Have You Forgiven Anyone Lately?

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Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; To err is human, to forgive divine. —Alexander Pope Essay on Criticism

Just after I turned nineteen, I was hit by a car. It was bad, and I was in the hospital for a long time. It was six months before I walked again without crutches, and it took much longer than that to walk without pain or dizziness.

Back in those days—in 1982—I was a wild child and had little patience for standard social conventions for getting from point A to point B. Lacking a car of my own and usually low on pocket change, I hitchhiked.

To answer the inevitable questions, “Weren’t you afraid?” and “Didn’t anything ever happen to you?” No, not really, and no. Sure, I was definitely wound up over whether I’d get a ride or not. Careful, cautious, yes. But afraid, no. And nothing bad ever happened to me, either, though I hitchhiked frequently and even cross-country a few times.

Things got close to trouble, on two occasions. But even at nineteen, though thin, I wasn’t small, and I was very strong and sure of myself. People could see that. They could probably also see that I was slightly crazy—I agree, it’s pretty nuts to be hitchhiking, especially since I’m a woman—and not many people want to mess with a crazy person. Even crazy people.

When I read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road ten years later, I kind of shrugged. Been there, done that.

But finally, on a dark, rainy January night someone didn’t see the crazy person on the road. And I didn’t see him. Or her. I woke up in a hospital, little by little. The completely snapped leg was just a flesh wound; it was the skull fracture that was the iffy part. I was probably drugged, and that’s part of why I was unconscious for such a long time. I think the doctors decreased the pain killers so I could wake up a little when I had visitors. I remember one time after they left trying to find the source of a beep-beep sound—a heart monitor, of course—and screaming in pain the minute I turned my head.

Everything went black again. But little by little, I regained consciousness and was soon zooming around in my wheelchair and blitzing through physical therapy.

Whoever hit me never stopped.

It was a hit and run, and I was interviewed by police. No one was ever found, and no one stepped forward. I have memories, but I doubt their accuracy. I think that man in the red car was probably an EMT, not the person who hit me.

A month in a hospital. Six months of hobbling around on crutches unable to work or do much of anything. A full year of recovery. An entire year of my life was changed because somebody drove a few feet off of a highway, onto a shoulder, and hit me.

What can you do? It happened. My bad for hitchhiking in the first place.

Insurance eventually paid the hospital bill plus a tidy sum for personal injury, thanks to a smart lawyer. I bought a car and got my teenaged wild child a bit under control—just a teensy bit—and I trudged off to college like a proper young woman.

But in the years since that accident I’ve often wondered about that man—for some reason I feel certain it was a man who hit me—and I’ve prayed for him.

I’ve felt an odd connection to some stranger who, around 6 pm on January 3, 1982, struck a woman on a highway and left her there, not knowing if she was dead or alive.

Maybe he thought I was a deer. Maybe he was drunk or on drugs. Maybe he didn’t know he hit someone. Maybe he doesn’t remember.

But I remember. And I know the answer to the question of whether I lived or died. I lived. I survived. I am so very fortunate and I consider myself lucky. It was one of my early lessons about life: it can end very suddenly. One minute we’re here, and the next we’re gone and it’s all over.

And I forgive him.

Actually, there’s never been anything to forgive. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more sorry for anyone than for that unknown person who struck me with his car and almost killed me. Why?

Let me ask you a question first. Let’s say you were at a party, and you had a few drinks. Or more than a few. You’re driving down a dark, rainy highway and BAM you hit something. You didn’t see a thing and suddenly there’s a huge thud against your car. A deer? A tire? Who knows. You keep driving.

Or maybe you see a body that suddenly slams into your car. You freak out uncontrollably when you see a young woman’s face smeared up against your windshield. You just keep going in a daze as the body quickly slides off your car.

You get home. And you don’t know what to do. You’re so shocked you’re not yourself—for days. Weeks. Months, even. By the time you get your head together you hardly remember any of it. Did that really happen? Was that a dream? A hallucination? What did I do? What would you do?

And you wait and you wait to get the courage to do something. But time goes by. Years. You tell yourself that person you hit is probably fine. And it might have been a deer—or a dream—anyway. What can you do? You’ve got a couple of young kids, a wife, rent to pay, a mother or father to take care of, a life…

It happened.

Should this person have stepped forward? Sure. That’s the right thing to do, but I don’t know that I’d want the person punished. What’s the point? Maybe some counseling of some sort would be a good idea. Friends have expressed amazement over how I just shrugged this off. Some have told me they’d be furious and would have hunted that person down until they found him and make him pay for what he did. They utter words like justice. Police investigation. Charges. It would have been manslaughter, at least, if I died.

But I didn’t.

To err is human, and we’re all human. To forgive is divine.

I’m not saying I’m divine, but I am saying that I don’t have time or energy to blame or not forgive. I’m saying that it’s better to draw on the divine within all of us than to feed the flames of anger, bitterness, and resentment. Life is short.

Have you forgiven anyone lately?

Have a story to share? Comments are always welcome.