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The Accident That Never Was

It was Christmas Eve and I was driving to a friend's house during the hectic, Los Angeles rush-hour. The night was pitch black and raining so hard that visibility was nil. The three lanes of traffic on congested La Cienega Blvd. were stopped for a red light and my tiny white sports car was the last in a very long line of vehicles. I was in the far left lane, wedged next to a 2 foot high cement island, casually looking through my rear view mirror at the reflection of the street lights and holiday decorations on the dark, shiny wet street behind me when I saw the three cars. There was one in each lane speeding towards the stopped traffic, exceeding the speed where they could safely stop. The cars suddenly slammed on their brakes and started sliding and swerving all over the road as they attempted to stop.

I was thankful that there were so many witnesses to this incident as it opened my eyes to the miracle that had just taken place. From my perspective nothing happened and I was not hit. After they told me of their perspectives, I realized that a force had protected me by lifting my car out of harm's way. Although I did not see or hear anything, I know the gentle tap and lift that I felt had to have been from my Guardian Angel. --Troika Celeste Germain

I had just arrived at my school that morning around 7:30 as usual when our school secretary paged me over the intercom for an important message. Had my husband locked himself out of the house again? Could a parent of one of my students be calling this early? These thoughts and more flooded my mind as I raced down each hall to the main office. Upon entering out of breath, I realized something must be seriously wrong by the countenance upon our secretary's face. I braced myself as she without hesitating firmly commanded, "Go home, Shirley. Your father is dying." As tears weld up in my eyes and over-flowed down my flushed face, I began to realize that the fear that I had dreaded my whole life-time was now becoming a reality.

My father had been forty-two when my twin sister and I were born. Needless to say, our births had not been planned. Nine years earlier, my mother had given birth to our brother, their first born. My parents had given up long ago on the hopes of another child. Mother, however, was still relatively young at twenty-eight to become a mother again. Unexpected, yes, but to be a multiple birth, we were certainly going to be challenge to our parents. At an early age, I increasingly became conscious that my dad appeared to always be the oldest father as parents would accompany their children to school functions. Sometimes a few of my friends would question, "Is that your grandpa or dad?" Eventually, I became very alarmed of Dad's age; and as I entered high school, apprehension of still having my father upon graduation clouded my thoughts. He would be almost sixty! Now, as I looked back I realized my worrying was needless for I had not only graduated high school, but had earned my Masters in college seventeen years prior. I had an abundance of treasured years with him upon which I hadn't counted.

With tears streaming down my face, my heart pounded nervously as I rushed home to gather my family and head off for my hometown and my father's side. Would I make it in time to his side? For years, I had dreamed of being the one to help him depart this world without fear for Dad had not been a Christian or spoken much of God until these last few years. Little signs from him told me he had started a closer walk with Him. In silence, my husband drove the three hour trip to Vincennes while I silently prayed for God to grant me to see and speak once more with my father before he left this earthly plane. And . . . God granted my request.

Since my father had wrestled with two previous bouts of pneumonia that year, his strength and resistance were at the mercy of another attack from this old adversary. Just the night before, I had chatted with him long distance after discovering his return to the hospital. He assured me there was nothing to worry about and fervently encouraged me to wait until the weekend to visit him. He didn't want me to miss school or burden anyone. That was Dad. "Sissy, I'll still be here this weekend. You can come up then," was his soft reply. We talked and laughed for nearly an hour, and I honestly felt that I would have that weekend to be near him once more. But Dad had been a heavy smoker throughout his life, producing emphysema, which left him with half a lung. The stage was finally set and the last scene was soon to be played.

As I dashed down the halls of the hospital to Intensive Care, my twin greeted me informing us of his perilous condition and how the doctors and staff had desperately worked trying to raise his blood pressure which had dangerously dropped as his conditioned quickly deteriorated. Quietly entering his room, I could see life saving machines by his bed and a resuscitator hooked up to his mouth which prevented him from speaking. Though it allowed him to breathe, it painfully robbed him of his last words to me. A thin sheet covered his frail 110 pound, 5'9 frame. Dad had always been thin, but he had lost a tremendous amount of weight this year due to his reoccurring battles with pneumonia. I sat tensely beside him taking his frail hand in mine, patting it and announcing that Shirley was by his side now. Our roles had changed. I had become the parent. I looked deep into his hazel eyes and knew the candle was burning out. God, I was going to help him go to the light without fear as I had envisioned for years.

I talked to him for a brief time, just the two of us alone in the sanitized room of humming machines, the thread that allowed him to still be apart of this world. I knew God had generously allowed me this extra moment to talk to him about his next journey, eternity. I gently kissed his cool brow and whispered, "Dad, do you know you're dying?" Looking tenderly into my eyes and trying to smile, he nodded, yes and gazed at the foot of his bed. Trying to ease any fears he may have, I once more squeezed Dad's hand and whispered, "Dad, God is here and loves you. He will lead you over to the other side. Don't be afraid." Excitedly, he tried to raise up; however his strength was spent, and he fell back to his pillow pointing adamantly to the foot of his bed and trying to mumble though the resuscitator prevented him. "Dad, is someone here?" Repeatedly, he pointed to the foot of his bed and nodded, yes. I began to tremble for I knew what would very soon take place. Visibly there were only two in that room; however, my Dad's three dimensions were now four.

I motioned for the nurse to hurry and gather the family that was unaware of Dad's soon departure. As they rushed to his bedside, I looked down upon my father and realized by the gray glaze over his eyes, he had quietly slipped into a coma. For the next few moments, his beloved family stood by his bed and watched the now useless machines slowly register the life that was withdrawing from my father's still body. As the last level dropped to zero, my twin cried out, "Fight, Dad! Stay with us! Fight!" At last, I patted his lifeless hand and called out, "Go to the light, Dad. It's alright. Go with Him to the light." In three weeks, he would have been 81. In my heart, I know there were three people in that room that final hour. I no longer fear death. --Shirley Lakes