The kids and I got into a car accident today.

I’ve had little “incidents” before, but this was the first, bonafide, real-deal car accident.  And it was terrifying.  We were on our way to my sister’s house to swim (after a three hour long doctor’s appt, one of many appointments we’ve had this week, just because that’s been the way our life’s been going lately), and about three minutes from the house, this happened:

It was one of those things that somehow happened in a fraction of a millisecond, and in slow-motion all at the same time.  There was nothing I could have done to stop it from happening.

Now, the police officer at the scene very clearly deemed the other driver at fault.  But I’m not sure how this all works – and I watch too much TV – so I’m not sure if I’m supposed to give details.  Suffice it to say that there was an accident that involved another car, and my car was totaled.

As is so often the case when anything scary happens, I’m finding myself replaying it over and over in my mind. The second it happened, the fear in the kids’ voices, Tegan’s terrified tears, the relief in realizing we appeared to be okay, the long aftermath of phone calls and questions and insurance and tow trucks…..

Several minutes after it happened, I was introduced to one of the passengers in the other car when she came over to yell at me.  Is it really strange that that moment was just as traumatic as the accident itself?  I know intellectually that she’d been scared too, and I know intellectually that it’s normal to react in a less-than-positive way when you’re in that situation.  But in the moment, I thought of none of that.  I was busy thinking about my children, the fact that they could have been seriously injured, the fact that I could have been seriously injured. Getting yelled at and accused (for something that was not my fault) set me over the edge.  But she was gone as quickly as she had arrived.  She said her piece and left me standing there with the kids, and then we all convened with the cop for statements and exchanging of information.

I said nothing from that point on, except to answer the officer’s questions.  The only thing I knew to do, largely for self-preservation, was to keep quiet while it all got sorted out.  I’m pretty sure that I was operating on adrenaline for the whole exchange, because it wasn’t until much much later, when I was safely in my sister’s car after mine had gotten towed, that I started to shake.

You know how people say they are “shaken up” after accidents?  I now have first-hand knowledge.

It’s about 8 hours later, and I’ve let myself get more and more worked up about it as the hours have passed.  I’m a little bit scared to go to bed, because I’m fairly certain I’ll have nightmares (and/or not sleep at all.  Six of one, half dozen of the other)  I am so, so, thankful that it wasn’t worse.  So thankful!  Not just for us, but for the other car as well.  I’m so thankful we were wearing seat belts.  I’m so thankful that it happened when it did instead of a few seconds earlier, when it would have been much much serious.  I’m so thankful for insurance.

And right now, I’m thankful for Mister Rogers, whose words popped into my mind like a healing balm for my wounded and stressed out soul:

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

Those helpers are the ones I’ll be thinking of when I go to sleep.

~ The woman who called 911

~ The young men who witnessed the accident, were so sweet to my kids, and stood and waited with us until the cops came, to make sure they could give him their statement of what they saw

~ The doctor who happened to be driving by and stopped to see if we were all okay

~ The man in the Quik Trip who brought us out cold bottles of water while we waited

~ My sister, who got right in her car and came down to pick us all up

It was an unpleasant, scary situation to be sure.  And big deal, I was yelled at by one single person….

Because I was helped by so many more.

A few weeks ago, I confessed to a few trusted friends that I was exhausted.  Stressed, burnt-out, and just generally floundering at the end of my mental and emotional rope.

As is usually the case, it was a relief to simply talk about it, and I felt a little lighter as I went about the business at hand…. kids, conference planning, yoga, activities, errands, appointments and life. Just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming.

Then, also about two weeks ago, my lingering shoulder pain took a hefty jump from a level of 2 to an 8.  (If you’re not familiar with my long, boring shoulder saga, the very condensed version is: Hurt it in May, 2012.  Did physical therapy, eventually had surgery in Nov 2012, had a LONG recovery, did more physical therapy, and…. it’s still not right)

I have been contemplating returning to a different doctor for another opinion since… well, pretty much since I had the initial surgery… but I’ve been putting it off, because life.

Over the past few days, the pain has gone from being reasonably well tempered by three ibuprofens, to barely being touched by Vicodin.  I can’t get comfortable, can’t sleep, and as of this morning can barely move.  I’m hopped up on pain killers, I could fall asleep any second, my house is a disaster, and I can barely string a coherent thought together.

And in a strange sort of way, it makes me want to laugh. Like truly, gleefully, joyfully belly laugh. Because I realized something this morning, in the midst of my boo-hooing:

I so very desperately needed to rest, and now I’m resting.  Granted, curled up painfully and awkwardly on the couch in a drug-induced haze is not my preferred form of resting… but it’s resting nonetheless.  I am stubborn (so stubborn), and sometimes us stubborn people need a swift kick to get the message.  I consider this my kick.

The housework will wait.  The errands will wait.  Life will wait.

The kids are being sweet and helpful.

Netflix has my back.

My shoulder issues will eventually be sorted.  Soon I’ll get back to a doctor.  I’ll probably have another MRI. Maybe another ultrasound.  Possibly medications.  Likely more physical therapy.   Perhaps additional surgeries.

But today…. today I just rest.

Photo by SamPac

I’ve lived in Phoenix for 8 1/2 years. I’ve seen a lot of homeless people. In fact, as terrible as it may sound, they’re part of the landscape. They’re there every time we go out. They’re there under the bridge. They’re there at the end of the frontage road. They’re there on the median at the exit ramp. They’re there at the entrance to the Walmart parking lot. Particularly lately, it’s difficult to venture out into the city at all and not encounter at least one homeless person.

I’ve given water to a homeless person before. Or money. For a time, we kept kits in our car filled with things like non-perishable foods, water, warm socks, and toothbrushes that we could give out when we passed someone in need.

And in all those years, and all those days, and all those stops… I don’t think I ever saw, really and truly looked into his eyes and SAW, a homeless person until very recently.

I was coming home from a yoga class, waiting at a red light about to get on the highway.  The first man I passed was shuffling up and down the median, his head down, and his hands holding his sign.  There was another, sleeping or passed out under the bridge, a rolling cart of his possessions on the ground next to him.  And then I saw the boy.

I say “boy” because he just looked so very, very young.  He looked like a teenager, but he could have been in his 20’s.   All I know is that I could have been his mother, and he could have been one of my own boys.  He was carrying a sign that said that he’d lost his job and his housing, and was homeless and hungry.   He looked right at me as he passed my car, looked me right in the eyes, and sort of waved.   I smiled at him, all the while panicking that it was the wrong kind of smile. Did I look pitying?  Condescending?  Kind?   Sympathetic?

He smiled back …a sweet, tired smile … and I’m not kidding when I say I felt my heart rip right open there in the middle of the street.  In those few seconds that passed before the light changed, I felt…. heartbreak and desperation.  There are no other words to describe it.  I looked around my car to see if I had something, anything, to help him, but I didn’t.  I had no cash (I almost never carry it), no water nearby to hand to him, nothing to eat.  I honestly think if I’d been wearing my watch I would have taken it from my wrist to give him something to sell.

But the light changed, and the seconds passed, and there was nothing to do but follow the line of cars getting on the highway.  To him, I was undoubtedly just another car that passed by and didn’t help.   But to me, he was the human face of something I’d witnessed but never truly seen until that day.

I won’t ever forget his face.  I really won’t.  He had big soulful brown eyes that had undoubtedly seen too much. Crazy, wavy dark hair that stuck out at all angles.  Freckled skin that had spent a lot of unprotected hours under the scorching Phoenix sun.   Innocent.  Young.  So very young.

I found myself fighting tears the whole way home.  Not just because I’d done nothing to help him, but even more because I suddenly felt like a giant, inadequate, ungrateful ass.    Driving in my big SUV, after a nice yoga class, in my over-priced Lulu clothes, going home to my safe, middle-middle-class neighborhood, where I’d enjoy a nice home-cooked meal and a couple of glasses of wine, before I retired to watch some meaningless drivel on one of our house’s five TV’s.

While that boy would still be standing on the street corner.

I tried to relate my experience when I got home, but it just didn’t translate into words.  I found myself completely unable to explain why such a brief moment, containing just a look and a smile,  could have such a profound effect on me.  I was still shaking when I walked into the house, but no one really understood.

Well, I saw this homeless kid

We see lots of homeless people.

I know, but I really SAW him.  We made eye contact.  He smiled at me.  And I didn’t help him.

You can’t help everyone you pass.

And around and around  it went.  Intellectually I know that yes, I can’t physically help every single person out there.  My husband, who is used to and patient with the occasionally spewing from my poor bleeding heart (but who is absolutely not driven by his emotions the way that I am) said something to the effect of, “What are you going to do, give away all your money?”  There’s a balance, and I understand that.   I also understand that no good can come from feeling bad, or guilty, because we have things that other people don’t.  I never want my kids to feel that way, so it’s not something I”m going to model for them.

I can’t help everybody.  But Good God.   I see that kid’s face, and I want to.

Where is the balance?  Where is that “sweet spot” in between driving past a homeless kid and giving away all of your possessions to help?  IS there a sweet spot?  Or is there always more to be done?  Always another way to help?  Are we supposed to give away all our possessions in order to aid others?

Those aren’t real questions, at least not questions that I expect anyone to answer.  Just a cosmic wondering, going out in the great deep void.   I need to do more, and I don’t know what that means yet.  Today, when I finish this post in fact, I’m going to go get the package of bottled waters in the trunk of my car and put it in the front seat. It’s getting hot in Phoenix, and if I put them in the front, I can quickly and easily grab one to give away the next time I’m stopped at a light.  It’s a small thing, but it’s something I can do.

And the first time (and every time) I’m able to hand somebody a bottle of water, I’m going to look them in the eyes. I’m going to look them in the eyes and think of that boy, that face… and do it for him.

If you’re on any kind of social media, chances are you’ve been seeing the hashtag #100happydays (or one of its variants) over and over. I ignored it for the first several weeks, for no other reason than the fact that I’m stubborn, and have a tendency to dig in my virtual heels at the first sign of new things coming through my feed. “Lalalalala, I can’t hear you. No, I do NOT want to join in on your challenge/group/club/whatever-sort-of-100-somethings-in-100-days that you’re promoting.”

It’s clearly one of my best qualities.

Anyway, as is usually the case, I got over myself and went and looked at the link. I’m so glad I did! I’ve done projects like this before (in its simplest form, finding and acknowledging something – large or small – that makes you happy every day for 100 days), but never through pictures. It’s been so amazing! I’m not even 30 days in, and I’m finding that the hardest part is just narrowing it down to which happy thing I’m going to share.

My days are full of happy…. even the not-so-great days. And focusing on the happy moments likewise makes me see more happy moments.

If you’ve been having trouble finding your happy, give it a try. You can start any time.

Here are just a few of my pictures from the past month. I can’t wait to see what I’m going to add over the next 70 something days.

Girl’s night

Quiet time in the morning

Some of my favorite things.

Science Center and new friends.

Glasses that finally fit right.

Hatched butterflies!

An arena football game with my guys.

And the happiness goes on….

You can follow my journey on Instagram here.