by MISSY BEATTIE
Toyota is in trouble, and I’m worried. I have a huge investment in the company—my son Hunter. He drives a Camry, one model among the eight with acceleration problems. Hunter purchased the used vehicle from my brother almost two years ago and within a week of ownership, called and said, “Mom, I was driving and suddenly the gas pedal stuck.” (I omit his expletives.) He went on to tell me that he’d panicked at first but, then, shifted into neutral while braking. Hunter’s quick thinking averted a situation that many others have been unable to avoid—accidents, including some resulting in the deaths of drivers and passengers.
Recently, Toyota announced two recalls due to problems with the gas pedal. One is called “Floor mat entrapment” and the other is “Pedal.” Hunter had removed the floor mat after his scare. Now, he’s received the “Pedal” recall. Word from Toyota is that this is not an electrical problem but an issue with the pedal itself and it easily can be repaired with the installation of a small part. I hope this isn’t a band-aid, something to assuage concerns. I need to know that my child isn’t going to be surged into another car, pedestrians, or like one couple in a Camry, off a cliff into water.
As a parent, my greatest worry is the safety, health, and happiness of my children. I’m one of those mothers who couldn’t fall asleep until I heard the door open and close, followed by, “Mom, I’m home.”
After my nephew Chase was killed in Iraq, my anxiety reached near panic-attack intensity. I lay in bed, thinking how abruptly words can change lives. When Hunter was home from college, I’d wait to hear the comforting click of a key, turning a lock. If he were five minutes late, my heart would start pounding. Finally, finally, I brought this under control just as I eventually will calm down once I’m certain the pedal is no longer a hazard.
But I cannot be placated about other disasters and accelerations—particularly those of war.
I think of mothers, fathers, wives, and husbands of troops deployed to combat in AfPak-Iraq and wonder how they sleep, how they breathe. For me, every day would be a 24-hour tour of enduring fear. Every knock at the door would deliver panic. I would be unable to eat, to have any peace of mind, or to function. I know this. My stomach hurts as I write.
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(Submitted by Ingrid B. Mork)