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On the Road with Dirty Sally

Without saying a word, she made my fears take a hike.

by Rhonda Reese

I tightened my sweaty palms around the steering wheel of our Nova as my husband Glenn leaned inside the car window to kiss me goodbye and set an AAA card on the dashboard.

"Have fun," he said with a grin.

"I'll try," I said through a forced smile, fighting to remain calm as I mentally rehearsed everything my counselor had taught me about averting panic attacks. Attempting this trek, the first long distance, overnight outing I'd tried by myself in years, meant facing my biggest fear. Could I handle an unexpected crisis alone?

My mind raced back almost four years earlier to the first nightmarish episode. The walls in the school where I taught seemed to turn gauzy gray. My heart raced so fast I could barely breathe. I felt an eerie floating sensation like I'd read people sometimes had in out-of-body experiences.

I huddled in my classroom's closet until the attack subsided. Thankful that my students had already gone home, I crumpled into an exhausted heap.

Following that frightening afternoon, I spent four weeks on sick leave. When attempts to resume teaching brought on deepening depression and more panic attacks, I was hospitalized in a psychiatric ward for five months of intense therapy. After being discharged I continued outpatient counseling.

In the months that followed, my panic episodes gradually diminished and flickers of hope returned. But my confidence and competence were deeply shaken, and the fear of a sneak attack kept me close to home.

Sally rides shotgun
A few months prior to Glenn's driveway goodbye, I'd surprised myself by expressing interest in attending a two-day educational conference 100 miles from home. My counselor and husband encouraged me to try it.

They helped me take short drives in preparation for the big day. Glenn even took time off from work to drive me over the entire route, so I'd be familiar with all the surroundings.

A neighbor lent me her cellular phone and spent hours letting me call her from different locations around town. With enough practice, I hoped to avoid any unsettling mishap that might send me into a panicky dither.

A week before my scheduled departure a friend phoned. "I read an article that said riding with a companion increases traveling safety. I think you should fix up a mannequin to look like a passenger."

"A mannequin?" I asked. "Where would I get one of those?"

"I have one from an old school project," she explained. "I'll drop her by, okay?"

"All right," I answered with a sigh. "Bring it over."

I named the life-sized doll Dirty Sally and dressed her to look as tough as I wanted to feel. She sported a leather jacket, blue jeans, hiking boots, a baseball cap (pulled slightly forward), big black sunglasses, and a frizzy brown wig. When I thought Dirty Sally's "motorcycle gang" outfit appeared complete, I propped her up in the passenger seat of my Nova. She almost made me smile—a rare occurrence following my panic attacks.

"Riding with a companion
increases travel safety.
I think you should fix up a mannequin
to look like a passenger."

The key fiasco
"Listen, hon," Glenn's instruction jerked me back to the present, "call me when you get to the hotel."

If you get to the hotel, fear taunted. I chain-chewed bubble gum through the entire drive. By the time I pulled into the hotel parking lot—located about a mile from the conference center—a mountain of Bazooka wrappers filled my "passenger's" lap.

"Everything went okay," I reported to Glenn from the hotel.

Before driving to the conference center, I decided to move Dirty Sally from the front seat to the trunk. "Sorry, ol' gal," I apologized while smooshing her under a blanket. "I don't want people to see you and think I'm nuts."

A wispy feeling of unease enveloped me during the conference classes. I managed to stay through the final evening session, but when I arrived back at the hotel, fear hung heavy in the room. I tossed and turned all night.

The next morning, I decided to jog around the parking lot to calm my nerves. Dropping my keys into the car trunk for safekeeping, I slammed the lid and strode off.

Twenty minutes later I returned and tried to open the trunk as usual, by twisting the black knob. Nothing happened. I rattled and twisted the knob again. Nothing. Fear rose in me like a flood.

You're an idiot, it accused. When you slammed the trunk shut, it somehow locked with all your keys inside. You'll never get home.

"Oh no," I blurted. "Oh no." My heart pounded in my ears. I gasped for air. "Oh God, help me stay calm," I prayed. "If I have a panic attack, I won't get home." I swallowed hard.

I darted into the hotel lobby. "Do you have a fingernail file?" I asked the desk clerk between gasps. "Or a crowbar? Or anything? I locked my keys in the trunk."

"Tried a locksmith?" the gentle-looking, white-haired lady replied.

A locksmith. AAA. Of course. The card Glenn gave me was still on the dashboard. I ran outside, read the phone number through the windshield, zipped back inside, and dialed.

"We'll be there within an hour," a male voice promised.

Harder than I thought
As I hung up the receiver, words my counselor often said came to my muddled mind. "God will never leave you or forsake you."

"Never leave me or forsake me. Never leave me or forsake me," I chanted while circling my car. Within minutes a gray van pulled up beside me.

"I'm from AAA auto service. You the lady with the locked-up keys?" a sandy-haired driver asked.

"Yes," I answered. "How'd you get here so fast?"

"Just finished with another car up the block when I heard the call come in," he said. "I'll fix you up in a flash. No problem."

Getting my car unlocked wasn't a problem. Getting into the trunk was. The locksmith worked on the knob for at least 20 minutes before making an announcement. "I gotta take your back seat out and get to the trunk from there."

Remove the seat? A new wave of apprehension washed over me. Did he have to tear my car apart?

The locksmith started unscrewing bolts. I climbed into the front seat, leaned over, and machine-gunned him with nervous questions.

"Does my husband have to know about this? Will the police come? Does this get filed on any insurance stuff? Will you bolt the seat back in when you're done? Do you think my car will be okay to drive? Do you think I'll be able to get to the city conference center by 9:00?"

The locksmith didn't answer, so I took a deep breath and prepared for another onslaught of inquiries. Then I heard something metal click.

Surprised by Sally
"Think that got it," the man said, lifting the back seat up. Before I could speak, Dirty Sally's disheveled torso rolled forward. As her head sprang out, one of her arms snapped sideways and brushed the locksmith's pant leg. "Wha … ?" he yelped as Dirty Sally's wig flopped onto the floorboard.

I gasped. The locksmith dropped the seat and shot backwards out of my car so fast I thought he might decapitate himself on the door frame.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Sally's … she's … not real," I stuttered.

It took several seconds for color to return to the locksmith's face. "Well, I thought I'd seen everything," he said.

"I'll … buy you a soda," I offered, escaping toward the drink machine. As I scampered off, a … could it be … yes, a full-fledged giggle burst forth from deep inside me. I'd acted so nutty. And the look on the locksmith's face when Sally rolled out. Suddenly I laughed out loud. It felt marvelous.

I returned to my car as the locksmith tightened the seat's last bolt. "Thanks so much," I said, handing him a cold cola. The man took the drink, cranked up his van, and drove away. It seemed my fear was leaving with him. Locking my keys in the trunk and watching God care for me had broken something free that all the therapy in the world couldn't touch.

I made it to the morning conference on time. And that afternoon as Sally (still napping in the back seat) and I drove home, a blue locksmith van passed my car. Written on the vehicle's side in large, lemon-yellow letters were the words "Jesus holds the key."

That's right, I thought with a confident smile. Whatever future problems come my way, I'll face them with assurance that Jesus holds the key. Because he does, I need never handle any crisis alone.

A Christian Reader original article.

Copyright © 2000 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
Click here for reprint information.

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