Thea (61): “For a moment my brain seems completely blank. I’ve just woken up, my eyes are still closed and I’m dozing for a few seconds, warm and safe under my covers. Then I feel the sadness creeping around my heart again. The sadness that has nestled there since yesterday. My son hit a cyclist with his car. Later that day it turned out that this man did not survive the accident. When we heard the message, Bas stood in front of me, cowering and shaking his shoulders. What should have been an ordinary working day for everyone became, in a fraction of a few seconds, a pitch-black moment whose consequences are incalculable.
My husband went to the office this morning. I am self-employed and work from home, but I don’t know how to start the day. I decide to go to my son. His boss called him in sick. When I ring Bas’s doorbell, he opens the door unshaven and with tearful eyes. He doesn’t say much. “Coffee?” he mumbles, and without waiting for my answer, he walks to the kitchen. I would prefer to talk to him. Ask what exactly happened, how he feels. I hear Bas keeps messing around in the kitchen. When I walk up to him to ask if it’s working, he starts crying. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” is all he says, turning away from me and leaning against a kitchen cabinet.
Then he looks at me and starts talking. He would like to express his condolences. He would really like to know who the next of kin are. Whether the man he hit has a wife or children. The police have not released that. He knows nothing about the relatives. The police’s priority is to find out what happened. An investigation was carried out at the scene of the accident and Bas’ car was seized for further investigation. Bas was checked for alcohol and drug abuse, but it turned out that he was sober. He has now been given the opportunity to hire a lawyer who will be present at the next police interrogation. My concern now is actually more about my son’s well-being. I wonder if victim support is also not available for ‘perpetrators’. At the same time, I am ashamed of the word perpetrator. Is that my son? Was he in the wrong place at the wrong time, or did he drive recklessly or thoughtlessly?
This afternoon he has to go to the station again, now with his lawyer. I realize that I have to inform people around me. My brothers and sisters. Friends too, actually. But I feel reluctant. I’m afraid of judgment. My son has a death on his conscience. I find that thought unbearable. What must that be like for him? Ultimately I decide to post a long message on the family app. “I’ll come to you tonight,” my sister texts. I feel a sense of relief from that message. My husband retreats to the office, my son is on a rollercoaster that keeps him alive and I walk around like a headless chicken because I can’t find peace.
When Bas calls at the end of the afternoon to say that the interrogation is over, I ask him if he wants to come to us for dinner. He wants that. With my husband, sister, Bas and I at the table, we first sit very quietly opposite each other. My sister has the gift of getting everyone talking, including my son. “I was standing at the red light,” he says. “As soon as it was green, I took off. At that moment a cyclist sped across the road. Because I was just accelerating, I barely had any speed, but I did tap the cyclist, causing his head to hit the road.” We hear how he put the man in a stable recovery position while bystanders called 911. “I don’t know what to do now,” he says. I realize what immense sadness there is from one day to the next for two families. Will this pain ever subside? Is there anything Bas can do to ease the suffering of the surviving relatives and himself?”
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