We can all make a difference

I reached out to my dad, whose seat was smashed up next to mine, and was relieved when I finally heard him making noise. In the dark it was tough to assess the severity of the situation, and it took me a few moments to realize he was unconscious, the gurgling sounds his attempt to breathe with his face underwater.

We'd been on our way to the airport about 6 a.m., and it had been raining for days. That morning was no exception, and the fog was dense as we cautiously navigated down Ind. 240 to Ind. 75. In spite of our familiarity with the road, neither of us saw the stop sign at the 240/75 intersection until seconds before we were going through it. A van driving on 75 toward U.S. 40 was approaching the intersection at the same time, and there was no time for either vehicle to slow down enough to avoid a collision.

As we slid past the stop sign, praying out loud as we careened onto 75, my dad turning the car in an attempt to minimize the effects of the inevitable impact, I expected to black out. I waited for my life to flash before my eyes. I assumed there would be a dramatic crunching sound. None of that happened, and while I continued praying as the headlights of the van shone into Dad's window right before it struck our car, my clearest thought was, "But I haven't even done anything yet!"

I still remember the surge of hope I felt when I heard voices approaching the car. It had crossed 75, missed the utility pole and tipped on its nose, then flipped over roof-side down into the ditch on the southeast side of the road. Thanks in part to the cushioning effects of the rain-softened ground and tall weeds, the impact knocked us out instead of crushing our skulls. Lucky for my dad and me, motorists and nearby residents decided to get out and help instead of simply placing a 911 call and moving on. Although emergency personnel came as quickly as possible, they had to drive the same number of miles in the same rain and fog.

I thought I detected a note of panic when I heard people talking, asking if anyone had flashlights and rope. I'd been concerned about the additional water rushing in when we couldn't move our heads out of the water, but these volunteer rescuers determined it was safe for me to roll down the window. They pushed and tilted the car, then worked on prying my door open while someone else reached in to lift Dad's face out of the water. To this day, the moment they pulled my dad out of the car through my door, alive and conscious, is among the most joyful of my life.

My shoes were sucked off in the mud, so I was barefoot when someone helped me scale the side of the ditch so I could walk across the glass-strewn road to sit with my dad in the warm van of one of the motorists. My dad had also walked out of the ditch with assistance, but while I came away with cracked ribs and the typical bumps and bruises, Dad, then 75 years old, had broken or displaced all but two of his ribs, had two collapsed lungs, a bruised heart, a broken shoulder blade, a broken collarbone, head injuries, and glass and e.coli in his lungs.

Dad was in the hospital for weeks, and his recovery took almost a full year. In those days when our family was making daily trips to St. Vincent and Methodist hospitals, we were surprised and grateful at how many long-distance family members, friends, neighbors and co-workers (and all of their friends) reached out to help us over and over again. Visits, phone calls, cards, flowers, food, prayers, positive thoughts, cleaning, cash for parking and other necessities, help calling everyone, transportation and more. I remember being shocked when a lady at my church approached me, pressing a 20-dollar bill into my hand without a word, how surprised I was at how much we needed all the help offered to us.

Particularly at this time of year, so many individuals and organizations are asking us to make purchases for fundraisers, give donations of gifts, clothing and food as well as contributions of money and time. While we start off generously, at some point, as ashamed as we may be to admit it, we have that flash of "Who wants money now?" or "I've given more than my share."

After the accident, a police officer explained that if the car had been six inches farther out or back in the intersection, the point of impact would have changed, resulting in a crumpled car and a grim ending. Six inches made a huge difference in my life that day, and as I contemplate that last pre-crash thought, about not having done anything yet, I consider the possibility of six inches in other peoples' lives. Six inches is about the size of a phone to call someone we haven't spoken to in a while, a notecard to send someone who is down, the span of a hand to help someone load the car, the height of a large can of beans for the food pantry, the length of a dollar bill when that's all you've got left for the bell ringers, the distance between you and an acquaintance in the grocery line when you're debating whether or not to say hello first, the length of a set of clasped hands when it's time to give thanks.

While I wouldn't recommend the experience firsthand, there's something about surviving a car accident, then being trapped inside a wrecked car in a water-filled ditch, not knowing which way events are going to turn, that helps develop a healthy sense of perspective. We can't and shouldn't do everything, but in spite of limited time and resources, we can be certain that each one of us has the ability to make a significant difference in another person's life, even if it's only six inches at a time.