Halloween is trying hard this year to scare the willies out of us.
I appreciate the effort but, truly, if we want to be frightened out of our wits, we only need to reflect on real life.
Today, I refer to the monsters that live in our head — our own brushes with death.
Since the early ’90s, my husband and I have been daily walkers. We’ve walked with our kids, our dogs, our music, our books, our demons.
Several years ago this week, while on that constitutional, I was hit by an SUV. The truck cut the corner I was standing on and its mirror smacked me right in the face, knocking me out and throwing me to the ground.
I survived the bruises, concussion and surgery to repair nerve damage to my hand, but the Harry Potter-like scar across my forehead is a constant reminder of the what-ifs.
What if I’d been an inch this way or that? What if I’d suffered brain damage? What if I wasn’t here now to write this?
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We’ve all endured close calls and the memories can haunt us.
You might say our trauma is our personal monster, our constant companion. And some of us have a lot of them.
Back when the newspaper world was smoking, I worked full time in the office, rarely coming home for lunch even though the drive was only 10 minutes.
On one particular autumn day, however, a nagging feeling prompted me to leave early to check on my dog. The late Handsome Ted was struggling with health issues and he was always on my mind.
As soon as I opened the garage door, I was hit by a wall of choking, acrid air.
Gas.
I immediately yelled for Ted. Surprisingly, he trotted over. His small stature likely saved his life.
I picked him up, opened the slider and put him outside. Then, I searched for the source.
I know, I should have called 911. Hopefully, my hindsight will save someone else’s life.
I opened windows and doors. And then I saw it, a stove burner turned part way, enough to emit gas but no flame. Our kitchen range, at the time, had knobs that could accidentally be turned slightly when you were wiping down the stovetop or, say, leaning against the manifold to put a cup of coffee in the microwave before leaving for work.
The gas had been permeating our home for more than five hours. I don’t know how things would have gone if I’d finished my shift that day. The what-ifs are unsettling.
A lifetime can bring lots of scary events, especially if you’re curious, adventurous or pursue a career that puts you in all kinds of situations with all kinds of characters.
Whenever I’m afraid, I remind myself of past lucky breaks. Gratitude doesn’t quell the scaries but it reassures me that, often, we survive them and live to tell the story.
By far, the scariest day of my life occurred years ago, high in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado.
We were on a family trip with our daughters when we made the ridiculously irrational decision that, yes, a group of suburbanites could indeed become mountain bikers for a day.
Resort workers assured us it was an easy ride, even for a 7-year-old.
We carried our rented bikes onto the ski lift with the intent of breezing the very wide, mildly sloped trail back to the resort. Our youngest had been cycling for a couple of years and because the road was paved, we figured she’d be OK.
But as soon as she got on her bike, she slipped and fell, scraping her knee and shattering her confidence. A panic set in and it took several minutes to calm her down. Once she was ready, we proceeded along the path. Other families breezed past us.
It was a beautiful summer day. The views were stunning. Suddenly, our youngest shrieked, “Oh, noooooo,” as she frantically turned the handlebars from side to side.
“Let’s just walk the bikes,” I shouted. But it was too late.
In full panic, she careened back and forth, edging closer and closer to the steep drop-off.
I pedaled hard but, in a flash, she was 20 feet ahead of me.
I screamed to my husband, “Get her. Get her. Get her.”
For a split second, all I could see was my child going off the mountain. For another split second, all I could see was my child and my husband going off the mountain. My heart pounded so hard it could have caused a rock fall.
Somehow, he managed to come up behind her and nudge her inward. Both fell onto the pavement, sustaining minor scrapes and bruises.
Before long a resort truck came along and we hitched a ride to First Aid. I casually asked the driver if riders ever went off the mountain.
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“Happens every year,” he said.
My heart is scarred by the incident. I can’t look at a mountain range without experiencing a panic attack. But every day I am grateful all of us lived to tell the story.
That gratitude has heightened my sense of empathy. More than anything I hate to see people suffer, or live in fear. I often wonder if I survived my close calls so that I might help someone else survive theirs.
Because, most definitely, into each life, there will be monsters, but they won’t necessarily come with blazing red eyes or wicked cackles.
They won’t be the kind you can pack away once trick-or-treat hours are over.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at [email protected].