Road Signs

March in Ohio had been unusually warm. It was warmer here than our Florida destination. The crash happened September 6. My leg was amputated a few days later on September 15. We pulled out of our driveway on March 15, Six months and 9 days later.

People ask us all the time if we have episodes of PTSD. Ben and I talked a lot about the wreck which helped us process what happened, but poor Chase probably had the worst PTSD of the three of us. He became afraid of everything. Riding in the car, something he enjoyed before the crash terrified him. On the rare occasions I left the house for a doctor appointment, he became frantic with separation anxiety. Strangers made him panic. It took us months of gentle work with him to get him comfortable with life.

We had no idea how we were going to feel as we pulled out onto the road. The “new” RV was a newer model of the same make and model coach we had, just configured a bit differently. It was weird. Everything was the same, yet different. The cab area of the RV looks exactly the same, right down to the “Too Busy for Bullshit” sign on the front drawer, which Ben rescued from the old rig. Ben had the radio tuned to his favorite oldies channel, both hands on the wheel. Outwardly, the only thing different about me was my metal leg.

Initially we made some small talk, remarking on how nice the new coach rode, how my seat was so very comfy and had an electric footrest. We commented on familiar landmarks. It would take us three days to get to Florida. Our first stop for the night will be at Cabela’s in Bowling Green KY. The second stop is at a Bass Pro south of Birmingham, Alabama—after an obligatory stop at Buc-ee’s so Ben can get a pulled pork sandwich. Day three we are scheduled to arrive in Port St. Joe. We’ve done this route south for years, but that comfortable feeling you get from a pleasant routine had vanished. Despite outward appearances, we were tense.

The bigger a vehicle is, the noisier it is. RVs are extra noisy because all your stuff clunks and rattles around when you go over bumps. Passing semi trucks are really loud when they have no cargo. The truck box acts like a drum and magnifies the thuds they make. Our wreck started when our front tire exploded with a noise like a bomb. Every bump, clang and thud made my heart skip a beat. Mentally I processed each noise. Hear a thud. Tense up. Is it coming from us or is it another vehicle? Realize it’s not a threat. Deep breath. Relax somewhat. Hear another thud, rinse and repeat. I snuck a peek at Ben, who looked unconcerned. I asked him “are you having any PTSD?” He was quiet for a second, and said “noises make me tense up.” I looked down at my poodle. Chase was curled in a tight, trembling ball at my feet. When he’s anxious, his nose drips incessantly. His muzzle was soaked from his drippy nose, and a tiny puddle formed on the floor. Since the accident, he can’t abide being closed in; putting him in a crate made him panic, so we restrained him the best we could to keep him safe. We humans are canny about hiding our inner selves, but dogs have no inner life; they are incapable of masking their feelings. It occurred to me that he was manifesting what Ben and I were experiencing. We hadn’t passed Cincinnati. I began to wonder how we were going to survive.

Speaking of Cincinnati, as you drive southbound on I-71 in Ohio, you pass by a series of ominous black billboards with red and white lettering starting with “HELL IS REAL” further on is an equally cheerful billboard that says “IF YOU DIED TODAY WHERE WOULD YOU SPEND ETERNITY?” People going northbound on I-71 will see the Ten Commandments on the reverse side of the signs. They’ve been there for years, but as we passed them this time, I took a break from my ongoing anxiety—recovery cycle and thought “Whoever you are that made these damn signs, go put a sock in it,” which is old people speak for “shut up.” Then, for the first time after decades passing these signs driving to and from Cincinnati, I decided to do some digging into the billboard situation.

I learned the “Hell” signs are a bit like the Coffindaffer Crosses I wrote about some years back. Like Coffindaffer, Jimmy Harston in Kentucky felt the Call, which was to erect the billboards. He has has erected several sets, but unlike Coffindaffer, he keeps no record of how many there are nor where exactly they are placed, reasoning that the Bible warns against keeping a tally of the number of good works you perform. Whenever he felt the Call, he’d look for a likely site. He especially liked the open, flat area around Cincinnati and bought up a patch of Bob Hall’s land closest to the freeway. The Ohio “Hell is Real” signs went up in 2004. Those of you who don’t live in Ohio need to know that we embrace our quirks wholeheartedly, especially internal squabbles among our sports teams’ fans in a north-south split between Cleveland and Cincinnati—the Reds versus Guardians and Bengals versus Browns. Our soccer teams have joined the fray, and the competition between the Columbus Crew and FC Cincinnati. Their league match in 2019 was dubbed the “Hell is Real Derby,” and the name has stuck ever since—and Harston’s signs were promptly turned into sports banners. Harston was interviewed about his feelings regarding the fans co-opting his message, and was reported to say “It doesn’t damage what I have done, I am sure the Lord is using it for what it was meant to be.” If you’d like to read more, click here to Go to Hell.

We passed the “Hell is Real” signage, drove through Cincinnati and crossed the Ohio River bridge into Kentucky. To cope with my anxiety, I watched for the road signs that have become so familiar. The Corvette Museum in Bowling Green. My personal favorite, the exit sign for the town of Big Bone and Big Bone Lick State park on the way to Louisville. South of Louisville the Bourbon Trail starts, and subsequent highway markers announce distillery locations. Bulleit. James B. Beam. Maker’s Mark. On the approach to Bowling Green the Cabela’s sign looked warm and inviting from the freeway. We pulled into Cabela’s lot, parked the rig and turned off the engine. Chase jumped up and immediately morphed into his usual sunny self. He was like that all day. Nervous while in motion, but the minute we turned off the engine at a rest area, he was ready to walk or play. Ben took him for a walk, we had supper and settled in. At bedtime, we congratulated ourselves for making it through the first day. We settled in, with the poodle snuggled between us.

I thought about the “Hell” billboards while I listened to Ben and the poodle snore. I’m not sure I know where I’m going to spend eternity, and I’m willing to bet you don’t know either, regardless of your beliefs. You may have faith, but faith is different than knowledge. I imagine some day I’ll find out, but I’m not in a rush. I can’t comment about the nature of eternity but like the sign says, “HELL IS REAL.” Some of us spend precious time in a hell of our own making in this life, never mind the next one. Anyone who has experienced serious trauma knows what it’s like to be suddenly ensnared by sensations of catastrophe; it’s Hell, it’s no fun and there’s no getting over it. You have to go through it. I decided to take a lesson from my dog; feel your feelings and move on. Hell can put a sock in it.

The next morning we packed up and headed for Birmingham. Day two was better; traffic was light. Chase settled in on the couch, head up, vigilant as to his surroundings. Signs for Buc-ee’s start appearing every few miles to let you know you’re that much closer to their brand of craziness. We made our ritual stop at Buc-ee’s near Huntsville. We got our sandwiches, jerky and dog snacks. We spent the night at a Bass Pro store south of Birmingham, an oddly quiet and woodsy stop for its location.

We rose on the third day, had breakfast and set our sights south. Chase resumed his post on the couch, this time allowing his head to rest on his paws. I ran my hand over his floofy head and body. He wasn’t exactly relaxed, but he wasn’t trembling. “I know exactly how you feel buddy,” I whispered, “It gets better.”

A few hours later, we pulled into Presnell’s RV Park, found our spot and dropped the jacks.
Onward!