I need to make June 16th a better day to
remember. And I think fans and the cast
of Supernatural might be the people for the job.
4 years ago, my 17 year old sister Jules went on a run around the
neighborhood. She was a star track
athlete and running was her life.
An hour after she left, we received a frantic call from the police;
a man had lost control and hit her head on with his SUV.
She lived. Her brain lived. Half of her was broken. We spent weeks in hospital. Almost a year healing her. She was lucky.
But she often doesn’t feel lucky. She remembers being alone,
she remembers choking on blood, even if she could she doesn’t run on the
street anymore. Her comeback to running
was short lived. Of course she is
blessed that she can walk, but before she could nearly fly.
June 16th, really the whole first half of June,
is hard for her. She doesn’t like to
drive near the intersection it happened.
Even the weather triggers nightmares and memories I wish she could
Being trapped in bed, jaw wired shut, we sat 24/7. A lot of those hours were filled with
Supernatural reruns on TNT. When she
finally came home, DVD. We healed her
body and a year after her accident we both went and got the Supernatural tattoo
for fun. Band-aids on bullet wounds
perhaps, but you need to find some light during the darkest times.
Today is June 12. She
texted me frantically this morning. A
particularly bad PTSD attack hit her while she was driving. It was too upsetting and she is on her way home
and we will likely stay in, re-watching Supernatural for the millionth time.
I was just wondering, if there was any way for you to do a
quick shout out, anything really, that I can show her the morning of June 16th
when she is too upset to get out of bed.
When nightmares of screeching brakes have no doubt kept her awake through
If there is anything you or your friends can do to help save
us, save our world, that day. Please do it.
And to the fans if you could keep this going, that would be amazing. Keep fighting your own darkness.
He marries a nurse he meets in the hospital. Let’s call her Gloria. She’s one of Violet’s friends. She’s kind and funny. She’s looking for a husband, but she’s not a pushover. She’ll call Jack on his bullshit when he’s being an asshole.
Their oldest daughter, Susan, is born a few months after the Sousas’ daughter. She’s a beautiful baby, big blue eyes, hair that’ll be blonde if it ever comes in. Gloria wants at least three kids, so Jack’s not worried about getting his boy. He, Peggy and Daniel are almost friends these days (or at least not enemies), and the girls can have tea parties or whatever.
Then Joan arrives.
She’s beautiful, too. Blue eyes, blonde hair, just like Gloria, just like Susan. Jack takes one look at his infant daughter in her big sister’s arms and begins worrying about high school.
So it’s no secret that Jack wants a son, but he’s not a bad father to his girls. He can’t be. He’s too competitive. And Sousa, the bastard, he’s Mr. Mom. He even stayed home with Michael and Colleen for a while while Peggy got S.H.I.E.L.D. up and running. Plus, Jack wants to do better than his old man did. So yes, he sips pretend tea from a little cup and does his best Marge impersonation during playtime. Heaven help the agent who says something one day when Jack pulls a pink barrette in his pocket during a briefing.
When Gloria gets pregnant a third time, Jack’s so sure John Jr. is finally on his way. He’s ready with “It’s a boy!” cigars.
World, meet Ruth Ann Thompson.
Gloria can’t stop laughing at her husband, who’s acting as though the universe has tricked him somehow. Because she sees how Jack holds their latest bundle of joy, swaddled in a pink blanket, hears him whisper the same promises he made their older daughters when he thought no one was listening.
I swear to God, Ruthie, if a guy ever mistreats you …
They only ever planned on three, but well, accidents happen. Jack’s trying to break up a fight between 9-year-old Susan and 8-year-old Joan over whose turn it is to use the bathroom when Gloria utters the words that make his blood run cold: “I think I’m pregnant.”
Because Jack Thompson is a man with only daughters, and five women under one roof will be the death of him.
“Maybe you’ll get that boy you want,” Sousa says, not bothering to look up from the case file Jack’s brought over to the CIA for a signature.
Jack snorts. He’s so sure he’s getting another daughter he tells Sousa, “Tell you what, if it’s a boy, I’ll name him after you.”
“Margaret’s a nice name, too,” Sousa calls as Jack’s leaving.
Over his dead body.
But then. But then. The doctor says three magic words: “It’s a boy.”
Oh, how Susan, Joan and 6-year-old Ruth Ann fuss over their baby brother. Jack reminds them all to be careful, but he’s already made peace with the fact his son will spend his formative years being his sisters’ baby doll.
A promise is a promise: they name him John Daniel Thompson.