L.P. Suzanne Atkinson
To answer this question, I will provide you with the beginning of Chapter 9 from my book: Emily's Will Be Done, which chronicles the true story of my quest to execute the estate of my dear friend.
In my somewhat biased opinion, guns are a curse. For me the world would be a better place without any guns at all. The more control and regulation the better. I find bullets, and lots of them, in Emily’s bedside tables—enough to fill a small grocery bag. We have the bullets. Now, where in God’s name, is the gun (or guns)?
We comb through the house box by box, drawer by drawer, and closet by closet. We find nothing resembling a gun of any kind. Since the discovery of the bullets, I am reluctant to continue the inventory and clean-up, afraid that when I open a cupboard I might find the gun. Did Emily actually keep a loaded gun in the house? Did she feel she needed protection for some reason unknown to me? She never once mentioned ownership or the use of a gun, but she knew my feelings and probably thought better of advertising the fact. I know her military history, but she worked as a clerk and the thought never crossed my mind she would keep a gun in the house—loaded for her protection. Now all bets are off and I am extremely nervous.
I credit Dr. David Suzuki with saving my life. My husband and I were living in Peace River, Alberta. We owned a kitchen cabinet shop in the small northern community nestled in the valley of the junction of the Peace and Smokey Rivers. About nine o’clock one evening in late September, I decided I wanted a copy of the local weekly newspaper. Accomplishing this task involved driving out of the valley to the top of the hill, about a seven kilometre trek. My husband didn’t want to come with me, absorbed in a special episode of The Nature of Things with David Suzuki, so I went alone. On my way home, as I navigated back down the secondary road in the pitch black of the starless fall night, I heard the crack of a rifle shot. As I turned my head toward the passenger side of my SUV, a small hole appeared in the window just a split second before the window exploded, shattering into a million pieces. The cold air rushed into my vehicle and my left leg, just below my knee, felt suddenly as if someone was holding a flaming cigarette lighter against my skin. I pulled my car over to the side of the road and peered out the windowless passenger side at the ebony wash that enveloped me. My heart pounded and my hands shook. I knew, somehow instinctively, that I had been shot.
I practised as a mental health social worker in the area for many years and so was well known in town. My husband and I were currently business-owners in the community and had a relatively high profile. Was someone trying to hurt me? Why? I did not want to panic. As I searched the darkness with unaccustomed eyes, the vision of someone approaching the car with a rifle popped into my head. It was definitely not safe to stay where I was. In a time without cell phones, I exercised my only option—I headed for home, a five kilometre drive. I was so afraid of passing out that I drove slowly and kept talking (read yelling) to myself all the way down the riverside road connecting our little subdivision to the highway. My leg burned with an intensity far above anything I have ever felt before. I had no idea how badly I was hurt, how much blood I had already lost, or whether I would make it to the house. I did not head into town to the hospital. We lived on the opposite side of the river and a large bridge spanned the mighty Peace. I would not take the chance of losing consciousness on the bridge—there was nowhere to go. At least, in heading for home, if worst came to worst, I could steer into the ditch and not into the wall of the bridge.
I drove into the yard and leaned on the horn until David appeared at the front door. He wondered at first why I didn’t simply come inside if I had forgotten my purse. I screamed for him to come and help me. The left side of my body seemed paralysed—frozen. I couldn’t lift my injured leg out of the vehicle without help. I couldn’t press down or bear any weight on my leg. It felt strangely as if nothing was there. David ran. When he opened the door, the cab light illuminated the floor under the pedals; the mat puddled with blood. When he helped me out of my SUV and into his truck, blood pumped from the hole in my leg and flew across the driveway. David later told me he was afraid I would bleed to death before he got me to the hospital. I, on the other hand, at no time felt that the life was draining out of me. I was afraid, but not of dying. Shock is a wonderful thing for some people and an Achilles’ heel for others. Some of us become quite lucid when in shock, able to think clearly and move forward. Others experience a kind of frozen inertia and coherent thought has to be done by someone else. Thankfully, I fall into the former category and found this out the hard way during a head-on car crash some twelve years earlier. I was completely in control on this night like no other in my life.
Emily's Will Be Done
book -978-0-9949590-3-4
ebook -978-0-9949590-4-1
In my somewhat biased opinion, guns are a curse. For me the world would be a better place without any guns at all. The more control and regulation the better. I find bullets, and lots of them, in Emily’s bedside tables—enough to fill a small grocery bag. We have the bullets. Now, where in God’s name, is the gun (or guns)?
We comb through the house box by box, drawer by drawer, and closet by closet. We find nothing resembling a gun of any kind. Since the discovery of the bullets, I am reluctant to continue the inventory and clean-up, afraid that when I open a cupboard I might find the gun. Did Emily actually keep a loaded gun in the house? Did she feel she needed protection for some reason unknown to me? She never once mentioned ownership or the use of a gun, but she knew my feelings and probably thought better of advertising the fact. I know her military history, but she worked as a clerk and the thought never crossed my mind she would keep a gun in the house—loaded for her protection. Now all bets are off and I am extremely nervous.
I credit Dr. David Suzuki with saving my life. My husband and I were living in Peace River, Alberta. We owned a kitchen cabinet shop in the small northern community nestled in the valley of the junction of the Peace and Smokey Rivers. About nine o’clock one evening in late September, I decided I wanted a copy of the local weekly newspaper. Accomplishing this task involved driving out of the valley to the top of the hill, about a seven kilometre trek. My husband didn’t want to come with me, absorbed in a special episode of The Nature of Things with David Suzuki, so I went alone. On my way home, as I navigated back down the secondary road in the pitch black of the starless fall night, I heard the crack of a rifle shot. As I turned my head toward the passenger side of my SUV, a small hole appeared in the window just a split second before the window exploded, shattering into a million pieces. The cold air rushed into my vehicle and my left leg, just below my knee, felt suddenly as if someone was holding a flaming cigarette lighter against my skin. I pulled my car over to the side of the road and peered out the windowless passenger side at the ebony wash that enveloped me. My heart pounded and my hands shook. I knew, somehow instinctively, that I had been shot.
I practised as a mental health social worker in the area for many years and so was well known in town. My husband and I were currently business-owners in the community and had a relatively high profile. Was someone trying to hurt me? Why? I did not want to panic. As I searched the darkness with unaccustomed eyes, the vision of someone approaching the car with a rifle popped into my head. It was definitely not safe to stay where I was. In a time without cell phones, I exercised my only option—I headed for home, a five kilometre drive. I was so afraid of passing out that I drove slowly and kept talking (read yelling) to myself all the way down the riverside road connecting our little subdivision to the highway. My leg burned with an intensity far above anything I have ever felt before. I had no idea how badly I was hurt, how much blood I had already lost, or whether I would make it to the house. I did not head into town to the hospital. We lived on the opposite side of the river and a large bridge spanned the mighty Peace. I would not take the chance of losing consciousness on the bridge—there was nowhere to go. At least, in heading for home, if worst came to worst, I could steer into the ditch and not into the wall of the bridge.
I drove into the yard and leaned on the horn until David appeared at the front door. He wondered at first why I didn’t simply come inside if I had forgotten my purse. I screamed for him to come and help me. The left side of my body seemed paralysed—frozen. I couldn’t lift my injured leg out of the vehicle without help. I couldn’t press down or bear any weight on my leg. It felt strangely as if nothing was there. David ran. When he opened the door, the cab light illuminated the floor under the pedals; the mat puddled with blood. When he helped me out of my SUV and into his truck, blood pumped from the hole in my leg and flew across the driveway. David later told me he was afraid I would bleed to death before he got me to the hospital. I, on the other hand, at no time felt that the life was draining out of me. I was afraid, but not of dying. Shock is a wonderful thing for some people and an Achilles’ heel for others. Some of us become quite lucid when in shock, able to think clearly and move forward. Others experience a kind of frozen inertia and coherent thought has to be done by someone else. Thankfully, I fall into the former category and found this out the hard way during a head-on car crash some twelve years earlier. I was completely in control on this night like no other in my life.
Emily's Will Be Done
book -978-0-9949590-3-4
ebook -978-0-9949590-4-1
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