6/8/2012- I have always been a fearful person. All of my life, of the normal things like the dark, the boogie man, strangers, ghosts, spiders. You know the usual stuff. I have almost developed, if you will an extreme fear of certain things since Scott's accident. I am pretty sure that some of it borders Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I have watched enough Oprah and Dr. Phil to recognize the signs. Its absolutely ridiculous and I realize that.  I hope that because I can recognize those fears that I am still somewhat normal. A few months before Scott’s accident I was, not sure how to say this so I don’t look crazy, but seeing numbers. Specifically 11, 111 and 1111. Everything popped up like that, the time, my receipts, mileage, everything. I never mentioned it to anyone because I figured it was coincidence. I will touch on this more in another post because it’s too weird what happens to me later (and still happens today) that involves these numbers to talk about now. I have goose bumps now just mentioning it.

For years, I never worried when anyone I knew went to the races. I never once feared for anyone who sat in our race cars, never once feared for anyone in our pit, never once feared for others at the race track.  I never worried when I was at the races even when my children were little. My kids started going to the races before they could stay awake after the heat races. When Matt was about 2, I started taking him to the races and he would wear himself out shortly after qualifying and I would have to sit in the stands and wait for Scott to come get us and carry him to the hauler. Those little die cast sprint cars and miles of bleachers kept him occupied for hours.

I surely never worried about Scott or anyone who was with him. He is the strongest, safest, most responsible man I have ever met, and others who know him would tell you the exact same thing. I always feel safe with him. He looks out for everyone around him all the time. It was what we did for so many years. We went to a racetrack nearly every weekend for years and without incident. Of course, we have seen our friends and fellow racers take some horrendous tumbles and the hardest of hits. We have listened to them babble for hours after their crashes, replaying it in their minds, asking the same questions over and over. Concussions are a normal part of this sport. So are stiff necks, sore backs, bruised knees, bumps and scrapes and of course demolished race cars.

Never in my wildest dreams, or should I say nightmares, did I think something like this would happen to anyone I knew. Let alone, someone so intimate to me. This was not what we signed up for. This was not fair. None of this was fair. We left our entire lives in Michigan to pursue this dream. It was what he always wanted.  It was (secretly) what I always wanted for him. This move was going to open up doors for all of us. There were so many opportunities in Charlotte and the surrounding areas. It wasn’t like where we lived in Michigan where people struggled, the housing market was on its ass and so was employment. Moving to Charlotte would put Matt in the heart of racing, put Morgan in the best school with the best sports program. All of us would better ourselves from this move in one way or another. Scott and I finally, after 20 years of struggling as a family, finally had it all. Finally had what we had worked so hard to achieve. My job was going to be great and of course, his job was going to be amazing. He was going to actually get paid for something that he loved to do, something he is impeccable at. Not many people I know can say that about their jobs. Not many people I know get paid to do their hobby. It was going to perfect for all of us. That’s all I ever wanted for my family. I wanted everyone to be successful, happy and prosperous.

The entire ride from the Philadelphia airport to the hospital in New Jersey solidified my fear of strangers. It was like a scene from a movie. I had no idea where I was geographically, no idea where I was going. I didn’t know if he was taking us to the hospital or some dark alley in Philadelphia where we would be sold on to human traffickers or to never be heard from again. I had my life and Morgan’s life in the hands of the driver that picked us up. Granted he picked us up in a Mercedes but I am sure serial killers drive nice cars.

 From this moment on, I had the biggest pit in my stomach that didn’t let up until…actually, it’s still there.