I apologize for the honesty in this post.  And understand if you clicked off the post without reading.  It’s not for any of you.  It’s for the memory of Heather.

And if you’ve ever had too much to drink and then got into your car and drove it anyways, you too, should read this.

A year ago I wrote this post.

A year later, eighteen months after the accident, the horror engrained in my memory has not vanished.  Nearly every day I think of you.  I think about your last few seconds alive.  How I was the last one to wave to you and smile.  How I could’ve reached over and touched the motorcyclist who plowed into you as he passed on the shoulder as I ran, a split second before.  I pass the spot where it happened all the time, sometimes multiple times in one day.  And every time I drive by,  pieces of it play through my mind.  Sometimes the beginning.  Sometimes the end.  Sometimes something in the middle.  Sometimes the part where I say ohmygodohmygodohmygod ten times as I literally couldn’t process what was happening as it was happening.  The worst thing you could possibly imagine ever seeing.  Sometimes the part where I called 911.  Sometimes watching your friend, Marie, unable to stop screaming as she stands helpless with you motionless in the road.  Sometimes the part where I try to call my husband.  Sometimes the part where I stood in disbelief next to you with injuries that no one should ever, ever have to sustain.  And sometimes the part where the stranger hugged me.  Yesterday, randomly, I started thinking about your phone.  And how I picked it up and held it for about an hour, thinking that it was such a concrete thing of yours to have in my hand, that surely this person who owns this phone must be alive still.

In the past year, my healing thankfully has begun.  I testified in the trial against the individuals who caused the crash.  The outcome didn’t end as favorably as everyone would’ve liked it to have.  The day I testified was nearly the hardest day of my life.  And it was LONG.  And painstakingly hard.  And for days after, the questions they asked me haunted me.  I took sleeping pills to help me get through the nights.  I was seven months pregnant.  It was nightmare number two, only second to the day the accident actually happened.  But in the end, I think it helped tremendously.  I could close the door on the trial.  I knew for the ten months before it that at some point I would be called to testify.  The wait was killing me.  Getting it over with was step one in healing.  I also met your mom, Candy, after the trial was over.  We went out for coffee, and it was bittersweet to meet her.  My heart broke for her.  We talked about family.  We talked about my kids.  We talked about your kids.  We didn’t talk about the accident.  I don’t think either of us wanted to go to such a dark place.  But that too, helped set some healing in motion.

Still though, I will forever be petrified anytime I see a bicyclist on the road.  I watch them in my rearview mirror until they are out of sight because I fear for their lives.  I’m afraid of motorcycles.  I refuse to ever run on a semi-busy road again.  Driving in general leaves me extremely paranoid.  I am constantly aware that at any point, tragedy could be around the corner.  I’m more hesitant at lights.  I worry for pedestrians.  I constantly live in fear on the road.

I pray for your husband.  I pray for your children.  I pray for your parents.  I pray for those who have been touched by this tragedy.  I pray for anyone whose lives will never be the same because someone decided to get high, or to get drunk and to get behind the wheel of a vehicle.  Selfishly and immaturely. With no regard to human life.   

We remember you, Heather.  We always will.