To the driver who took her from me

To the one who changed everything —

You don’t know me. And maybe you never will. But you left something behind when you hit my car. You walked away with probation. I’ll carry the wreckage for the rest of my life.

It was a Sunday evening. I was on my way to work — 7 p.m. shift — with my dog crated beside me in the passenger seat. An 8 lb mini dachshund. My heart in a tiny, fearless body. The car that hit us was doing an estimated 100 miles per hour. You were drunk. Again. Your second DWI in less than a year.

I remember the impact. I remember the way my wrist snapped. I remember the car spinning out, hitting the rail, flipping over and over until it finally landed driver-side up.

And I remember the moment I realized her crate was empty.

The seatbelt had me hanging sideways. Strangers came to help. I kept telling them it was okay, that she was already gone. I was sure of it. No one could survive being pinned under a vehicle like that — not someone so small.

I was taken to the hospital. My wrist was broken. My head was spinning. I needed surgery but it could wait. May 5th, they said. I hate that date now.

While I lay in that hospital bed, my coworkers — the people I am so lucky to call family — went back to where my car had been to look for her body. But they didn’t find a body.

They found her.

Alive. Terrified. Hiding in the grass near the highway barrier.

She had stayed hidden, too afraid to come out while strangers swarmed the scene. She had survived the crash. Not unscathed, but alive. They brought her to our clinic. Initial x-rays showed no fractures. Spinal breaks are hard to see. She was in shock. But she was alive.

That night, even with a concussion and barely able to walk, I made someone take me to see her. I vomited all over the clinic floor, but I refused to leave until I saw her. Touched her. Knew she was okay.

She wasn’t okay.

On May 5th, while I was in surgery for my own injuries, she started showing signs: weakness, pain, and growing lethargy. They didn’t move forward without me. They waited for me to wake up. When I called back, I told them — do whatever it takes to figure out what’s wrong.

They did the CT on May 6th. That morning, I learned she had a fractured atlas — the top vertebra at the base of the skull. It was catastrophic. There were other fractures, too, ones that maybe — maybe — we could have treated over time. But not that one. Not where it was. Not what it meant.

That day, I begged people for a ride to the clinic. I had just had surgery the day before. I couldn’t drive. I was desperate. Someone finally said yes, and I will carry that act of kindness with me for the rest of my life.

I held her as she left me. I told her I loved her. I told her she was good. And I let her go because I refused to let her suffer one more minute.

May 6th is the day I lost her.

You were 19, they said. Young. Your lawyer said you “understood my pain” because you would hate being separated from your dog if you went to jail.

But separation isn’t death.
You weren’t pinned under twisted metal.
You weren’t hidden in the dark, afraid and alone.
And you didn’t have to decide whether the soul you loved most needed you to let her go.

You got a felony on paper. I got a lifetime of grief. I still don’t have full use of my wrist. I still hate the sound of sirens. I still wake up with her name in my throat. And I still carry a hatred that the court system told me I wasn’t allowed to feel — because “your life shouldn’t be ruined over a mistake.”

Mine was.

Hers was.

So no, I don’t forgive you. And no, I don’t believe you truly understand what you took from me.

But now her story is told.
Even if you’ll never read it.
Even if you never care.

She mattered.
She was everything.
And I will never let her be forgotten.

*edited because in my anger, I forgot to mention how you were a teenage drunk driver.