Rabbit Hole: An entrance to a rabbit’s burrow or warren; a bizarre or difficult state or situation; a portal into a different, strange world; and all of the above.
In The Rabbit Hole chapter in our 2015 book, Suffering Is the Only Honest Work, we shared the letters we exchanged with Peter, the young driver of the car that accidentally struck and killed our 24-year-old son Jimmy in August of 2008, and the amazing synchronicities that led to our decision to reach out to Peter nine months after the accident: Jimmy telling us through our medium, Tarra, that Peter was having a hard time; our friend Steve who spotted Peter at the Crosby Golf Club where he worked, near the scene of the accident, and was told he was suffering; and Hilary and I going to see David Lindsay-Abaire’s Pulitzer Prize winning play, Rabbit Hole, focused on a tragedy very similar to our own.
The second half of the play features the 18-year-old driver of the car that accidentally struck the parents’ 4-year-old son who ran into the street chasing the family dog. Jason (played by Miles Teller in the Rabbit Hole movie starring Nicole Kidman) is desperate to connect with the parents and express his deep remorse and plead for forgiveness. The father wants nothing to do with him. The mother lets him in and they share their deep pain and suffering. After we received Peter’s letter in July of 2009, I shared the connection with “our real-life Jason” with Lindsay-Abaire who sent us a beautiful, touching letter of gratitude. This is all told in the chapter
The letters exchanged with Peter were our only contact with him. We heard through the grapevine Peter had moved to Oregon or Idaho and was pursuing a career as a PGA Professional at a golf club.
Seventeen Years Later
In March of this year we got a new roof. Our roofer is a 68-year-old, wirily built chain-smoker from Los Angeles who made the two-hour commute back and forth each day to our house in Solana Beach. His name is Frank, with jet black hair (not died), and dark brown skin baked by countless hours in the sun. We have a steeply pitched roof—too steep for solar panels—and other roofers refused the job as too difficult. Even though our two-story house was surrounded by scaffolding, we worried for Frank’s safety and were incredulous that he could handle by himself the heavy packages of shingles and other materials. Frank is sneaky strong, and moves like a cat—slow and sure.
Frank was quiet and mostly kept to himself, but we usually chatted at the end of the day before he made the slog back home. One afternoon I was in the garage working on my hand-made birdhouses. Frank came in for our end-of-day talk. He was hopeful his son, also named Casey, would come down from Los Angeles to help him for a couple of days. Frank said Casey was involved in a bad motorcycle accident two weeks earlier. “Casey was riding his motorcycle on Del Dios Highway in Rancho Santa Fe not too far from here. He was following a car that for some reason slammed on its brakes. Casey and his motorcycle crashed into the back, flew over the car and landed in front. The motorcycle was totaled, but other than a few bruises, Casey was OK.” Frank added, “You know, Del Dios Highway is famous for accidents and fatalities.”
The door was opened—and I walked through.
I said to Frank, “We’re very aware of the dangers on Del Dios—Highway of the Gods. Our son Jimmy was accidentally struck and killed by a car as he was walking home on that road in the pre-dawn blackness from a friend’s house in the summer of 2008.” Frank sucked in his breath with the gut punch. He expressed his sorrow and condolences, and I told him how the pain has softened over the last several years. I also told him of the help we’ve received from the other side—including messages and signs from Jimmy as well as from my father who died by suicide in 1970 when I was 20. I told Frank an abbreviated version of the story of the beautiful letter my father wrote to me in 1968 that didn’t arrive in my hands until 40 years later, three months after Jimmy’s death.
I told Frank, “My father closed his letter full of fatherly advice with ‘I’ll be around any time you want me. I’ll be there–because I care more than you’ll ever know, my son. All love, Dad.’ The letter arrived on November 8, 2008. That day was Jimmy’s 25th birthday. My father knew that day would be one of the hardest days of my life, and he was there for me. As he promised he would.”
Frank and I were both wiping away tears at this point. [Here’s a link to Steve Date’s ten-minute film “The Letter.”]
Casey showed up the next morning. He had recently started working for a Home Depot in the Los Angeles area stocking shelves from 8 p.m. to 2 a.m. He got a few hours sleep before he rode his new motorcycle down to help his dad. During a break, Casey came into the garage where I was working. He said “My dad told me about your son’s accident. I’m really sorry. He also told me about the letter from your dad. Wow!”
Casey, 26 and recently married, told me his mother died when he was 17. She was addicted to alcohol and drugs and couldn’t kick them. She was abusive to his dad and older brothers, but Casey said he was close with her. Her death hit him hard. He started using drugs himself, and soon he became addicted as well. His dad pleaded with him to stop and get help. He finally did. “I’m six years sober. My only addictions now are fishing and motorcycles.”
We have a large photo of Jimmy leaning against a wall in the garage between our hot water heater and furnace. The photo was originally taken at our daughter Brittany’s wedding in 2007 and was blown up and displayed with several others at his memorial service in 2008. Casey looked over at the photo. “Is that Jimmy?”
Casey looked me in the eyes, “It’s a small, strange world isn’t it? Del Dios Highway. How is it that I’m alive and your son isn’t?”
We hugged.
The next day I heard from Peter. I’d say ‘completely out of the blue’ were it not for the interaction and foreshadow with Frank and Casey.
Peter sent me a beautiful, extremely thoughtful email. It was courageous. I was deeply moved to tears. He lives and works in Idaho/Wyoming with his wife of 12 years and young son. Here are some excerpts.
Over the past week, I’ve felt a strong need to return to the site of the accident. I couldn’t fully explain why, only that I needed to pay my respects to Jimmy. In talking it through with my wife, I realized it has been 16 years since I’ve been back.
That search also led me to look for you and your family, as I have done from time to time over the years. I’ve followed, from afar, the incredible work you’ve done—the memorial scholarships at Torrey Pines High School and USC , the support for others—and I’ve always been struck by your strength. This time, I came across your book, Suffering Is the Only Honest Work. When I read the synopsis, it mentioned that the book included letters between your family and the driver (me), so I felt compelled to read it. All these years later, I was never entirely sure how my letter was received by the family, but I always hoped that it was known that it came from the heart. Your book gave me an opportunity I didn’t think I had.
I’m not someone who typically reads a book in one sitting, but I came very close. It gave me a perspective I have never fully had—the depth of your family’s experience and the spiritual journey you all undertook. It was powerful, emotional, and truly beautiful.
I also hadn’t known about the play-turned movie, The Rabbit Hole, before reading your book. I watched the film last night, and now, as a father, it resonated in an entirely different way. I cannot begin to understand the loss of a child, and I won’t pretend to—but I look at my son and can better appreciate, even in a small way, the magnitude of what you endured. I am deeply sorry for what your family has gone through.
Peter wrote they planned to visit the scene of the accident as well as Jimmy’s memorial bench in the San Elijo Lagoon in Solana Beach. I wrote back, profusely thanked him for reaching out, and asked if it would be OK if I joined them at the bench. Peter welcomed the opportunity. I talked it over with my wife Hilary and Brittany, and we thought it best if I went alone.
I met Peter, his wife Whitney, and young son, Quaid, at the trailhead. It was a Sunday afternoon, a beautiful, clear day, in the low 70’s. We were all a bit nervous. We started to shake hands and I pulled him in for a hug. We chatted on the short walk to Jimmy’s bench. While Whitney chased Quaid up and down the trail, Peter and I spent almost two hours together on Jimmy’s bench engaged in conversation that ranged from light banter to as deep as you can go. It was more than good. It was powerful, healing, and unburdening. Peter is a good man and is in a good place. He’s lived in Idaho since 2010 and has worked his way up the ranks in golf club management. He’s a PGA professional, Director of Golf at a very exclusive club in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and was recently named Rocky Mountain Region PGA Professional of the year, evidence that he is held in high regard by his peers.
In the letter we received from Lindsay-Abaire back in 2009, he wrote, “I deeply believe that it is through connection we heal.” I’ve extensively explored the healing power of deeper connections with family, our friends, Jimmy’s friends, people that knew Jimmy but we never met, and folks I’ve just met like Frank and Casey. But I didn’t think about Peter, the driver; or at least I thought the letter exchange was the extent of the connection. If I’m being honest, I didn’t want to go there—back to that horrible instant in time. And yet it was important—necessary—for both of us. He suffered mightily, too. Peter’s life was also shattered. It nearly broke him.
We talked about the accident—Peter wanted to; me, not so much—and he revealed some details I didn’t know— how tough and traumatic it was for him—for a long time. It was as much a nightmare for him as it was for us. Counseling helped him a lot. Us too. Peter told me, “When I stopped feeling sorry for myself as a victim and began to focus on everything I have to be grateful for, I started to get my life back on track.”
I told him how much we wished he wasn’t the one driving that car. I said, “As we wrote to you in 2009, we’ve never blamed you. Jimmy had way too much to drink that night, and had no business walking on Del Dios Highway at 5:30 in the morning when you driving to work. Our sincere hope was that this very unfortunate accident wouldn’t take you down, and you’d be able to live a productive and joyful life. I can’t tell you how grateful we are to see you’ve been able to do just that.”
Peter said the accident has made him a better person, husband, friend and supervisor—more compassionate, empathetic, and more grateful for all the good things in his life. “I wish it never happened, but I’m also grateful that it did, and for how it changed me for the better. Does that make any sense?’
It sure does.
We walked the half mile back to our cars. I gave Peter one of my hand-made birdhouses, and signed copies of Suffering and our 2021 book When the Veil Comes Down. He gave me some special toffee they make in Idaho and an open invitation to play golf at his club in Jackson Hole. More hugs all around.
When I got back home, Hilary and Brittany were waiting anxiously for a debrief.
On Monday, Frank and Casey returned to work on the roof. When they finished for the day, I told them about my meet-up with Peter. The synchronicity of our conversation three days earlier about Del Dios Highway, and Casey’s brush with death, was not lost upon us. We talked more about Casey’s mom, Frank’s ex-wife, and Casey’s successful battle with drugs. I gave them each a birdhouse, and signed copies of Suffering Is the Only Honest Work.
I immediately thought David Lindsay-Abaire might like to know about this new, much deeper and personal connection with Peter, especially since it was the Rabbit Hole movie (for which he wrote the screenplay) that motivated Peter to reach out to us. I sent him Peter’s email to me and a brief recap of our conversation at Jimmy’s bench. I thanked him again for his play Rabbit Hole, and its ongoing power to connect those of us involved in similar, real-life, tragedies.
I heard from David three months later. He apologized for his tardy reply. He’d been totally consumed with getting his new play ready for Broadway. The Balusters – Manhattan Theatre Club received five Tony Award nominations. Here’s some excerpts from David’s beautiful email.
It was so wonderful to hear from you, and to hear that you’ve reconnected with Peter after all these years. I was so incredibly moved to read what Peter wrote to you and how his perspective has changed and deepened over time, especially now as a father himself. And how wonderful that you and Peter’s family were able to meet in person at Jimmy’s bench and have such deep conversations about the accident and parenthood and life in general. It’s so rare for something so wonderful to come after such an unspeakably awful event. What a gift that you were able to spend that time together.
It’s so easy for me to feel despair at the state of the world these days, which makes your story exactly the balm that I’ve been needing. The journey that you and your family have been on, as well as Peter and his, is so life-affirming and inspiring. It’s so nice to be reminded that the human spirit is capable of so much when we lead with kindness and empathy. It sounds so simple, and yet…
I can’t thank you enough (yet again) for reaching out and for sharing a part of your path with me. I don’t have the words to express how much your story means to me.
I sent David’s reply to PeterI’ve come to realize over the years, and even more so now after my time spent with Peter, that healing from a devastating tragedy—any loss of someone we deeply love—is a marathon with no finish line. There’s no spiking the ball. ‘Whew, finally done with that.’ There are many stages of grief, much like a ship going from lock to lock in the Panama Canal. There are periods of ups, and periods of downs. And healing can come in unexpected ways, from the unlikeliest of sources, where time is irrelevant.
There were so many people impacted by Jimmy’s death—perhaps no one as deeply and traumatically as Peter.
David is so right—through deep connection we heal. Peter and we continue on our healing journey, perhaps on a higher plane, because we sat together, in the presence of Jimmy, on his bench, and finally opened our hearts and souls to one another.
Leave a Reply