Losing Lilith

[mamagotcha]

I started to write a response to a comment in a previous post, and it turned into a post itself.

We did live with one car with up to six people for most of the time we lived in KC, until last January. We know how to do it, and we'll be fine. I'm going to miss the convenience of solving all those problem times of two people needing to be in different places that were so easy to fix with a second vehicle, but that's mostly a matter of planning and advance communication and a bit of compromise from everybody.

In fact, one car seems to actually result in a lot MORE driving, ironically. When we had two, I could do a drop off and Bill could do a pick-up, for example, and save me two or more long round trips. We definitely would not have been able to accept the house-sitting situation without the two cars, either (there was nothing in safe walking distance, and I would have had to drive to Stowers twice a day, if I wanted the car for anything else).

But none of that is what's upsetting me, when I sit down to think about it.

I've had this car as long as I've known Bill; maybe a little longer. It's become a huge part of my life, a tool I use daily, a bridge to adventures and experiences I wouldn't have been able to have without it. My butt fits in the seat. I've done a lot of "carschooling" in this van, and had some really fascinating, difficult, enlightening and hilarious conversations with each of my kids in it. A lot of Bob was built in it. I'd rather do without the Internet, a phone, a refrigerator, almost any other item I own, than lose this car... the only possession I can think of that I'd choose over my van is my wedding ring. I don't think I can explain how wrenching it is to begin comprehending the fact that I'm not going to be able to drive it again.

The view from the front seat... the little dog Julia painted and Clay named (VanGo), the rune my sister sent, the radio Bill gave me for Christmas, the little shells and stones and glass bits I've gathered on our travels, the numbers and dials, the textures of the wheel, the instant mental checklist I go through whenever I get in, the kleenex and water bottle and gps and geocaching bag and bluetooth earpiece and ice scraper and lotion and bandana and sparkly "I love WEED" sticker that I didn't have the balls to put on the bumper but still liked enough to keep in the car and the ibuprophen and the hanging crystal and the emergency M&Ms and the dice and the rope and the juggling props and the tools and ipod penguin... it's an environment that I spent at least an hour in (and sometimes up to four or six), just about every day of my life over the last decade. I can close my eyes and immediately create the safe-space van-shaped zone that I hold around that vehicle, precisely.

It feels very wobbly to think that it is suddenly gone, finished, kaput. It's been a constant in my life, well, longer than almost any other thing I can think of. I've walked away from a number of houses, had a husband leave, several kids grow up and move out, lost two beloved hot tubs... the last few cars I've lost were willingly given away or sold due to safety issues or new babies coming, but I can't remember needing to junk a car before. It feels very, very wrong...

I keep saying "it," but we never referred to her that way. She's Lily, short for Lilith, the WonderVan. Her last act, as the transmission was failing on Friday night, was to get us off a long, busy river bridge (with no sidewalk) during Friday rush hour, in the dusk, as an icy storm was moving in. The squealing fell to a moan as we made it off the bridge and up to a gas station. The mechanic said they couldn't get it to move at all today... it had utterly failed.

This car took really good care of me and my family. I know there's no sense anthropomorphizing a vehicle, but there it is... I trusted Lily to carry us safely for over a hundred thousand miles. We've been a team for a long, long time. Even an object has quirks and preferences, and I know hers. She didn't let me down, ever... she always gave me a clue that something was up before it went out, got us to a safe place.

That's a partner you don't want to lose.

Comments

[jedusor.livejournal.com]

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trivialize the loss aspect of it. I guess I didn't realize you were so emotionally attached to the van. Maybe don't name the next one?

[mamagotcha.livejournal.com]

I didn't realize it myself, until faced with losing it.

I don't necessarily see it as a bad thing, though... when you become attached to something like that, you're more likely to repair and reuse it, rather than just dumping it for the next new shiny thing that comes along. And that's a good attitude, environmentally, I think.

It just sort of sets you up for a big bump when the inevitable happens. But if we never rescued an animal because of the eventual loss down the road... if we never marry because of the death or divorce awaiting us... well, that would be a pretty unhappy life, too, wouldn't it?

Speaking of emotional attachments to vehicles... we still have your scooter. ;-)

[jedusor.livejournal.com]

Hey, I said you should keep the scooter to give it to Link when he's old enough for it (which he should be right about now, right?), not for sentimental attachments.

[hahathor.livejournal.com]

My condolences on your loss. I'm glad you have a good support network to help you through this.

[roshismomma.livejournal.com]

We get attached to cars around here, too. the current one the kids have dubbed "chitty" and I well... they will cry, when she finally doesnt run anymore. So I understand. Sorry, sweetie.

[arthur-l.livejournal.com]

When my daughter was born, we brought her home in what was already a rather old used 1979 volvo. When we gave her her first lesson in how to drive a standard stick shift, it was in the same yellow volvo. The car died shortly thereafter. I think it is sweet, and cute, that she mostly grew up with one car being 'the' car. But I really have no sentimental attachment to the hunk of metal itself. As with all the physical stuff in our lives, it's the memories that count, not the stuff.

[uncanny-npl.livejournal.com]

I understand. My first car was a '64 Buick LeSabre named "Fearless Ephrem." Cost my dad $600 in 1976. He wasn't the fastest or the smartest car in the world, but I always had the feeling he was doing his best, and whenever he broke down, it was *always* near an off-ramp or a side street. Lots of adventures in that car, some of them too salacious to mention, and some just plain cute (like the day he started honking whenever I made a left turn). I'd have kept him forever if I could have.

[mh75.livejournal.com]

aw, i'm sorry. *hug*

[vito-excalibur.livejournal.com]

Siiigh. Yes, I was sad for the rest of the day the day I sold my car. And Mr. E felt the exact same way when we had to give his car to the insurance company. They've been with us for years! We've trusted them! Taken care of us! They don't let us down!

And then we have to put them down. It's so sad.

[elainetyger.livejournal.com]

My brother wrecked my first car, a giant cream puff of an old Buick, within a few months of its purchase. Since no other car could be its equal, I haven't had much attachment to the three cars that followed it. I get the damn worn-in convenience of something, though, that you don't want to give up, especially if when lots of other things were changing, you could think of that as something that stayed. An old T-shirt just doesn't cut it.