I have not been on word press for the past several weeks due to an unforeseen tragedy.

My husband Lorin and I and our five cats were driving to Savannah, Georgia on September 28 with a loaded car, ready to start a new life, to escape the rat race of New York / New Jersey. The movers were at the house from 1 p.m. till around 7 p.m. We started the drive at around 7:20 p.m.

We drove through the night without sleep, enduring a torrential rain storm, unscathed. By seven a.m. Thursday, September 29, we were both bleary and falling asleep; Lorin at the wheel. I begged him to pull over, but he said we only had 70 miles left to go and we would be in Savannah in an hour.

At some point we both must have dozed off. I opened my eyes to see a silver oil tanker truck directly in front of us–seemed like inches away. I screamed for Lorin to veer off to the left side. He did so, and our car rolled and tumbled violently down a grassy hill. When the car came to a full stop, I pried open the passenger door and ran out. Lorin was lying in front of the car, his right leg bent slightly up, left cheek pressed to the earth, blood pouring from his ear and mouth. I screamed for help, crying hysterically.

A nurse who must have witnessed the accident came running out of her car to help. She checked his vitals and tried to revive him, but it was too late. Tears streamed down her face. She said, “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

I begged her to revive him, to help him. I begged Lorin not to leave me.

Our belongings were scattered on the grassy area and all over the road. It looked like a plane crash. Only two of our cats, Sylvester and Bernie, were in view. They were struggling to get up, but could not move. I didn’t see the others.

An EMT escorted me to an ambulance, saying I needed to go with him. He asked to take my blood pressure, but I refused. I asked him to please help my husband.

He asked if there was anyone I needed to call and asked where I kept my phone. It was not in my purse. I said it was in my purse. He gave me his phone so I could call family members, first Lorin’s mother who lives in Savannah. I was terrified she would be angry with me and wish I was dead instead of Lorin. I felt the same way when I called his grandmother on Long Island, but got her voicemail, asking her to call me back, but not conveying the news. I asked if someone could help my cats, and the EMT said animal control was on its way and he later gave me their card. Through the window of the ambulance, I saw someone placing a pale blue blanket over Lorin.

“Where are they taking him?” I said.

The EMT said he didn’t know.

I called my father and my best friend Nancy, asking her to please tell my other friends.

I was taken to a hospital in Colleton County, South Carolina and seen by a nurse, social worker and physician. I asked about my cats. The social worker told me that two had died at the scene, and three were taken to the vet. Quincy and Bernie died at the scene. Karl and Sylvester went to the vet; Sylvester was undergoing surgery. Both Karl and Sylvester died.

The nurse gave me two Ativan and the doctor gave me a 10 day prescription of the same.

The social worker returned to my bed saying that one of my cats survived unharmed–Samson. They brought him to me at the hospital.

I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t remember going to my mother-in-law’s home in Savannah or who drove us.

My stepmother came to Savannah two days later to provide support and assistance.

I am so torn up inside, trying to get through each hour and each day the best I can.