4.16 – Three years later

Maybe it’s happened to you. You’re driving down the interstate halfway focused on where you are going but more interested in the music coming from your speakers. Mind drifting from music to life and back again with the occasional stop to notice the cars around you and highway signs passing by. Safe in your world and alone in your thoughts, it’s not a bad drive with the windows down and sunglasses on. You’re even on schedule to arrive at your destination right on time.

Then, out of nowhere, and for no understandable reason, some idiot doesn’t check his blind spot and moves into your lane. Fight or flight reflexes kick in as you choose from honking, flipping the bird or my favorite – letting out a tiny plea for help in the famous prayer of “ahhhh!”

Your only option to avoid getting hit is to swerve onto the narrow shoulder to your right. Vivid images of hitting the gravel and spinning out of control flash into your mind as you tighten your grip of the steering wheel. So clearly you can see it happening, sliding, unable to stop and not in control. Heart racing you are certain this asshole who can’t check his blind spot is about to cause a painful disaster for you.

That white-knuckled, heart-pounding, adrenaline-fueled fear that leaves you feeling powerless and small – that’s how I feel during the month of April.

Day and night I dread reliving the most horrific event of my life. Restless nights and exhausting days trying to appear “normal” while waiting for the 16th to arrive.

For the first and second anniversaries I “dealt” with my fear by drinking and escaping to the safety of my bed. Wine, a few Tylenol PMs and tears put me to sleep for a few hours.

However, this 3rd year has been very different. The fear is just as intense and the pain still makes me sick – but just like someone living with physical chronic pain, I’m learning to manage.

4.16.07 was the scariest day of my life. News reports alerting me of the increasing number of victims, unanswered calls to Jarrett’s phone, roommates confirming Jarrett had class in Norris Hall that morning, and hospitals with lists of the injured – none with the name Jarrett Lane. By noon I realized that I had likely lost part of myself that day. I likely had lost one of the people I cherish most in life, someone who understood me, inspired me and was part of my being.

Each anniversary I relive the fear of losing him. I can no longer spend hours laughing with him, watch a movie next to him or call him – even though instincts are still alive as I often reach for my phone to text or call him. Now I fear losing the memories, forgetting the sound of his voice and, I desperately fear growing distant from him.

This year I’ve been managing my fear and pain by taking time each day in April to talk about Jarrett with a friend or just sitting in silence and replaying memories in my mind. That has been the best pain management trick I’ve discovered thus far.

Today I’ve spent time resting, laying in the sun by Jarrett’s grave while blasting music from a mixed CD created by one of his buddies, and driving through my hometown thinking about all the fun we had here together. And for one of the first moments this month, I feel peace.