. In the first year, month after month, I went to the criminal court to watch the proceedings against the man who killed my parents. He was eventually sentenced to twelve years in prison. It was his third DUI.

Now those memories are still there, but other things come to mind. Fun things we did together, advice they gave me, what I valued about having been their daughter. Annoying things, too. (After all, they were my parents. We most definitely got on one another's nerves at times.) Perhaps that is the only real healing time offers. The ability to remember what is good and happy, even though the memories are tinged with the pain.

I know if my parents could have communicated with me during the years after the crash, they both would have told me not to dwell on the pain they suffered. My mom in particular was a very practical person. She didn't believe in focusing on hard times in the past, or dwelling on things you can't change that make you unhappy. I'm not sure I could have stopped doing that any sooner than I did. Now I feel like part of why I thought so much about that last moment of my mom's life, and those last 6 or so weeks of my dad's, was that it helped me feel connected to them in some way. If I could understand what they felt, what they went through, perhaps they wouldn't seem so far away. Or perhaps I could somehow slide back in time and magically change that night. There's no logic to that, but grief is not logical.

Now nurture my connection to them in other ways. I've framed photos from different times in their lives and hung them on one wall in my condo. I spend some time every week thinking about something about them that I'm grateful for and something I learned from them that has helped me in life. It does not bring them back, but it is a way I feel they'd be pleased to be remembered.