On the Edge
A story from a cold Vermont night that brought me to the edge—and back. Read or listen, and let me know how it lands inside of you. Your voice always matters.
Right now I’m stuck in my car, perched on the edge of a hill descending from the unplowed parking lot next to my office… 10:15 on a dark, cold, and snowy night.
I’m looking downward toward the propane tank beside the building below. My foot is on the brake, not quite sure how I got here—not sure if I should move.
It’s been snowing all day, too busy to notice. I just want to get home. I guess it could be worse, but I’m not sure how.
I know how—but I don't want to think about it. I turn the car off, so I don't lose power or run out of gas.
Oops… forgot to fill up on the way to work. Not typical for a guy who takes pride in remembering the little things. Not so little, I guess.
My body is cold—shivering. I'm starting to lose sensation in my feet, but the old pain in my back reminds me that I’m still alive.
I dare not take my foot off the brake for fear of sliding down the hill even further—and losing total control.
That wouldn't be good.
I call my sweet wife—just about to retire for the day. Thanksgiving travels across the pond were wonderful, but took a toll on her body, too. I hate to tell her I need a hand right now.
She says, “I’ll stay with you until you’re out of trouble.” She always does… never runs for the hills—especially when I’m on the edge of one.
Taking a deep breath, I try calling the towing companies she texts me—but I keep getting the same message: “This number is no longer in service.”
Pretty ironic. Maybe that's how people feel when they call me, and I'm not available. It's a wake-up call when I’d like to be in bed sleeping right now.
The car slips a little more. I call 911. They quickly connect me with local police. They ask for my name, location, and date of birth—“just the facts, sir.”
I hope knowing my age will get them to take me seriously. That would be different… no honey or sweety.
They inform me that an officer is on their way. I inquire, “How long will it take?” “It should be about two minutes,” they say.
It’s a long 2 minutes—stretching into twenty. Getting colder. Slipping—trying to hold the hope for my wife—and myself.
FUCK—and a few other swears I would tell my kids not to say. They’re both adults now. And I’m sure they would understand—maybe join me in a chorus of their own.
My car is going to crash with a direct hit on the fuel tank and building below. I couldn’t have planned it any better. All the cards are lining up
Is that the way my life will end? I’d definitely be seeing the light then—not so invisible. Couldn't even write about it.
Out of nowhere, I see two young boys coming my way. The older one with ripped pants, around 13, followed by his eleven-year-old sidekick.
Reminds me of my older brother and me growing up in Buffalo, New York, the snow capital of the world. He’s gone now.
I was always the one left behind to shovel and clean up the mess. Still doing it I guess. Imagine he’s watching the show once again—now wishing he could give me a hand.
I’m wondering why these boys are out on a night like this. Perhaps returning home from a friend’s house or trying to find their way home—or maybe running away. I can't go there.
Rolling down the window, already partially frozen, I ask if they can give me a hand—a little push. Without hesitation, they stand side by side, each blocking a different headlight—but not even a budge. The older one suggests I try driving down the hill.
Yeah… not so fast. My brother might have done something crazy like that when he was his age. Probably why his pants are ripped—and they’re outside right now. Maybe why my brother isn't here.
I decline and thank them for their effort. They scuttle off, plowing their well-worn, no-name sneakers through the deepening snow.
I wish I could have gotten out and passed them a few bucks. But I was frozen in time and space—literally hanging on the edge of a cliff, trying not to fall over—like my patient told me a few hours earlier when describing his childhood.
One of our city’s finest finally arrives. It takes the officer a few minutes to get out of his ominous vehicle. I wonder if he thinks I’m dangerous and is calling for backup.
The young man approaches and asks me how I’m doing. Although he’s not wearing a jacket, I can tell he’s been in this situation before and cares about my well-being. I hope his body armor is keeping him warm.
I respond, warmly, “Thank you for being here.” I repeat my request and inform him that I didn't have any luck getting a tow truck. He tells me that he isn't supposed to request a tow on private property, only public roads, but he will try.
My heart skips a few more beats—reminding me of my precarious journey with my first a-fib ablation a while back.
My wife was there too, and felt like she lost me for a while… another journey of heart. I’m still here—no fear—a message not spoken but felt, going in both directions.
The kind public servant makes his way back to his car, and I turn on mine, so I can feel the heat and keep the hope from slipping further.
He returns to tell me the tow truck should be here soon—maybe 20ish minutes. He assures me that he will wait until it arrives.
I thank him profusely. He’s my hero. Not fighting crime but saving an old guy from an untimely demise. I’m sure he won't say that in his report.
The morning headline flashes in front of me: “Local psychologist blows up building. Wounded parts scattered.” Yeah, the local paper and TV station would love this one. Good for business—not mine.
My wife texts again for an update. Twenty minutes stretches into thirty. Getting colder—and older.
Can hardly feel my toes. Can’t find the strength to reach the backseat for the blanket I like to carry, but only use to cover my briefcase if I need to run into the store.
Completely exposed—nothing to hide anymore.
Need to cut this short for now. The tow truck is here. Like the hand of God, he effortlessly pulls me up the hill. I feel like the massive rock in Albert Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus—pretty absurd.
Finally, I’m straightened out—didn’t even need therapy. Maybe later. That's the way these things work.
With teeth chattering, I thank him and quickly slip him my credit card. It doesn't matter how much. Just grateful to be alive. I'll live to see another day.
I cautiously slide down the road. The police car follows protectively until I pull into the Cumberland Farms. Need to refuel and use the long-awaited facilities—before I have a real accident.
The bathroom door won’t open. The attentive older clerk passes me a key on a cracked plastic ruler… fitting the occasion. I sip on some hot chocolate as my wife suggested earlier. Tastes like crap, but it’s warm.
I message her as she questions an odd text from me on her phone. Must have bumped it trying not to piss on myself. I already have that t-shirt. Don’t need another to bury in my open-door closet.
I reassure her that I’m okay and moving again. Not really—but I’m on my way home.
Driving really slowly now, even though the roads are mostly clear. Still a little slick, adorned with sprinkles of snow and icy rain on top of an old grocery store cake. Doesn't make it taste any better.
I'm the only one on this well-traveled road. I wonder why—not really, just my way of releasing the tension with a little humor. As usual, I’m the only one laughing.
A couple of cars come up behind me. I want to tell them to get off my butt… pass me already. I'm going at my own pace. A big truck whizzes by—too fast and way too close for comfort. What are they thinking—or not?
Finally, I pull in the garage. I'm still shaking but glad to be home. My wife comes out of the bedroom to check on how I'm doing.
I tell her I’m okay and thank her for hanging in there—never losing hope. I feel it in my heart. That’s what our marriage is about. It's who we are. She’s my biggest fan and hand. I hope I’m hers.
I say, “Sorry for keeping you up. I just need to get some sleep right now.” She softly says, “I’m sure. Just glad you’re home. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re here.”
Just a smile… no words needed. We both got the message.
I awaken before dawn. Can't sleep. So, I write. Just what I do.
Feeling grateful I’m still living, not among “the dead.” A little early baby boomer humor. Not on the edge of disaster—on solid ground.
I look up to the sky and say, “Thank you for listening. I never felt alone.”
Glad to be here with all of you, even though Barry McQuire’s Eve of Destruction is humming in the background again. The world’s a little unsteady right now.
Let’s talk sometime. I don't want to miss the chance to give you a hand if you‘re on the edge.
Maybe I already am but don't know it yet. Knowing we’re here together, holding the light for each other, is all that really matters.
Gratitude: In appreciation of those who have shared their light and sweetness with me over the years—and received mine.
Confidentiality note: All patient reflections are composites and fictionalized to protect privacy and honor confidentiality. Any resemblance to your own life is both coincidental and universal—reminding us that our stories echo one another in the shared fabric of human experience.
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.