Epilogue: Some things just can't heal
Back in April of 2014, it was cathartic for me to write about my ill-fated cross-country motorcycle trip, the accident that ended the trip one day in, and my physical and emotional recovery. But all these years later, there is a tragic and final chapter worth documenting.
When I flew home a week after the accident, it was hard not to perseverate about the crash. How exactly did it happen? Why was it me who woke up and got hit that morning? What if I had left an hour later? A minute later? Seconds?
Early on, I did some sleuthing and found that the person driving the truck was a man named Brian. (For those who don't remember or want to go back to understand what happened, you can read about it here.) I had tracked him down by the large web address splashed across the rear windshield of his truck - maxboom.com, a training business for construction riggers and crane operators that Brian had apparently run for many years.
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| Screenshot of now-defunct maxboom.com. I believe that is Brian on the right. |
At the time, I remember being told by an insurance agent that the prognosis for Brian was not good. This was confirmed by Brian's daughter, Jessica, whom I didn't know personally, but had found on Facebook. I quietly watched her feed for updates, but there weren't many. I am in Arizona because my dad was in a terrible accident... Dad's in the ICU in critical condition... Here's a link to a fundraiser to help with medical bills... If he recovers, his medical bills will be very expensive...
Shortly thereafter, Jessica appeared to stop posting about her father's condition, and I tried to stop checking it for updates. With a noticeable absence of an obituary, I was optimistic that Brian had miraculously recovered and it was my hope that this would help put everything behind me.
But I wouldn't. And as the years went on, I found myself continuing to scan the internet for any information about Brian I could find. At one point, I noticed the business name on his website had changed, indicating that it had been bought by another company. But there was no information about Brian leaving the business. No information about where he might be living. No online social presence for him whatsoever.
I decided he was just keeping a low profile and enjoying his autumn years fishing, a hobby of his (as evidenced by the countless fishing photos he used to post on his company website).
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Six years later, Brian remained a tiny splinter that continued to burrow deeper. For whatever reason, I couldn't let go of this urge to track down and contact him directly. I wanted to introduce myself and tell him who I was. I wanted to tell him that I was ok and that I didn't blame him for the accident. I wanted to tell him that we had shared this life-changing experience and that by connecting, maybe we could both answer questions that would help us come to terms with what happened.
In 2020, with no other obvious leads or options, I finally decided to reach out to his daughter Jessica. Through Facebook Messenger, I introduced myself and in the least threatening way I knew how, asked if she might be willing to share her father's contact information. Her response was quick and short:
"I’m sorry for what happened to you. I never understood exactly what happened with the accident he had with you. He was in a coma for three weeks. When he came out, he really struggled to readjust. The accident took a toll on him physically but it seemed it most dramatically took a toll on him mentally. He lost his business, his house, and even had to give his dog away. He was so incredibly depressed for years, and then one day he disappeared and shot himself in the head up in Fountain Hills. It was beyond traumatic for my family and I. I wish I had something better to say, and I don’t know if this furthers you’re objective of finding peace. I hope it doesn’t make it worse."
I responded with genuine shock and sincere condolences, and I offered to share any photos or information I had about the incident. I didn't hear from Jessica again.
I desperately wish I could find something useful to say about what happened to Brian. A lesson. A parable. Some silver lining. But making sense of it is impossible. For my part, I had just needed a little closure so I could finally consign the event to the past. But for this poor man, the accident snowballed into one tragedy after another, eventually destroying him from the outside in.
They say time heals all. But my sense is that there are some things that just can't heal.
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