Olympic Past

Have you been watching the Olympic Games since it began? I have. It took me several years to watch them without getting upset because I have a crazy, somewhat incredible relationship with the Olympics. On July 27, 1984, when I was 17 years old, the Olympics came to my hometown of Los Angeles, California. A friend and I wanted to go to UCLA village to see the crowds and decorations, and I remember my parents being very hesitant at the time to let me go. As a parent now, I am amazed by what transpired. I could see the doubt wash over my father’s face as he reluctantly agreed to let me drive down there (we lived in the San Fernando Valley at the time and Brentwood, where UCLA is, was at least 40 minutes away). We assured him we would be fine and looking back, I could almost hear his inner struggle. ‘My daughter is about to be a freshman in college,’ he probably thought, ‘and I will have to let her make her own choices someday, so I better do it now.’

He must have regretted his decision for years, because what happened that night haunted us for years. I remember the night being warm and humid. My friend and I walked around the town and among a swarm of a miniature version of the United Nations. We decided to do a little shopping and stood outside a trendy store, which happened to be on the corner of Westwood Boulevard, one of the main streets.

“Do you want to go in?” I said, pointing to the shop.
“No-” she said.

That was all I heard. The next thing I knew I was flying head over heels on top of a beat-up, dark red car. I tumbled, feeling nothing even though my body smacked hard against steel and metal several times. I landed with a thud and it took several seconds before I felt the impact of what had just transpired. I remember marveling how my body shut itself down and how I did not feel pain while going through something so brutal. When I came to, I looked over to my right and there, just a few feet away, was a young woman whose leg was severed at the knee. The image has been permanently burned into my memory. She was Asian (I later learned she had arrived that day from Vietnam) and the pain on her face was piercing. I didn’t see her for more than a few seconds because people immediately began rushing to help us.

“What happened?” was all I could ask.

Some lunatic had driven his car down the sidewalk and run over 54 people. My friend and I were two of the first he hit, and I later discovered he had killed a 16-year-old girl who was visiting her father. I remember a woman at the trial several months later recounting how the car swept away the stroller she was pushing and barreled over her 3-year-old. The boy had been so badly hurt from the car smashing into him he would suffer permanent brain damage. I only heard testimony from a few of the victims and gave one myself. I could not listen to any more of the stories; they were just too painful for a 17-year-old to process.

My injuries were far less severe than most yet also very real. I had broken my right thigh bone (my friend had broken her left) and I had bumps and bruises all over my body. My lower lip was so swollen it came up over my top lip. My right eye was cut, my upper back was banged up badly and yet, to this day, I consider myself lucky.

I was lucky because eventually my body healed. I was alive and able to talk about what happened, which some victims could not do. And even though I started my freshman year in college in a cast and on crutches, I had an automatic conversation piece was so fascinating people flocked to me at parties hear the story. My mother had to quit her job as a result of this accident (she stayed home to take care of me, as I was not able to care for myself for a few months) and eventually started her own (very successful) company.

There is one thing about this incident that has always upset me, however. I had an 11 o’clock curfew the night of the accident but did not make it home that night. I begged volunteers to call my parents and tell them I was all right. I was so worried that my father would be worried that every chance I got I asked someone to call my home. I finally got into a hospital bed at 2 a.m. and discovered no one had made the call. I picked up the phone in my room and dialed my number. I remember shaking as I pushed the buttons on the phone. “Dad?” I asked as I heard him answer.
“Where are you?” he said.
“In the hospital. I’m okay.”
My dad told me he would be there in a half and hour and hung up. When he arrived I could see he was shocked by my appearance. I had no idea how bad I looked until the next morning when someone showed me a mirror. My father didn’t tell my mother until the next morning and she called me from work. She was very upset. “I told you not to go,” she said. “But you didn’t listen.”

Well, that’s not exactly what happened, I thought, but there is no changing my mom’s mind. My parents both blamed me for getting hurt. As an adult and also a parent, I know it is completely illogical they could feel this way. What happened to me was a bizarre tragedy that no one could have foreseen. Somehow, to them, I was still to blame.

Events such as this one have molded the way I deal with my kids. I try very hard not to blame them when they get hurt but my instinct is to yell out, “See? Told you so.” It’s an awful and embarrassing reaction. They are children, after all. I am hoping my inner voice will remind me of this time and tell me all I wanted was for them to say to me, “Are you all right? I am so glad you are okay. I love you, honey.”

Photo by sundeip arora, courtesy of stock.xchng