Jenny

Normally I write funny stories. This one has A joke, but I just started writing and this came out and I wanted to share.

I have been speaking at victim impact panels since my sister was killed by a drunk driver in 2008. The people that run these panels will tell you that you’re going to speak in front of 200 people. Most of them don’t want to be there and/or feel like they don’t deserve to be there. Then they tell you that even if you get through to one person, you’d made a difference. It’s hard to believe that when you’re doing something so raw and vulnerable. But it is true. And that one person has to be enough of a reward to press on and keep doing what’s important to spread this message. I posted something on facebook about what I was about to do, how hard it was going to be, and how I was hoping to get through to just one person. I don’t do this for attention. I do this because I will take any opportunity I can to make someone stop and think about what effect drinking and driving can have on other people. It’s not about you getting pulled over and arrested. It’s FAR worse than that.

About three years ago, I was speaking at one of these panels. A woman came up to me afterwards and said “Was your sister’s name Beth”? I said “yes”. And she burst into tears. She told me that she used to babysit us when we were very young. I immediately remembered her. Jenny. Our favorite babysitter. She cried as hard as a sister or close friend would upon hearing the news of someone passing away. I hugged her and told her it was alright. She was my one that night.

Later that night I checked facebook. One of the comments left on my post was from Jenny’s sister. She wrote “I know of at least one person you got through to.” It really made it all feel worth it. To go through that story is excruciating and to think that it’s all done in vain can be heartbreaking. This was the perfect thing to hear.

Jenny and I have kept in touch sporadically since then. Today I noticed she posted something that sounded very familiar. A phrase used in sobriety a lot. I asked her if she had gotten sober. She said “I’m not going to lie, I haven’t completely but I’m trying.” She went on to say that she was proud of me. Then I realized the last time we talked was before I got sober myself. I don’t remember reading the following story the first time around - it made me all happy and sad at the same time.

“I don't want to make you sad but my fondest memory of you is when you were about 4 or 5 & you were in your front yard crying & I was about 13 or 14 & I yelled over to you & you said Jenny hurry up come here & I said Erin what is wrong & you said Beth ate all the Smurfberry crunch!!! So the next time I babysat your mom bought smurfberry crunch & she told me to pay extra attention to you because you were sick & you said yeah I got my astroids taken out!!!!! You were &are the sweetest!!!”

The moral of this story is that I am hysterical. I have always been hysterical and will continue to be hysterical.

Additionally, this one person will sustain me through every speech I ever give from here on out. Even if the person doesn’t come up to me after, I will believe that they heard what I have to say and it will make them think twice before doing something reckless and selfish. I usually get at least one after every speech. This one though, this one was special. 

Today I celebrate 23 months of sobriety. I told myself that until I hit two years I was going to treat it like an infant and celebrate each month. Today I was also asked to speak at another Victim’s Impact Panel next month. Today I noticed Jenny’s status. There are no coincidences. Today as I ‘celebrate’ the last time I’ll say however many months I’ve been sober (which is probably a lie, I’ll go as high as I can count. The 25^th will ALWAYS be special to me) I’m reminded not to be complacent. Not to be cocky. Not to ever stop thinking about the events of my life that brought me to where I am today. A place which is great. I’ve been brought here and brought myself here and I’m never leaving. That’s all.