I’m Fine, Really

Nearly nine months ago, a supervisor at my company, whom I barely knew, was killed in a head-on collision. Informally within the company we were told the other driver, a 47-year-old man, had a fatal heart attack then his vehicle crossed the center line into the vehicle of our co-worker. The cause of the accident was not published in local papers. The colleague was 37, married and the father of three young children.

Every once in a while you hear of a driver being suddenly incapacitated then careening into something. My bit of research found two carefully documented reports that it does happen though not often at all. One cites male diabetics older than 65, and the other focuses on coronary disease.

We have long been lectured to that if you’ve been drinking don’t drive, even though it’s like “don’t litter” signs where the main violators never see the warnings or if they do think they mean someone else. (When my wife and I ran a bed-and-breakfast inn for a year we also operated the gift shop. Like most little stores we had signs reading no public restrooms. It was amazing how often those were ignored.)

I’m not sure how an impaired driving campaign would proceed and what good it would do. Two drinks and you should call a cab. If you’ve taken medicine that has warnings of “do not operate heavy machinery,” then even the smallest car qualifies; get a room. If you feel yourself nodding off, pull over. If your health is iffy, you’ve told friends you feel under the weather, you’ve worked half a day, golfed in the afternoon then proceeded on a four-hour drive home in 95-degree heat, maybe you should get a ride.

Friends don’t let friends drive dead. Then again, how can you predict? I don’t know that I — stone sober and in the peak of health — may reflexively swerve to avoid a racoon and into you. This announcement has been brought to you by C.A.D.D., Children Against Dead Drivers. -30-