The Fault in Our Cars

Every Sunday night, my parents come over and babysit, and Doug and I go out on a date. It’s absolutely a highlight of our weeks and the perfect way to kick off each new one.

Since it’s our one night to get out, snag some romance and reconnect without our favorite third wheel spinning around, we try to make it a rule that we do NOT discuss finances or family business items while out on these dates. Nothing kills a buzz quite like yet another deep-dive into our 401K options or the impending and staggering costs of a private pre-school. We’re big planners and dreamers, but sometimes we get in the way of our own present fun.

Last night, however, we broke our rule and discussed a token item that we keep on avoiding, but can’t for much longer: CARS. Unfortunately for our cash flow scenario, both of us are coming up on needing new cars at the exact same moment. Not necessarily tomorrow, but for sure in the next year or two. Simultaneously, his 1999 Mercedes sedan and my 2007 Volvo SUV are simply going to croak (or need massive repairs that might not be worth making). And since we own these bad boys free and clear, we’ll be facing two additional car payments.

So, over Happy Hour at Paul Martin’s, we launched into a super fun conversation about our options. We suddenly both got a little intense and weird on the matter of automobiles: Who gets the new car FIRST? How NICE of cars can we precisely afford, because of course we must get the NICEST? What is the PRECISE breaking point of a mom choosing to drive a mini-van, and IS THIS a viable option to weigh on the scales? (NO—THE ANSWER IS NO!!! THERE WILL BE NO WEIGHING!!!)

We eventually came to a weak but mutually agreeable conclusion that we’d reassess in a year, praying that neither of our engines or fan belts (whatever a fan belt is) give out before then. But, my mind kept lusting after Land Rovers as we wrapped up dinner and headed to catch our movie.

Then, oh, THEN. The Fault in Our Stars. Much to my dismay, I had never gotten around to reading the book, but knew that the story was sad. Sixteen-year-old terminal lung cancer patient Hazel Grace Lancaster, who must tote around her oxygen tank, falls in love with 18-year-old Augustus Waters, who’s missing half of one leg, also thanks to his battle with cancer. They meet in support group for like-suffering teens.

“Sad” is a gross under-description of this deeply moving story of star-crossed tween loves. Tears were pouring down my face, more than once. But, tears pour down my face kind of a lot. You might say I’m a wee bit sensitive. Not Doug, so much. But, last night, his tears streamed like maybe I’ve seen once or twice. The movie was beautiful. Even this afternoon, I can’t shake the thought of the quick-witted and huge-hearted heroes Hazel and Gus. Their connection, their affection, their suffering, their perspective, their love.

You know how some movies are just palpably good for your soul, even if (or because) it’s a little bit painful to watch? This is most certainly one of them.

I won’t give away the ending, because that would be mean—and, to my surprise, I didn’t see the ending coming. But I walked away from the movie feeling grateful for love, affection for life, and aware of the air in my lungs.

As Doug and I walked to the car, me clutching his arm like a freak, we talked about how much the movie reminded us of those moments in life that make everything come to a hard stop. For us, that was in 2006 when Doug watched our beloved friend, Chase, fall in a tragic skateboarding accident and slip into a week-long coma from which he never woke up. It was also when my grandma died in 2008 and when Emerson had her ALTE (acute life-threatening event) in 2013. For my mom, it was when they found a cancerous tumor in my younger sister’s chest—a frightening growth of neuroblastoma—when she was only six weeks old. For my dad, it was when he lost his two brothers, within six weeks of each other, when they were all just boys in their 20s. (More on each of these stories sometime.)

Accidents, diagnoses, betrayals and deaths. Stillness, silence, echoes and prayers. Nothing else matters upon those cold slaps to the gut and the heart. If anyone else needs you, that’s just too bad, because something else needs you more. One second you’re obsessing over a car, and then next you’d give BOTH your cars and your WHOLE bank account and an ENTIRE leg just to rewind a sec and have that one bad thing not happen.

And yet, I go back to my frivolous thoughts. Back to my materialism and insecurities and completely unproductive obsessing about this and that and the other. The perspective-altering moments and game-changing tragedies leave their mark on me, absolutely. But before I know it, I’m thinking once again about luxury vehicles and this week’s grocery list. Those things aren’t wrong; they’re GOOD. Heck, we need cars to drive, and we need our nourishment.

But, as we pulled into our garage last night, Mercedes next to Volvo, two great cars, holding hands tightly, I asked Doug, “Why do you think it’s so hard to live in a way that we stay fully aware of life’s fragility?”

Long pause.

“I don’t know,” he finally answered. “But, I think we’re supposed to live more that way.”