How to Destroy a Travel Trailer: Part 2

Once my rig stopped moving, I realized my headphones were still in my ears. I said my sister’s name. She’d been on the phone the entire time, though if she’d said anything as all this was happening, I didn’t hear it. “I’m okay,” I said. “I’m not injured. I have to go, people are here. I love you. I’ll call you later.”

Katie told me later that after my earlier exclamation she assumed she was listening to me die. She had screamed and thrown everything off her desk. She said it felt like hours, not minutes, on the phone until she heard me say that I was okay. The event was traumatizing for her. I sincerely wish she hadn’t been on the phone with me when it happened.

The first car arrived and pulled off to the side of the road. Based on the time of its arrival, it must have been at least a couple miles behind me during the incident. A woman got out of the driver side and came over to me. A man emerged from the passenger seat and ran full speed up the highway waving his arms to warn any oncoming traffic. “Are you okay?” the woman asked.

10am and she was already wearing fake purple eyelashes--I loved her immediately. On any other day I would’ve said as much, but at that point I was in shock and too full of adrenaline to be very verbal. I muttered something reassuring. She called the cops for me.

Since there was no way for traffic to bypass my trailer, a throng of cars amassed. I was surprised to see some people leave their vehicles to get a closer look. Almost everyone who wandered over came to check on me. They also seemed relieved. Given the scene, I think they were expecting someone in critical condition. Yet there I was, shaken, but without a scratch on me.

The woman with the purple eyelashes came by again to ask me if I needed anything. Another ten minutes went by and a group of men gathered next to my truck, assessing the situation. They asked what I thought about getting my trailer back on all four wheels again and moving my rig off to the side so traffic could pass. They were careful to include me in the planning, but didn’t pressure me. They were gentle and pragmatic.

A shiny black truck drove up and parked within a few feet of my rig. The men attached tie down straps from the truck to the axles of my trailer. Still attached, the black truck inched backward and stopped. I started my truck and an older guy guided me slowly forward while the black truck held tension on the left side of my trailer axles to draw them down.

It only took a few feet of forward motion for the left wheels of the trailer to crash their way down to the pavement. The sound was unsettling. The amount of damage I had to look forward to started to sink in. I continued to move the truck forward until we were situated safely off to the side of the freeway, albeit still facing in the wrong direction. Even in my semi-shock-addled state, it was an impressive feat. Traffic was free to begin moving again via the right lane (my rig now occupied the left).

Each of the men came to say their goodbyes. One of them who was handsome, around my age, and had a fabulous beard lingered for a moment, concern in his eyes. It occurred to me that a better damsel would find a way to get his number, ask him to stay, something… After all, wouldn’t it be nice if something good came out of this?

All that came out of my mouth was “bye.”

Oh, well... Damselry and intentional helplessness have never been my thing anyway. At least I’d managed to confirm that my libido and all my girly hormones remained undamaged (because gods forbid that happen).

The angel with the purple eyelashes came to check on me one last time and asked if I’d be okay until the cops arrived. I told her I was fine and thanked her for being so kind. She looked at me. Apparently, she wasn’t entirely convinced of the brave, if somewhat intellectually absent, face I’d put on. “I know this is terrible and you’re sad, but just remember, this is all just stuff,” she said, motioning to my trailer. “It’s replaceable; you’re not.”

I nodded, fighting back tears. Even now, when I reflect on this interaction, it makes me cry. I had just destroyed my home, potentially endangered the lives of other people, and delayed them. There was no reason for this woman to be so kind to me, or to insinuate that my life would warrant replacement if lost. I expressed my gratitude as well I could and she left.

A little while later the cops showed up. They were also very kind. They clearly felt sorry for me. They pointed out the detritus on either side of the freeway, and told me how it got there. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had wiped out while towing a trailer across that particular bridge.

I finally got out of my truck to survey the damage while the cops called a tow truck for my trailer. The bed of my truck was badly dented along the left side and the tail light was broken. My trailer’s front end had been torn open above the diamond plate, the fiberglass batting within exposed. There was other damage too, and I feared what the inside would look like. The cab of my truck, however, was pristine; completely untouched.

As I waited for the tow, I started to struggle internally. I have spent the past year working on self-compassion and acceptance, but I had just destroyed something I deeply loved. I fought not to shame myself, to not point out all the ways I had failed. Making myself feel shitty wasn’t going to fix Lancelot (my truck) or Guinevere (trailer). So I held the impulse back along with all the tears I felt like crying.

The tow arrived and dropped my rig and I off at a local tire shop. The wheels on the right side of my trailer were bent, so I needed them to figure out if it was drivable. I called my insurance company while I waited, not knowing what I was supposed to do or what my next steps were. They weren’t terribly helpful, but were able to remind me what my policy covered.

The tire shop let me know that the axles on my trailer were too damaged to travel very far. I was at a loss. I asked them if they knew of anywhere I could keep it overnight. They allowed me to park it in their employee parking lot. I offered to pay them, but they waved me off saying it was fine. They declined payment for the inspection too. I thanked them profusely—such things might be common in a small town, but where I’d come from in the Bay Area, they are most certainly not.

I drove a couple miles to a motel. The woman at the front desk had heard of my accident on the police scanner. “So you’re the one they shut down the freeway for,” she said.

“Yep, that would be me.” I smiled at her and we chatted a bit before I grabbed my backpack and went to my room.

I had a couple minutes to myself before I remembered to call my mom. My sister had offered to call for me, but I knew my mom would panic if she heard about the day’s events without hearing my voice assuring her I was safe.

I was able to get out the words, “I’m okay but I was in an accident” before I started sobbing. I told my mom how lucky I was that I hadn’t killed anyone, and that I was miraculously unscathed. I told her I felt like an idiot. As though I’d finally managed to prove the depth of my own incompetence. That I felt like I’d ruined everything. But that I also knew deep down that it would be alright. My insurance would replace everything. I told her about the incredible kindness I’d experienced that day, and the profoundly strange juxtaposition of feeling so intensely grateful and so very, very sad all at once.

I waited for her to judge me. To tell me that I had been irresponsible. That this was what came of thinking I could take this on by myself. She didn’t. She reminded me to be gentle with myself. She listened. She sympathized and told me not to dwell. Some part of me had been bracing myself, waiting for someone to punish me, criticize me… To tell me how utterly at fault and stupid I was. But they never did.

Every person I had interacted with that day was kind. The only person who seemed conflicted about how I should be treated in response to this situation was me. I kept having to shut out the voice inside my head that felt obligated to impose guilt and shame, as though I couldn’t learn from what I experienced without it. That part of me believes guilt and shame keep me accountable; they don’t. They just make it harder for me to trust and connect with myself and others.

The greatest takeaway I have about my accident isn’t about traveling with a trailer at all, but about humanity. It’s easy to think that humans are terrible when you watch the news or think about climate change. Watching people on opposite sides of the political spectrum debate each other could convince you that in this country we are too divided to care for one another. None of that matters when we are face to face with suffering.

It’s unlikely that most of the people I interacted with that day share my political beliefs. Rural Oregon is not known for being progressive, whereas I am radically and unapologetically so. I’m a white, cis-gendered woman, so it’s possible my conclusions are naïve and a product of my privilege, but I want to think they are more universal.

The people on the road could have yelled at me, they could have been angry for how I had delayed them. Instead, they showed concern. They were relieved that someone they’d never met and would likely never see again was unharmed.

The men who helped right my trailer, though strangers to one another, acted cooperatively and in the best interest of all who were present. The people at the tire shop let my trailer stay there for two weeks until my insurance company removed it without ever charging me or acting in any way inconvenienced. The woman who ran the motel I stayed at checked on me every couple days to see how I was doing.

None of these people had much to gain from being kind to me, but they still were. They saw someone who was alone and out of her depth, and they wanted to help. They didn’t owe me anything. They did what they did because they could. Because somewhere deep within themselves they probably thought, ‘What if this was my sister, daughter, wife, or friend? And she was alone when this happened, far from all her people? I’d want someone to help her.’ So they did.

Evidence of humanity’s inherent goodness, its kindness, its compassion, can be hard to see at times. Its presence is subtle; it lacks the flashiness and drama of conflict. But when you sweep aside the assumptions and really look for it, it’s every bit as common as the air we breathe.