Mothering parents: A traumatic event becomes a rite of passage

                Every time someone gets in a car, boards a plane or hops on motorcycle, they put their lives at risk. However, it’s not until an accident happens that we really give this much thought. This was the case with my parents’ motorcycle accident.

                My grandpa died of cancer in 2005 and my dad bought his 1989 Kawasaki motorcycle from my grandma the next year. After taking a lot of motorcycle training courses, my dad began to take the motorcycle out on joy rides. When he became comfortable enough, he began taking my mom or brother or me out with him. After a while, my parents became so comfortable riding the motorcycle that it became a regular date night for them when the weather was warm. They would take one of a few smaller highways through the country in the evenings when my dad got off work and routinely stop for food.

                One particular night in April of my senior year of high school, I decided to catch a movie with a friend. The movie theater that we usually go to sold out of tickets before we could get there, so we decided to head up to a movie theater out of town. While we were waiting for the movie to start, we walked around a nearby strip mall. Twenty minutes before the movie began, I received a phone call from my brother, Andrew.

                “Mom and Dad were in a motorcycle accident,” he sputtered. “Dad butt dialed me as they were falling and I don’t know if they’re going to make it.”

                Panicked, I dragged my friend by the hand and we ran from the store. I told my brother to hold on and that I would drive home to get him. In the meantime, we would both call the local hospitals to see if anyone had any information.

                My friend drove my car for me because I was shaking and in no state to get behind the wheel. I called my grandma to tell her what had happened and to ask her what to do. She remained calm but decided to call the police department to find out where they were.

                When we arrived at my house, we discovered that my brother had been contacted by the off-duty paramedic that happened to be the first person to drive by. He got my brother’s number from the recent contacts in my dad’s phone and told him that my parents were really beat up, but that they didn’t have much more information. He told my brother that they would be taken to Olathe Medical Center.

                Next, we called my grandma back to tell her what we had discovered. When we got in touch with her, she explained to us that she had been in contact with the police and that my mom would be taken to Overland Park Regional Hospital, while my dad would be taken to the University of Kansas Hospital. Needless to say, we were a little confused.

                In the meantime, my panic led me to contact my fiancé (boyfriend at the time) and his mom started doing calling around to see what she could find out. Finally, after much calling and stress, everyone came back with the same information—they were headed to the emergency room at the Overland Park Regional Hospital because they specialized in trauma treatment, which my mom needed, and my dad refused to be separated from her. When Andrew, my friend and I arrived, we were ushered into a waiting room, and shortly after, my boyfriend, his parents and my friend’s parents all arrived for moral support. Tension grew as we waited for information.

                Finally, a nurse came out to talk to me, since I was 18 and biologically related to my parents. She pulled me out of the room and told me that my parents had hit a deer going about 50 miles per hour down the highway on their motorcycle. Neither was in critical condition, and my mom only had severe road burn, but my dad had some bad injuries.

                I was given all of my parents’ possessions: watches, phones, wedding rings, their ripped up clothes in bags. Then, I was given forms to sign and allowed to see my parents. To this day, the sight of my parents in that emergency room still haunts me. Both parents were covered in scrapes and bruises and my dad was in so much pain that he could barely speak. After making sure that they were okay, I was sent back to the waiting room and reported my findings. I called my grandma to let her know that my parents were going to be okay, and then we waited. And waited. And waited.

                Finally, three hours later, my mom was released to go home with lots of bandages. Although I refused to leave my dad in the state that he was in, I was eventually convinced that my mother needed me to help her hobble out to my car and buckle up. My friends and their families headed home to bed and Andrew and I were left to one of the weirder experiences in our lives: mothering our mother.

                After changing bandages, administering pain medication and tucking my mom in, I shut her bedroom door behind me and lost all emotional control. I had been strong the whole evening, and I finally felt safe to cry. I didn’t need to be the strong one anymore. I didn’t need to pretend that I hadn’t almost lost my parents way too soon.

                I took the next day off work. My dad was released from the hospital on large amounts of pain medication and crutches. He had messed up a tendon in his knee and it was so swollen that he appeared to have a bandage under his pants although he did not. He spent a few days healing, and then in his usual fashion, returned to work far too soon.

Two years later, my dad has just begun running again for the first time. The only present reminder of the crash is his pinky finger that refuses to straighten out. He would have it amputated if he weren’t so cheap.  My mom’s wounds healed over the course of a couple of months. All that are left are her scars and a fear of driving in the dark.

Two years later, I’m still learning to get over the whole thing. All of the statistics from the accident say my parents should have died. They were going fast, their bike spun off after they were hit by a deer, which is not the smallest of creatures. They rolled, but their bike didn’t end up on top of them. My dad was wearing a brand new motorcycle jacket that he had received as a gift the month before. If he hadn’t been wearing it, he would have severely punctured his lungs. The first person on the scene was an off-duty paramedic. The blessings were abundant.

It was in those moments that I learned a great deal about the real world. On a typical Friday night when everyone my age was wondering about trivial things like the upcoming summer break and finding a date to prom, I was on the verge of losing two of the most important people in my life. In those few hours, I learned the value of family as I nursed my parents’ wounds; I gained an appreciation for all of the times my parents had nursed me back to health over the course of my lifetime.  Most of all, I was reminded never to take life for granted because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. The most I can do is thank God that my parents got to go to my graduation, to move me into college and to talk me through my first few weeks away from home. The most I can do is to ask God to allow them to be there for my wedding, the birth of my children, for birthday parties and milestones and to savor every minute.