The Razor's Edge 

I have met many parents of children with disabilities since our crash. What I now know is that we can all rise to the occasion when we must. It isn't a matter of perfection but doing the best you can, putting one foot in front of the other, tripping periodically, getting back up, and repeating. 

BY ED SLATTERY, PHD 

I always thought I was a good dad. I was involved in my sons' lives and, together with my wife, we strove to raise good human beings; strong men of both body and mind to contribute to society and lead happy and responsible lives. So, I thought I was a good parent, until a tired trucker crashed into my family's car, killing my wife and severely disabling my youngest son. Then I quickly learned I was out of my depth.

My wife Susan Slattery was killed almost instantly when a trucker fell asleep at the wheel of a triple tractor-trailer on the Ohio Turnpike as traffic slowed for construction. She was one of 3,686 people who were killed in large truck crashes on American roadways in 2010. My two boys, Matthew and Peter, 12 and 16 at the time, were two of the 80,000 people the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration (FMCSA) says were injured in crashes that same year; numbers that have surged thirty percent since my family's crash nine years ago.

Susan was not just my wife, not just mom to our two amazing boys, not just a popular mathematics professor at a university outside of Baltimore. She was our rock, the center of our family; the tutor, the den mother, the field trip volunteer, the activity organizer, the fundraiser. She was the love of my life and there isn't a second of a day that we don't miss her and feel her loss.

I am now a widower, a single father caring for my youngest son Matthew who suffered a crippling traumatic brain injury from the crash. I quit work to be his full-time caregiver; he is wheelchair-bound and will need care for the rest of his life. While we are fortunate enough to have been able to build a state-of-the-art, universally-designed home to free the house of any traditional hurdles to a disability like Matthew's, I am still reminded every day of just what my family lost at mile marker 190 on the Ohio Turnpike.

Susan's death was easy, in a way. It was final. It's Matthew I grieve for every day. He's my constant reminder, a reminder that, in the end, our tragedy was pure happenstance. That driver made the decisions he made, the trucking company ran the routes it did the way it did, and Matthew is the living result. Our fortunate settlement cannot, and will not ever really square that in a way that makes sense of our loss. I call it the razor's edge.

Every day it is like I am walking on this really thin edge. On the left is this wonderful world with this kid, this guy who makes me laugh, who loves me, whom I adore, and whose accomplishments I revel in. But on the other side, is the same kid with all the things he should be doing, but he isn't doing. Matthew should have gone to prom, be getting drunk, finding love and heartbreak, and getting his driver's license. He will never do those things, at least not in a normal way. That is my razor's edge, fall to the left and everything is rosy, fall to the right and everything is scary.

This is a line I know I will precariously straddle the rest of my life. I tried at first to make it easier by trying to find purpose in our tragedy through other people. I wanted to join forces with the trucker, whose own life suffered in many ways as well. He went to prison and now, to this day, he can no longer drive a truck. I wanted us to tell our story together, to a nation, a cautionary tale to help create change; how the drive to lower the cost of transporting good(s) across this country can be paid in injury, death and loss of freedom. It was, for a while, how I planned to avenge my wife's death and my son's disability; it was how I would make sure it wasn't all in vain.

But, for reasons I hope you will read in the book, The Long Blink, that didn't happen.

So, in order to avoid falling off to the wrong side of that razor's edge, I needed to find a way to balance myself. Following the incredible example set by my wife, we give back. We give back until it hurts. I've started several nonprofits aimed at helping the children with disabilities as severe as Matthew's. I also created a fund at the Kennedy Krieger Institute in Baltimore to bridge the gap between what an insurance company is willing to pay, and what families can afford. I credit all the doctors and staff there for Matthew's recovery and I never want to see another family go without the resources we received.

I also advocate on Capitol Hill for truck and highway safety with the Truck Safety Coalition. I have told every lawmaker who will lis ten, of my family's story, and will continue to do so, in an effort to increase safety regulations. I also help counsel families who have experienced tragedy like we have, in the hopes that I can offer them comfort and insights from my experience. 

Mostly though, I focus on Matthew. His accomplishments are almost always small steps, but they deserve the same kind of fanfare of a prideful father in his child athlete. Matthew's athletic prowess may be limited, but his determination and sheer will are the opposite. He would rather use his disabled right hand to push his glasses up from the tip of his nose with his reluctant pointer finger than use his now dominant left hand. I've learned to just let him figure it out on his own.

Recently, he began equine therapy and I cannot begin to describe what it is like to see my son not only ride a horse with assistance, but bond with the animal in such a way that it provides such pure joy for my boy.

Most important, Matthew is happy. He laughs, makes jokes, and possesses a wit that, if you're too patronizing with your conversation, he will gladly expose.

Still though, he remains severely handicapped and needs intense assistance to accomplish all of it. Often, I wonder, what is he really thinking? What is it that he is not able to express to me because of his aphasia? These questions haunt me.

My other son healed fully from all his injuries and setbacks from the crash, He not only went on to graduate high school on time, but also achieved Eagle Scout, the highest rank in Boy Scouts. He worked hard and never missed a beat despite the severity of his injuries. Peter grad uated from Rhode Island School of Design and is making a career as a senior designer on the West Coast. I am prouder than hell of him but always worry about how he integrated all of his own losses into his psyche.

The strides of both my boys though, are a great source of joy for me, but I have come to the realization that it cannot make me whole. My sons' successes and accomplishments and, in Matthew's case, his continued incremental improvement are gifts, but when it comes to my youngest, they can also be a curse. 

It is the only lasting regret I have in my life. I obviously regret losing Susan and the injuries to my boys. I regret the whole thing, but what continues to face me every single day is Matthew, and I will never, never get over it. Every day of my life I have to see this child not accomplish what he could accomplish. And that is a pain so few can ever understand.

I say this not as a burden, but a duty. The way I see it, I have maybe another good 20 years left on this planet and it is my purpose to honor my sons and my late wife. I owe it to them to tell our story so that maybe, just maybe, other families may never have to experience our fate. I have met many parents of children with disabilities since our crash. What I now know is that we can all rise to the occasion when we must. It isn't a matter of perfection but doing the best you can, putting one foot in front of the other, tripping periodically, getting back up, and repeating. Once people know my story, or read the emotional narrative in The Long Blink, they often say they couldn't do what I am doing; they aren't strong enough. I always respond, "Of course you could. You might even do it better." • 

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Ed Slattery lives with his son Matthew outside of Baltimore, Maryland. The family's story is the subject of a new book by award-winning investigative journalist Brian Kuebler titled, The Long Blink: The True Story of Trauma, Forgiveness and One Man's Fight for Safer Roads. The release, by Behler Publications, is available wherever books are sold.