“You Don’t Know Me But I Saved Your Life.”

I may have sat next to him in government class. Surely we passed each other in the hallways of the high school we both attended. A face in the crowd, a name in my yearbook. It was 50 years before I discovered he saved my life.

I’m talking about the boy I should have known back then but didn’t.

I was 17 on the day of my accident. I probably shouldn’t have been driving. My mind was elsewhere. My boyfriend had been pressuring me to have sex and was not happy with me. I was the Good Catholic Girl Who Would Only Go So Far. We’d argued and I was upset.

Before him, I’d dated other boys. My dating record back then looks a lot like my marital history until I met my forever husband when I was in my forties. One failed relationship after another. You know the saying, There are no bad dogs just bad trainers? In my case, there were no bad guys (with the exception of one or two), just bad choices. And I made a lot of those.

My first kiss, when I was thirteen, set the tone.

I’d imagined kissing to be like in the old movies I’d watched, lips primly pressed together and no tongue involved. When my date turned out to be a sloppy kisser, I think I threw up a little in my mouth. Which I scrubbed out as soon as I got home. To say I was disenchanted is putting mildly.

I was also pretty sure I’d done Something Bad.

The following Sunday when I went to Confession after Mass, I agonized over how best to put it the priest. Would he know what a “French Kiss” was? Or what it meant to “make out?” I sincerely doubted it. He was a man of God. And, hello, celibate.

Sweating in the confessional, I finally blurted out, “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. I, uh…fornicated.”

Long pause. The priest knew me. Knew my family. He was no doubt shocked to learn Little Miss Innocence had “fornicated.” He gave me so much penance my knees were sore by the time I was done praying and my dad, waiting in the car with my mom and 5 siblings, was suspicious. What did you do? said the look on his face when I finally climbed into the car.

When I was 14, I had a crush on a senior in high school. He asked me to his senior prom at the last minute after breaking up with his girlfriend. I was the only girl there wearing a short dress. I hadn’t had time to shop for a gown.

When I was sixteen, I broke up with my then-boyfriend after a day at the races where he’d spent the entire time ogling other girls through his binoculars.

So there I was, at age 17, driving home from my date with my boyfriend who wasn’t happy with me because I wouldn’t GO ALL THE WAY. Distracted by my troubled thoughts—Should I have sex with him? Was I being a prude?—I wasn’t paying attention to the road. I made a left turn at a blind curve…

…and plowed head-on into the car that was coming around the bend.

I blacked out. When I came to, I was in an ambulance headed for the hospital, covered in blood.

I had lacerations on my forehead that required multiple stitches but luckily no other injuries, except for a possible concussion.

I remember my parents showing up at the hospital. I was sure they’d be pissed at me for totaling the family car. But they weren’t mad. My dad wore sunglasses. Later I figured out it was because he’d been crying.

When I returned to school the following week, it was as though the accident never happened, apart from the scar on my forehead.

Shortly after, my then boyfriend and I parted ways when I went away to college. He soon faded into the fabric of my past and I went on to tie the knot with my first husband.

Flash forward 50 years. After my high school reunion last month, which I was unable to attend, I heard from an old classmate of mine, Paul Schoenstein. He told me an incredible story.

He was there that day. Standing in front of the historic Pioneer Hotel in Woodside, CA, he witnessed the accident in which I was almost killed. He was with a friend at the time and they rushed to the scene, pulling me from the wreckage before it could catch fire.

I felt a chill go down my spine reading his email. How had I not known this? How had I not known him?

My unsung hero.

In the #metoo climate of today—or in my case, looking back at my dating history-we sometimes forget there are good guys out there. Guys who’d risk their life to save another person’s, and in the case of my rescuer, who don’t seek praise.

Paul, I wish you had told me. I wish I could have thanked you back then for coming to my rescue and possibly saving my life. I hope I was wearing good underwear like my mom always told me to in case I was ever in an accident. I wish I’d known you 50 years ago. We would have been friends. We might even have dated.