My cousin died in a car accident when she was 19. She was in the passenger seat and the driver—highly intoxicated—drove the car into the wall alongside the freeway. Bianca was the only one in the car to die. If you google her name, the first result is an article in the Chicago Tribune about the crash. The driver's mugshot is at the top of the page. He has a shiny bald head, a wide jaw, and a thick strip of fat underneath his chin. The combination of these qualities makes his facial features look too small for his head. There are small emotionless eyes beneath heavy eyelids, a small crooked nose, and a small circle of beard surrounding his thin lips.
Below the photo, the story of my cousin’s death is woven together with the story of a baby boy. The baby was born in a car headed towards the hospital, a mile away and around the same time as the crash. The police chief is quoted saying “it’s funny,” the miracle of life, and the tragedy of death occurring so close together. I don’t think it’s really that funny.
He was driving 78 miles an hour when the car smashed into the barrier wall. His blood had a 0.26 alcohol concentration and tested positive for cocaine. He had already accumulated three DUIs before the night he killed my cousin. He was 33 years old. He survived, and Bianca was pronounced dead at the scene, 5:38 am, January 23rd, 2013.
The baby was born at 7:20 am in the parking lot of a gas station—his parents had pulled over, doubting they’d make it to the hospital on time. He was the first baby born in Cicero, Illinois in 2013, the article said, there would be a celebration for his parents at the next town hall meeting.
I’ve reread the article about Bianca’s death again and again, unintentionally committing the facts to my memory. I have a compulsion to know everything I can about horrific events. I need to watch the videos and hear the voice recordings taken during school shootings. I need to read the first-person reports of earthquakes, tsunamis, bombings. I wonder if the obsession started with Bianca’s death.
I came home from school, the day Bianca died, and my dad was waiting for me at the kitchen counter. He told me something tragic had happened, and then I learned that my cousin was dead. I had never had a family member die before. I had never imagined that the people I loved would die—especially not before they grew old. I don’t remember the words my dad used, or if he hugged me afterward. I don’t remember if I cried, but I do remember standing there in the kitchen, willing my tears to come. I remember asking my mom if she thought Bianca felt any pain when the car crashed. She said she didn’t think so, it was probably instant. I asked how death could possibly happen so instantly. My mom explained that her neck probably broke on impact and that was it—no suffering. She died not knowing she was about to die, she lived her life up until the end.
I think about salmon fishing with my grandpa, who taught me that you need to club the fish as soon as it comes out of the water. You club the fish to death so it doesn’t have to suffer. To put it out of its misery, my grandpa said.
By AC Christakis