(Writing from July 22, 2010.)
The day or so before the car accident, around 2 weeks ago, I felt the hand of my guardian angel on my back. A soothing weight, like the hand of a parent on the back of a child.
I turned around to look, because I thought it was my husband.
I fell asleep, mildly unnerved.
This has only happened to me once before, when I was a little girl.
I was lying in bed, on my stomach, one knee up, one arm under the pillow, like I still sleep.
I felt the hand on my back and peace washed over me. I felt safe.
When I turned around to see what I assumed would be my mom resting her hand on my back, there was nobody there.
I didn’t feel scared. Which seems odd. But I didn’t.
I always remembered the experience. It stayed with me.
I don’t know if I believe in life after death, God, ghosts or any other such spiritual things, simply because I don’t think anyone can really know the truth, but I don’t not believe, for the exact same reason.
And deciding that one’s particular completely unprovable existential theory is the correct one seems arrogant and delusional to me, at best.
So I have never bothered with pondering our human existence, because trying to answer unanswerable questions just seems like an exercise in pointless frustration.*
Just not my cup of tea. My brain drives me crazy enough with constant questions I might actually be able to eventually answer. I don’t need to clog the valves with sticky futility. The engine might explode.
But I love the idea of a guardian angel watching out for me. I really do.
There is a classic old painting of a guardian angel watching over two kids that always brings tears to my eyes when I see it.
I once wrote a song containing the line, “Sometimes I see the angels protecting me in the corner of my eye.”
After I felt the angel hand on my back recently, I put that line in the Facebook “Say something about yourself” box, below my profile picture. A nod to my angel(s).
I was scared to tell my husband about it, because firstly, I don’t want him to think I’m even more crazy than he already does, and secondly, because I was scared it meant I was going to die soon, which really just proves my first concern a little bit, now, doesn’t it?
A few days later, I was sitting at a red light long enough to be staring forward, waiting for it to turn green, when a guy suddenly plowed into my car from behind, doing at least 50 MPH, without braking, according to a witness who saw the whole thing.
I’m still hurting 11 days later, but I’m walking. I’m here. I’m lucky.
So thank you, my guardian angels, if you’re reading this. I just wanted to put it out there in writing.
Because I’m crazy.
Crazy, with good intentions though, damn it.
My mom called me the morning of the accident, around the time of the accident. She was suddenly worried about me, all the way from the Western part of the country.
I told her she must have felt the “I want my mommy” vibes I was shooting her way when I was in shock for 15 minutes after the violent impact.
I never got the first message she left, but she called again 2 hours later because she was worried.
My mom calls me once a week, and we weren’t really due for our weekly call, she just had a feeling.
Isn’t that cool?
*One exception: The Ancient Aliens TV series on The History Channel. LOVE. IT.