We get attached to these things, and, as we all know, change can be hard and scary. I heard someone say, “The scarier change is, the more we probably need it,” but I don’t know if I completely subscribe to that. When things are good, we want them to stay that way. The problem with change is that most of the time we don’t choose it. We’re forced into change, so we naturally resist it rather than embrace it as the next chapter in our lives. This was one of those cases, and I could only hope and have faith that, like so many other life experiences, with time and retrospect, we would see that this change, too, was good and perhaps even meant to be.
There are so many other stories from this experience I haven’t included that illustrate the various lives that were touched by the accident—the school event for Alyce when a woman came running up to Susan and said, “I just had to introduce myself. I was one of your doctors in the ER!” Or when another came running across the grocery store parking lot and said, “I was your nurse in the ICU!”
There was also our annual block party that we held in front of our house. We always invited the fire department to come so that the kids could climb onto the fire engine and meet the firefighters. As Susan milled about, happily reconnecting with our neighbors, one of our friends came over to her and said, “Oh, my God. You have to come say hello to the firemen. Their engine was the first responder to your accident!” They were unbelievably happy to meet Susan. They had seen the damage to the car. They were the ones who cut her out of the vehicle, but never heard whether she had survived or not, and frankly didn’t think she would. And here they were, a year later, meeting the living example of their efforts. It was a reward they don’t often get to experience, rarely learning the ultimate fate of their rescue efforts.
When I think about some of these stories, it’s fascinating how many of them fall into the “small world” category. But there is one story that stretches the idea of a “small world” coincidence into something beyond categorizing. It begins at the scene of the accident:
Alyce remembers getting out of the car and needing to call me, but her backpack with her phone was still trapped inside the crushed vehicle. While standing outside in shock and crying, she remembers a woman approaching her in a bathrobe and comforting her. She loaned Alyce her cell phone to call me. I didn’t meet this woman, but I’d saved the number that had come up on the caller ID on a little scrap of paper, intending to call her back and thank her. It was a few weeks after the accident when I finally got around to it, but instead of a woman answering the phone, a man did, and he didn’t really know what I was talking about. He wasn’t aware of the accident but said that maybe his wife had his phone at the time and that perhaps she had helped Alyce. I said, “Well, please thank her for me if it was her. I am so grateful for her help.” He said he would, and that was the end of it.
More than two years later, we were at an event at our synagogue celebrating Martin Luther King Jr. and the fifty-year anniversary of his speaking there. It was a night that embraced racial and cultural diversity as well as unity and commonalities that bind us together. It was a look back at how far we’ve come in the past fifty years, but also, in too many ways, the short distance we’ve actually traveled. The message pouring from every speaker that night was that the cure for the disease that still plagues much of the world, racism, was simply “love,” which of course spoke to Susan and her journey. She continues to credit her survival and recovery to the miracle healing power of love.
Before the event began, however, our temple’s cantor and musical director, Danny, rushed up to us. He excitedly approached us and said, “There’s a woman here tonight from one of the church choirs who you have to meet!” Apparently, while rehearsing that evening for the performance, the woman had approached him and said, “You know, there was an accident a couple of years ago very near this temple.” Danny responded that, yes, he was familiar with the accident and informed her that the woman and young girl involved in it were temple members. The woman then apprehensively asked him if she had survived, knowing how awful the wreck was. Danny happily answered, “Yes, in fact, I’m quite confident she’ll be here tonight.”
The woman was clearly overcome with emotion finding out the miraculous outcome and revealed to Danny that she was at the scene, had helped the little girl who was in the car, and knew that she was okay but never found out about the driver. Danny told her that he would be sure to introduce us after the event.
At the reception following the event, we found Danny, who initially, among the large crowd, couldn’t find the woman. As the night wore on and the crowd thinned, Danny finally approached us, an African-American woman with a bright, glowing smile by his side. He turned to the woman and then to us and said, “I want to introduce you to Susan.”
Having heard Danny’s story earlier, Susan immediately knew who this woman was and the two embraced warmly, tears filling their eyes. The woman then told us her version of the story. She had seen Alyce standing by the side of the wrecked car, visibly upset, and approached her, asking, “Is that your mom in there?” Alyce nodded that it was, and seeing the devastation of the accident, the woman said to her, “Let’s pray together.” Sweet, innocent Alyce looked at this woman wearing a prominent cross around her neck and responded, “Okay, but you should know…I’m Jewish.” The woman smiled, took Alyce’s hand, then held it to her chest and said, “That’s okay. In here, we’re all the same.”
The fact that this story was being told on MLK’s birthday was not lost on any of us.
I told the woman that I had tried to reach her to thank her for helping Alyce. I asked her if she ever received the message from her husband. She was confused and said she hadn’t. When I explained that I had called a few weeks after the accident, she told me that she had gotten rid of that cell phone and been assigned a new phone number. But she was sorry she didn’t get the call because she and her entire building had prayed for Susan. They, too, would be so happy to hear that she survived.
This wasn’t the first time I’d heard of total strangers praying on Susan’s behalf. I’d received emails from friends from all over the country and the world asking if it would be okay if their various churches from every denomination held us in their prayers. Through a Buddhist couple and their connections, we even had a thousand Tibetan monks praying for Susan’s recovery. Tragedy is blind to religion, and we were grateful to be on the receiving end of these universal prayers.
We had our picture taken together, and as we were saying goodbye, she again warmly hugged Susan and then me. We realized we had never been formally introduced, so she said to me, “I’m sorry, I never got your name.” I told her it was Doug, and she paused, a little confused, like maybe she hadn’t heard me. I repeated it, “Doug, like Douglas.”
She then looked at us and said, “Wait, your name is Susan?” Susan nodded yes. “And your name is Douglas?” She then put her hand over her heart and said, “Oh, my goodness. My name is Susan Douglas.”
The coincidence was heart-stopping. This angel happened to live in the apartment building right where the accident occurred, had taken care of Alyce, had prayed with her for this stranger in a crushed car, and had continued to pray along with residents of her apartment complex, and her name was Susan Douglas.
At one of the past High Holiday services, the rabbi asked everyone who had experienced a simcha, something positive in their life, to please come up and be part of a special blessing. A number of people began to make their way toward the front, and I encouraged Susan to join them. Initially, she was reluctant but eventually relented. While up there, the rabbi passed around a microphone, asking to hear the particular circumstances people were grateful for. Some were grateful for a new grandchild, a new job or promotion, even a divorce.
And then it reached Susan, who when handed the mic and asked what she was grateful for, simply leaned into it and said, “I’m alive?” It had a little question mark of inflection at the end of it, like asking, “Do I have to have more than that?” The ro
ar of applause for that simple sentiment of gratitude was a reminder for everyone in the room.
No, you don’t have to have any more than that.
Is that simply what we are meant to get from all of this? I remember one particular day, months after the accident, Susan was in the hospital’s radiology room for yet another set of X-rays, and the technician checked his paper to see what images were to be taken. Seeing the absurdly high number, he turned to her and said, “Wow, is there anything you didn’t break?” The answer was, “No, not really.” He then added, “Well, I guess you’re still here for a reason.”
Comments like this always struck an uncomfortable chord with Susan, trying to somehow justify this random event with some bigger purpose in life she was yet to fulfill. She turned to the technician, not angrily, but like him, just trying to make some deeper sense of this. “What is this big purpose I suddenly need to have? I liked my life. I was happy with my career. I have a husband I love, two beautiful children, a lovely home, wonderful friends. What am I supposed to do now, solve world peace?”
The technician wasn’t put off but rather stopped his preparations, looked at her, and smiled warmly. He then asked, “Has your story inspired anyone?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it has,” she responded.
“Well, maybe that’s it. If your story can inspire just one person, then that’s reason enough for being here.”
And that is ultimately why we tell it.
I used to joke that the tear-jerky Hollywood ending to this story, after everything we’ve gone through, is that either Susan or I die. Having heard my fair share of studio feedback on potential movie projects, I can easily imagine the note: “I love it! Super compelling. But let me ask you, would it be possible for one of them to, you know, die in the end? That would be beautiful. Perfectly and tragically heartbreaking.”
But this story isn’t about the tragedy of dying. It’s about the everyday challenge of living, and how we get over and through our collective hardships. Dying doesn’t require much effort. It’s living, surviving, and recovering that test us.
After Susan and Alyce got struck that day, we as a family have been struck by a number of things. Among them, the healing power of love and compassion, the resilience of humans, the randomness of life. Whenever Susan and I are at a party or gathering, people still tell her that simply seeing her brings a smile to their face, just being reminded of the miracle that she’s still here, reminded that in an instant, at any time, life can turn on a dime.
When I was in college and living in New York City, there was a news story about someone who got hit in the head and killed by a brick that fell off of a construction site. With all the scaffolding I walked under on a daily basis, that easily could have been my brick, my head. Living in fear of that is surely unhealthy and can be debilitating, but there’s a balance to be found knowing that, even though it’s unlikely, it’s still a possibility. An awareness of all the random acts of tragedy that populate today’s world demands a sense of appreciation and gratefulness when they don’t fall upon us.
Because they happen every day.
Last year, Susan and I planned a trip to take the kids to Paris over Thanksgiving. A week before we were set to leave, the terrorist attack at the Bataclan theater occurred. We were nervous about going but ultimately decided not to cancel. In the London airport, while we were transferring to our flight to Paris, we began a conversation with two women who were headed back home to Ireland. When they asked us where we were going, we hesitantly said, “Paris.”
They looked at us and instead of telling us we were crazy, like many in the States had, they smiled, nodded, and said, “Good for you for going on with it.” And then with their lilting accents, they added, “Terrible what happened, and a great reminder…we have to live for today because you never know…tomorrow you might get hit by a bus.”
Susan and I shared a look and smiled, knowing all too well, for even though the saying might be a cliché…
The truth is, we should, because we absolutely might.
acknowledgments
First, a big thank-you to everyone at Prospect Park Books, including Dorie Bailey, Caitlin Ek, Margery Schwartz, Leilah Bernstein, Amy Inouye, cover designer David Ter-Avanyesan, and especially Colleen Dunn Bates for embracing the book so enthusiastically. Also, thanks to Christopher Noxon for the introduction. Deep appreciation goes to Susan’s core group and book club for their love, support, and early reads: Tracy Miller, Linda Brettler, Alexa Pogue, Nancy Ortenberg, Jode Mann, Erica Huggins, Christine Bubser, Jacqui Biery, Ariane Bushkin, Lisa Angel, Jen DeVore, Deedee Atkinson, Maddie Moskowitz, Ruthie Jones, Caroline Andoscia, Gina Belafonte, Karen Ray, and a special thank-you to Kabrel Geller, the original gatekeeper of the updates. Also, enormous love to Charles and Karen Spencer, Debra Zakarin, Dana Stevens, Julie Graham, Mitch Marcus, Elisabeth Rudolph, and Geoffrey Nauffts for their guidance and wisdom.
To all the many lifesavers, including the staff at Cedars-Sinai, particularly Dr. Daniel Allison, Dr. Eli Baron, Dr. Nicolas Melo, Dr. Eric Ley, Dr. Gregory Hallert, Dr. Rex Chung, Dr. Daniel Margulies, Dr. Rebecca Hedrick, Dr. Jeffrey Wertheimer, Dr. Anne Meyer, Esther Morrison, everyone in the ER, the nurses and physical therapists, especially Rand, LAFD Engine #41, all the first responders, Inez Beltran at MPIHIP, and BMW for making a car that could withstand a bus.
The clergy at Temple Israel of Hollywood, including Rabbi John Rosove, Rabbi Michelle Missaghieh, Rabbi Jocee Hudson, and Danny Maseng, as well as the entire congregation of TIOH for its never-ending support.
My talented teams of representation: Greene Broillet and Wheeler, particularly Geoffrey Wells, Christian Nickerson, Lory Bierschenk, Sheri Dempsey, and Browne Greene; Deborah Klein and Marissa Linden at Jackoway Tyerman Wertheimer Austen Mandelbaum Morris & Klein; Bruce Vinokour and Bobby Kenner at CAA, Trina Kaye at The Trina Kaye Organization, and Judy Twersky and Jennifer Bristol at Judy Twersky Public Relations.
To all our friends near and far, who were on the original update list or who were forwarded them, thank you for taking the journey with us and for encouraging me to keep writing and to publish this account. To our dear friends Tracy and Mike Broaddus, Suzanne and Sasha Gelbart, Katie and Doug Green, Rob and Mimi Novak, and Nancy Burke Tunney—where would we be without you? To our families for their infinite strength and love, mothers LeeAnn and Nancy, my sister, Debbie, and brother, Todd.
And finally and most importantly, I couldn’t be more fortunate to have the wife and children I do. To Susan, Michael, and Alyce (and, of course, Bruce), without you, my words would have no meaning.
about the author
Photo: Karen Ray
Douglas Segal is a writer and producer who has worked on movies for Warner Bros., Disney, and MGM and television shows for Fox, the CW, Showtime, A&E, History, Discovery Channel, and The Cartoon Network. Projects he has been involved in have been nominated for Golden Globe, Grammy, and People’s Choice awards and have won numerous Teachers’ Choice and Parents’ Choice awards. He lives in Los Angeles with his family.
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