Ten days ago I was Mr. Rogers. I was rockin my sweater and slippers in my new neighborhood, the 11th floor trauma ward in a big-city hospital. My son had just miraculously survived a ridiculous auto accident, where an airborne tow truck landed on, and completely crushed his Toyota Camry. But survive well he did, and even though he sustained serious injuries, I was grateful and happy. My son had survived. SURVIVED.
I had great empathy for the families of the other victims, one of whom lost his life. I was immeasurably grateful to a group of people who courageously tended to my bloody son on that crowded freeway. I was in awe of the emergency personnel, the ER nurses and doctors, the surgeons, the social workers, who took care of us like we were family. I was mindful of the individual who had caused the accident, who would have to reconcile his moment of distraction for the rest of his life. I forgave him, I wished to console him. I felt a link to humanity that I had not felt before.
Now it’s ten days later, and things have changed. I’m ANGRY. Ear-biting Mike Tyson angry. For days on end I’ve listened to insurance companies posturing, lying, manipulating. Greedy victims and lawyers alike, are lining up to snatch the biggest piece of the pie. My message to them is to TAKE CARE OF MY KID. You know, the one who had the tow truck parked on his head. The one with a faceful of stitches. Help him get back to work. Make sure he’s going to be OK. And stop drooling on the pie.