I caught the questions bug right before the holiday season. In my spare time, I was stuck on researching pedestrian right of way laws, injury correlation to driving speeds, and the logic behind withholding resuscitation attempts.
I had the worst urge to step out for a gallon of milk, and just show up at the driver's door, unannounced and full of questions...what? how? when? why?
The research happened; the impromptu home visit to the driver who struck and killed my daughter did not. A friend of mine reasoned that if I ever wanted any truth from this woman, I wasn't likely to get it catching her off-guard and on the defensive.
Still, the urge remains.
Another friend asked me if I would feel better or worse to have some answers. Ironically, that's a question I can't really answer, can I? I only know that the wanting to know eats at me, and there's not much of me that I can afford to give away.
As the holidays came to a close, my anxiety quieted down some, and with it, my desperate investigations sort of dried up. I'm sure they're not gone for good, just resting somewhere behind the base of my spine, an active and harmful virus, lurking in wait for my next particularly vulnerable time.
Do they sound like shingles, these questions that keep me up at night? Pretty much the same thing. You learn to live with them until they recede.
---to be continued
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