A car crashed into us on the freeway this morning, and I cried. 

We weren’t hurt – not that I could feel, anyway – and there wasn’t much to show for it. A torn bumper, a popped fender. A car seat that must be retired immediately, with the straps cut and photographed for insurance. Five damaged cars, three police vehicles, a fire truck, an ambulance. Traffic crawling by, necks craned as bored commuters look for the danger and the fallout. 

It’s a nothing story – one that I feel weird even telling – but it caught me off guard. In the seconds it took me to park my car, clumsily dial 911, and rush to Tim’s side, my brain cycled through its personalized autism worry checklist: 

– What if he’s hurt, and he can’t tell me?

– What if he’s in danger, and he can’t cooperate with people who are trying to help him?

– What if he’s afraid, and I can’t comfort him?

– What if something happens to me, and I can’t protect him?

I cried because I know these fears, and how valid they are. Because I have asked myself what would happen if I was knocked unconscious and Tim was trapped in a burning car. Because I can imagine my sweet, beautiful, perfect child frozen in fear and unresponsive to a rescue attempt.

So I stumbled over my words, babbling something to the dispatcher about an accident as I caressed his face and neck, searched his eyes for hints of pain, kissed his forehead and tried to banish his fear and mine. He just held my hand and kept kissing it. “Hug, Mommy,” he kept murmuring, as I twisted my way further into the backseat to hold him. I heard the quiver in my voice before I even noticed the tears had come, adrenaline flooding through my body, fingertips and toes thrumming with life. 

While everyone else congregated by one of the other cars, comparing notes, I stood vigil at his side, unwilling to move him or to leave him. I felt my throat catch every time I explained my position. It’s weird how even now, saying, “My son has autism,” is such a powerful, emotional statement.

In four words, it commands patience and flexibility and compassion. At the same time, it makes an unspoken promise that I will reshape the very gravity around him to create that environment if the people in his orbit don’t comply.

Cops, drivers, and paramedics peered into the car over my shoulder, checking on him, reassuring him and me. One CHP officer went out of his way to befriend him, and told me he’d spent five years as a classroom aide for children with autism. “It was the best job I ever had,” he told me. He’d only left it because he needed a better income to support his family. Someone else gave Tim a Junior Officer sticker that looked like a sheriff’s badge, which he proudly stuck upside down on his thigh. I never even spoke to the woman whose car hit mine.

So I cried because because today was beautiful. Because the universe was kind, an angel sat on my shoulder, and love followed us today. And that might be the most melodramatic reaction ever to a fender bender with a mild case of whiplash, but I’m okay with it. It’s a moment of gratitude – a reminder that nothing is guaranteed, and every moment is sacred.