Ron Sdraulig: Another Time Another Place - Part 2

Wouldn't It Be Good - Nik Kershaw

Ron Sdraulig March 1984

Ron Sdraulig: Another Time, Another Place

By: Gigi Sdraulig

Part Two

One-quarter mile north of Hinkley, Minnesota on Interstate 35, at 8:55 pm, we were rear-ended by a Geno’s Frozen Foods tractor-trailer. He rode up on the trunk of the car, causing the gas tank of our car to drag along the ground, explode and start on fire. We were pushed down the road for 250 feet, crossing into the left lane before becoming airborne for another 80 feet (and an estimated air speed of 60 mph) landing upside down on the opposite bank of the Grindstone River – 15 feet below the roadway. The transport truck came to rest partially on the riverbank and partially on the northbound roadway of the divided highway. I remember Mom telling us not to breath the thick smoke, Linda was pleading for help. Sandra was silent and I believe either thrown from the vehicle or dead from the impact. I remember staring at the flames to my left (through the rear windshield). I was dazed and didn’t know what had happened. I felt a tugging at my foot and then my sock came off. I was pulled at until I was able to squirm my way out of the mangled wreckage and was safely out.

Sandra watching over me, Ron and Linda 1973

 It was Ron. He had saved my life! We didn’t speak. The noise of the crackling fire was deafening. The heat was intense. We slowly made our way up the embankment a ways and stared at the burning car. Without speaking a word we both rose and were on our way back down to the car to get the others when the first Highway Patrolman came upon the scene. He wouldn’t let us any closer. Then reality hit and we cried for our family to come out. We were quickly ushered into the patrol car and were headed to the nearest hospital. On the way, word came over the police radio, that a woman had emerged from the car (that woman turned out to be Jenny). My brother and I cried, he suggested we pray that it was Mom. Through tears, I said that I couldn’t because my hands hurt. But will overcame pain and my severely burned hands went together in prayer. Mom would be okay, she just had to be. At the hospital and on the stretcher, the ER personnel started to cut off my clothes. I had no idea that I was injured – just my hands hurt – and I complained that I did not want my favourite jeans and sweatshirt ruined. In fact, I had suffered third plus degree burns to my hands, face, left arm and left leg. I was immediately transferred to Miller-Dwan Hospital’s Burn Unit back in Duluth. Torn clothing was of little consequence to those who knew my life was in the balance.

Waking up in that hospital bed, the first thing I saw was Ron, standing at my bedside. We talked about Mom, Sandra and Linda. I knew I had been transferred and so we surmised that they were alive but just more seriously injured and unable to make the trip to the second hospital where ever it was that we were. We believed we would be reunited soon. It didn’t happen that way. I got the “You’re a big girl…” talk from my Uncle (mom’s brother). They were all gone. My best friends, Sandra and Linda and my Mom. All gone to be with Dad.

Alone with my news, I cried like I never cried before. My world was completely shattered. I felt no physical pain but I felt my heart rise into my throat and fall into pieces like the tears streaming down my bandaged face. There was no way, that at that age I could attempt to comprehend the gravity of the situation. I didn’t know what it meant to have third degree burns and I certainly didn’t know how to deal with the sudden and devastating loss of nearly ever member of my family. I cried. I felt sorry for myself and I pleaded for answers. Why?  

Oddly enough, growing up believing that Dad was in Heaven with the angels helped me to deal with my plight. When I asked God “Why?” I got from within myself an answer that made sense. Mom and Dad were very much in love and went through a lot to be together – they missed each other, so she died so she could be reunited with her love. Sandra died because she was the oldest – you know how parents are about their first-born, Dad wanted her with him. And Linda, she died because she was the baby that Dad never knew and he wanted to get to know her. I didn’t like it, I was still angry but I felt like I understood why. That understanding allowed me to let go of some of the bitterness that I felt at the time. I didn’t want to be the one left. But I went further than that. Ron was not injured in the accident, save for minor burns on his ears and I decided that was because God had thanked him for saving my life by taking away his injuries, besides he had enough to deal with because of his cancer.                                            

Ron and I spent many hours as he sat at the foot of my bed just talking and trying to deal with it all. In the beginning my eyes were swollen and bandaged shut, so I didn’t so much see him as sensed his presence. In the relative seclusion of my hospital world, I was not confronted with the reality of life without Mom. Ron had returned to school promptly and was adjusting to our “new” life with Nonna and Nonno moving into our family home and assuming guardianship. An Aunt from Thunder Bay left her own two children in the care of her husband (my dad’s brother) and came to spend time with me. She made me laugh, she helped me heal, she told me I laughed just like my Mom. She reminded me of better times and helped me to see some hope for the future. After spending nearly three months in the hospital, I was released. I had to go back and face school friends as a totally different person. I was an orphan with a tragic past and I carried the scars of my life plainly for all to see. Generally, people were either kind or stayed away, but some hurt with comments and stares. I was accepted by most of my friends. Many didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t help them; I didn’t know what they could have said. What do you say to a 12-year-old orphan whose appearance you barely recognize any longer?

Being so visibly scarred by the accident was in some way therapeutic for me. I had to talk about it. All of my life people have asked what happened. I re-told the story so many times that I was often concerned that I sounded callous speaking so matter-of-factly about something so devastating. Dwelling in my sorrow was not my style. From the very beginning I found the silver lining in the dark clouds. I still had my brother. Although severely burned, it certainly could have been worse. And I did survive. Truth be told, just barely. Despite all the trauma we had endured, there was no mental after-care. There was no social workers who monitored the adjustment period. Ron and I were left to our own devices to cope in any way we were able. Unbeknownst to me, talking about it was the only therapy I would know.

For Ron it was different. No one knew that behind his mischievous grin lurked a boy in a lot of pain. Sadly, I was not there for him either. Ron and I were not particularly close before the accident. The four of us paired off. Linda and I (both very feminine) versus Sandra and Ron (both more sports orientated). Life was a great deal different with Nonna that with Mom. Nonna followed the old Italian school of beliefs that held that boys had more and different privileges from girls. Mom grew up this way (and from all accounts suffered because of it) and determinedly raised her children, girls and boys, equally. After 12 years of being raised “New-fashioned” it was not easy to conform to these odd rules. I rebelled and argued constantly. I am very strong-willed! To this day, I maintain that I basically raised myself in accordance with Moms’ ideas. All this open battling had a detrimental effect on Ron’s and my relationship. We had frequent arguments because he did not understand why I was being so difficult. At the time I couldn’t put it into words myself. He had everything he needed (including freedom for a boy his age) and could not understand my attitude.

Ron 1977

 He had everything he needed that is except his Mom. I had no idea of the internal turmoil that he dealt with daily. What child doesn’t want his Mom by his side when he is sick or hurting? He needed his Mom. Ron and Mom had developed a very close relationship during those long hours in doctors’ waiting areas and in hospital rooms. Ron knew things about Mom as a person, as a wife to Dad, as a single parent that no one else in the family did. But, his trips to Rochester continued on without Mom, Nonna took him now. He had more operations, chemotherapy, painful tests and the uncertainty that goes along with having a disease. In fact he had at least seven recurrences in the following 10 years. I remember the Shingles that he contracted when he was about 16 and we were told he was contagious and that we should stay away. I snuck into his room to keep him company anyway. This was the first time we discussed his mortality and he began to understand my civil unrest. He eventually landed in a local hospital to rid his body of this infection. This was also the first time that I visited my own brother in the hospital and sat at the foot of his bed as he had so often done with me. Just talking.

 Ron and I developed a relationship with a very special family that essentially took us on as their own. They were Bobbi and Gord Law and their children, Kerri and Craig. Gord was Ron’s sixth grade teacher at the time of the accident. While I was still in hospital, Gord took it upon himself to drive Ron to Duluth to visit me. Things progressed and soon we began to tag along on their family outings. We went camping, biking, skiing, even celebrated birthdays as a family. We did the little family things together too. Shopping, BBQ’s, playing board games, watching TV, hanging out, sharing dreams and even arguing. In many ways, Bobbi and Gord became surrogate parents. I can’t imagine life without them, even today.

Ron and I in Thunder Bay

I moved out of the house two weeks after my 18^th birthday. It was a good time for me. I could finally live my own life. I remained rebellious but level-headed (sort-of). I got a job in the kitchen of a Nuns’ residence, while I contemplated my career choices. Ron visited often and although he did not approve of my relationships, he was supportive. And he finally fully understood my dissatisfaction at home. I went on to college just outside of Toronto. I had decided on Early Childhood Education because I did not want to raise my kids the way my grandmother parented me, I wanted to learn how to do it right. I was afraid I would follow the destructive model of my own later life. Ron stayed in Thunder Bay and spent some time at Lakehead University. He loved the excitement and opportunities available in the Toronto area so he visited frequently and stayed with me (much to the chagrin of Nonna, who hated his being away from her). And hated his being with me more!