I’m writing a book about our journey with my parents during their last years of life. This is an early chapter in my book, explaining how I decided on a career in nursing. I’d love to hear your thoughts!
I’m 17 years old, graduation is around the corner, and I am struggling with my career decisions. For the last few years, I’ve known I wanted to be a teacher or a nurse. I’m leaning toward nursing for two reasons. One, our local college has a well-known nursing program with an excellent reputation. Two, I do like the idea of the financial stability that a career in nursing is likely to provide. There’s only one problem. I am likely the most emotional 17-year-old girl you know. I cry easily and often. I cry over movies, hurt feelings and lost animals. I cry at home, at work and at school. I’m not sure I have what it takes in personal strength to be a nurse.
On this particular night, I’m in my blue, 1969 Mustang, driving on the main street in our small town and it’s dark outside. It’s also raining, which doesn’t happen often as our town is in the Mojave Desert. I’m on a mission to return my collection of Avon products to the lady who got me started selling, as I’ve discovered that sales is not my passion.
For a while, I’m the only car on the road. Through the rain, splashing on my window shield and the wipers working to keep the rain at bay, I notice two cars ahead of me colliding. It happens in slow motion. One car spins out on the road and comes to rest close to me. I pull over, my heart pounding. It’s 1984 and I’m wearing a white, faux fur jacket, skinny blue jeans and white high-heeled pumps. I get out of my car and run to the car in front of me. I can see that it’s a small four door sedan of some kind, windows broken, and the driver is slumped over the steering wheel, moaning. There are other people in the car, but other than the moaning of the driver, there is an eerie silence. I tell him I’m here and that I’m going for help.
There are no cell phones in 1984 so I run across the rain-soaked highway to a nearby apartment complex. I come to the unit closest to the highway and frantically knock on the door. A man opens the door and I tell him there’s just been a car accident and to call 911.
When I return to the scene, I see a truck-driver and his big rig had pulled up behind my car. He notices how young I am and tells me to sit up in his truck. I’m a bit in shock and willingly climb up into the tall, red cab. Tears are rolling down my face now and I notice the song “Careless Whisper” by George Michael is playing on the radio.
I also notice that a fire truck, an ambulance and two police cars have arrived. Lights are flashing and men in uniform are pouring onto the scene. Very soon after their arrival, a yellow tarp is pulled over the car where I had tried to console the driver before running for help. I knew then that he had died, along with anyone else in the car with him. It was all so surreal and I felt so alone. I don’t remember anything else that night. I do know I drove myself home.
Over the next few days, the surreal feeling continued, as did the feeling of being alone. The best way I can explain it is that I was the only witness to a fatal accident. No one I knew had ever experienced what I experienced that night. I was also mindful of the fact that had I left my house even five seconds sooner, I may have been involved in the crash. I was contemplating my own mortality at 17 years old.
About three days after the accident, I am home in my bedroom. It’s late afternoon. The sunbeams are coming through my south facing windows at a slant. I am sitting on my neatly made bed with the dusty rose, country style bedspread on it. My white desk with gold trim was up under the windowsill so that when I am doing my homework, I can clearly see the mountain range facing the front of our home. I am still in a place of quiet reflection, but I’m beginning to relax into my life’s daily routines.
My princess style phone rings and I answer. The man on the other end of the line tells me he is a police officer in charge of investigating the accident. He asks me careful questions about what I saw that night. I answer the best I can. He then shares with me that there were five people in the car. A family new to the area. He assures me that they had died quickly, and that even though the man at the wheel was alive when I got to the car, he died soon after and likely did not suffer. The lady who hit them had been drinking at a local bar. He tells me that she was taking narcotic pain pills and that when mixed with alcohol, the effects are multiplied. He gives me information that helps me to make sense of what happened. He spends time with me to make sure I am okay.
I hang up the phone. I feel cared for. I feel valued. The police officer is the first person after the accident to meet me where I am. I am not emotional. I am at peace. I reflect back over the last few days. I notice that when I was the only person on the scene of the accident, there’s not much I can do, but I do what I can. I do not fall apart. I want this. I want to help. I want to be a nurse. I want to be the person who meets others where they are.