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He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man. ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery In February 2007, I began to work at Law Firm. We handled personal injury, medical malpractice and wrongful death suits. I started off doing all the generic boring day to day secretarial work; Filing, answering phones, scheduling appointments etc. I had been working there for nearly two years when I received the phone call that would stay with me forever.
This is the story of how I came to know the man who was, Ernest Girroir.
On November 28, 2008 our office received a phone call from a distraught woman, her name was Karla Girroir. She stated her husband was in a severe car accident while driving their antique mobile home back to their house on Thanksgiving’s Eve. I listened carefully, documenting her every word as she sobbed out the facts regarding her husband’s condition. I offered to schedule an appointment as quickly as possible with Janice Fisher, our attorney.
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“ She followed all my directions. It was really easy to contact her and respond very fast as well. ”
She advised me she was unable to come in because her husband had fallen into a coma and she needed to be by his side. I stayed late waiting for Janice to finish up with her other clients.
I couldn’t get Mr. Girroir’s case off of my mind and I had to speak to her before I could go home. I discussed the case with Janice and she immediately called Mrs. Girroir, I acted as a translator between Janice and Mrs.
Girroir as she spoke very little English and fluent Spanish. We were advised that Mrs. Girroir had no way of transportation for herself or her twin daughters to come into the office. So Janice offered to meet her at the hospital. We arrived at the hospital to find Mrs. Girroir and her twin fourteen year old daughters sitting in the waiting room. The odor of antiseptic clogged my nose; we walked into Mr.
Girroir’s room and as I listened to Mrs. Girroir explain what happened I couldn’t help but feel that even though we were in a private room it still seemed so obscenely impersonal and public. I watched the ventilator fill Mr. Girroir’s lungs with oxygen and listened to the melodious beep of his heartbeat monitor. I glanced at his two daughters sitting motionless on the corner of their father’s hospital bed and noticed they were holding hands. What it must be like for them, I thought to myself. I could never, and would never even want to imagine. I tuned back into Janice and Mrs. Girroir as they stared at me awaiting my help with the translation. Things moved quickly after that. Paperwork was filed, calls were made, and motions were submitted… although it seemed time was flying by… Mr. Girroir had still not woken up. I spent most afternoons for the next eight months transporting Mrs. Girroir and her daughters, Annabelle and Helen, back and forth between court hearings and hospital visits. I listened as the girls told me about their father and what a great man he was. They said how ironic it was that in all fourteen years of their lives he had never missed a Thanksgiving.
It was his favorite holiday; he slaved in the kitchen and called his turkey his masterpiece. So ironic in fact, that on Thanksgiving’s eve while making a few quick last minute runs to gather a few more Thanksgiving supplies his life would be cut short. Then it happened, it was July 1, 2009 a dreary rainy day, we drove in silence to the veterans hospital. What was only a forty five minute drive felt like an eternity. The pitter patter of the rain against the windshield and the soft squeak of the windshield wipers echoed throughout the car. It’s funny how silence can sometimes be so loud.
I drove to the entrance of the hospital to let Mrs. Girroir and the girls out so they would not get wet; from the look on their faces I knew it wasn’t good. I parked the car and opened my umbrella I felt the sloshing of the water beneath my feet with each step. I sat in the waiting room, anticipating the moment when they would come out of Mr. Girroir’s room. I saw Mrs. Girroir first; she had a blank expression on her face. No tears, only shock. I could hear Annabelle and Helens whimpers down the hall. I knew he was gone, what a day to die.
The ride home was much different than the ride to the hospital, Mrs. Girroir reminisced about all the good and the bad times they shared. She told me how he served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War and got several Medals of Honor. She told me the story of how they met in Honduras while he was stationed there. She grinned as she explained how he told her father he would marry her before they even spoke to one another. He was a very confident man, very romantic, yet stubborn and sarcastic. I glanced in the rearview mirror at the girls and saw them smiling listening intently to their mothers stories.
The mood was no longer melancholy but lighthearted almost mirthful. We attended the funeral, Janice and I. We had become a part of their family, experienced both sorrow and pain alongside them. The semi truck driver, Juan Gonzales* was never charged, as Mr. Girroir was driving home to his family on Thanksgivings eve Mr. Gonzales made a turn thinking he could make it before Mr. Girroir drove past. A turn he would never be able to take back altering the lives of several people including myself forever. The rear end of his trailer slammed into the front of Mr. Girroir’s vehicle totaling it and ultimately ending Mr. Girroir’s life. Nationally, a motor vehicle crash occurs every five seconds. Every ten seconds an injury occurs, and twelve minutes someone dies in a vehicle crash. Distracted driving is a factor in 30 percent of traffic crashes. This number is not surprising as drivers make two hundred decisions for every mile they travel. Meeting Mrs Girroir and her family has altered my life in so many ways, by making me understand how fragile life really is and how easily the decisions we make can affect so many other people. In memory of Ernest W. Girroir.
The Man Who Was, Ernest Girroir. (2020, Jun 02). Retrieved from https://studymoose.com/the-man-who-was-ernest-girroir-essay
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