Life, Autism, and Tragedy behind the Wheel
Forty-one years ago, my life began in the shadow of my maternal namesake, Uncle Jim. “Born on the Fourth of July; died on April Fools’ Day.” My uncle passed away in a car accident before I was born — an accident that was his fault. In spite of the tragedy, I was hyper-focused on his passing throughout my childhood. Car accident losses involving my classmates and peers worsened the behavior until I developed an acute phobia.
Then, after age 23, the fear subsided into dormancy, where it waits to be triggered at any time. Now I know I am autistic and have learned much about it this year. So, I am compelled to re-examine how I grieved for these car accident losses. A closer look has revealed an underlying pattern of fixation that may be linked to autism. If true, it could indicate that autistic people face certain risks when dealing with traumatic or heightened emotional stress. The way in which we grieve may be different as well.
The following information was taken directly from personal effects and anecdotes of living relatives. The year was 1973. At first, it was like any other April Fools’ Day. The place was Hornell, New York, the hometown of actor Bill Pullman, with whom my uncle previously graduated (Maple Leaf; 1971). In his youth, my uncle Jim expressed aspirations for a future career in mathematics. He was also characterized by a gracious love of life.
For two years after high school graduation, he attended New York’s Brockport State University. During semesters, Jim wrote letters home to my grandmother talking about his studies and social experiences. For college breaks, he returned to Hornell to spend time with his family. This time, it was different. My great aunt was celebrating her birthday. Most of my mother’s family still lived at the family home and were there to attend. The celebration was like most others’ until it was time to leave.
Jim was allegedly in a rush to return to Brockport before classes resumed following Spring Break. A light rain had begun to fall, and the sky was just getting dark. This may have created less than ideal driving conditions. Jim traveled north on NY State Route 36. Somewhere between Mt. Morris and Leicester, near the northern end of Lechtworth State Park, he attempted to pass “a semi-truck trailer” (Hornell Evening Tribune, April 2, 1973). This decision would cost Jim his life.
A car horn sounded from a nearby intersection. Almost immediately, he chanced upon a vehicle in the opposite lane. The driver tried to swerve, but it was too late. The two collided in a driver’s-side head-on impact. In the early 1970s, vehicles were often equipped with only lap belts for restraint. Jim died instantly from chest and cranial trauma. He was a few months shy of turning 21. Fortunately, the other vehicle’s occupants were not seriously injured.
Fast-forward to the middle of my childhood in the 1990s. When my parents felt it was age-appropriate for me to know, they explained where my first name came from. They also showed me the note inscribed in my baby book as a reference. At first, the information provided was minimal. My uncle Jim died in a car accident before I was born. There was no denying his death was both tragic and morbidly fascinating to me, but I innocently kept prying for more information.
My grandparents had Jim’s Carrier of the Year trophy. I asked if I could have it. There was a decanter that was thought to have been bought by him. I asked for it too. I just could not let it go. Eventually, I started feeling guilty because the accident was Jim’s fault. He was someone I never met, and he died eight and a half years before my birth. All we shared was a name. I created the fixation. In an odd way, sometimes I even felt like a twinless twin.
I continued gathering anecdotal information about Jim’s accident as I got older. Eventually, I encountered tragedies of my own. Similarly to my uncle’s accident, a former classmate collided with an oncoming vehicle during my senior year of high school in 1999. I prayed dearly that night and desperately pleaded for her to recover. Unfortunately, the following day, she succumbed to her injuries. It strangely felt as if I had lost my uncle all over again. I was devastated, despite not being as close to her as other classmates were.
Then, in 2001, another classmate was killed when a driver crossed the center line and collided with his vehicle. His passenger, also a former classmate, was seriously injured. I went to visit her in the hospital out of guilt for my uncle. I ended up consoling her parents because her recovery was still in doubt. What did I tell them to relate? I told them about my uncle Jim. Thankfully, she survived.
In between these two tragedies, I noticed symptoms of a fear known as dystychiphobia. I experienced heightened emotional sensitivity to the potential for car accidents and some vehicle-related fatalities. I also developed what was later determined, in counseling, to be what is called intrusive thought anxiety. It manifested as either hearing sounds from a previous accident memory or having thoughts about someone who could die in one, such as my parents.
Intrusive thoughts are erratic. In some instances, I experienced them while I was driving. I kept it to myself because, for one, driving is an integral part of my daily life. I also doubted anyone would understand given the unknowingly autistic explanation. These symptoms peaked in 2004 with the passing of a former childhood friend. The accident was made all the more tragic due to the fact that, like Jim’s, it was his fault as well. I distinctly recall how dramatic my reaction was.
For several days afterwards, I secretly wanted to take my friend’s place, despite knowing he was already gone. It should be noted that I had attempted suicide the previous summer. This influenced my state of mind because I was still in denial about it. I felt as if the agony from all three previous tragic accidents had resurfaced in my mind, exacerbating my emotional state. When my friend’s obituary was printed in the paper, I cut it out and kept it for a while. The first night I had it, I remember repeatedly looking at his picture while I was alone in my room.
I cried pretty hard. I wanted him to be alive. Although we grew apart, every time I drove somewhere, I had to pass by where his accident took place, knowing that was where he died. It took me a couple months of considerable effort to successfully cope. Only then did the phobia symptoms subside. I had also outlived my uncle Jim. So, I wondered if that had helped the fear recede.
Of course, in 2019, I was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder. As I slowly re-examine my life in an effort to discover my authentic autistic self, these four tragic car accidents stand out as peculiar. It is commonly known that kids will often personalize childhood tragedies. Some grow up and advocate for their specific cause, whether it be losses from drunk driving or the drug overdose of a loved one. Such tragic losses can permanently affect a person’s mental health, no matter at what age they happen.
I exhibited a persistent yet unintentional fixation starting with my uncle’s accident. Were my parents wrong to tell me? In my opinion, no. They had no fault with my behavior. Although only a professional could truly determine a connection with autism, part of my goal as an advocate is to generate discussions and encourage others to take it seriously. The important thing is to talk about autism so that it can be better understood.
Though I have also seen examples of losses that were those individuals’ fault. How do you cope with a tragedy when it is for a loved one, especially if the blame is theirs? Trust me. It is not as easy as one might think. My uncle may have been impatient, and that was why he tried passing the semi-truck trailer. If true, which I am not claiming, such an act is inherently negative and not necessarily inspiring.
He should have known better. Feeling shame is perfectly normal after such a tragedy, especially if it involves someone you care about. This is why it is equally important to grieve properly for morally challenging losses. Chances are, at some point in their lives, they were deserving of compassion just as much as after the fact. I have long since forgiven Jim for the possibility of his hasty decision. A part of me wishes he was still here so I could get to know him too. Proper grieving is an important part of life.
