It’s a question that echoes in my mind even now, years after a single decision stole a friend from our world. And every time I think of him, his laugh, his kindness, his love of baseball, the life he should still be living, I come back to the same truth: no drink is worth a heartbeat. Not one.

My junior year of high school should have been a season of joy. Prom weekend was the tradition everyone looked forward to - Wilson Lake, friends piled into tents, music, stories, memories in the making. It felt like the moment we were all waiting for. A rite of passage.

My date and I had planned to go. We were excited, ready to be part of that tradition. But my mom, who almost never said no, told me she had a bad feeling and she didn’t want me to go. His parents felt the same. So we stayed home, a little disappointed, but safe. Two of my good friends didn’t have dates, so they went to a concert in Hays instead. After the show, they headed to the lake like everyone else, laughing, alive, and free. They stayed the night under the stars, just teenagers being teenagers. The next morning, one of them needed to get home. He grabbed the first ride he could. And fate put him in the passenger seat of someone still drunk from the night before.

Alcohol. A speeding car. A curve. A bridge. A crash. A life ripped away.

I can still remember how the news felt, like the world tilted, like something inside me shattered. The grief hit so many of us at once, spreading through our school, our community, our families. We all carried the heavy questions: What if we’d been there? What if someone had stopped him? What if he’d waited for another ride?

But no amount of “what ifs” ever brought him back.

His absence changed every person who loved him. It changed me. From that day forward, drinking and driving wasn’t an option and no longer a statistic. It was my friend’s smile I would never see again. It was the silent seat at graduation. It was the future he lost, and the ache the rest of us carry.

That pain is what I’ve passed down to my nieces, my nephews, my kids. They all know this story. They’ve heard it from me more than once. And each time, I make them the same promise: If you even think you shouldn’t drive, call me. No questions asked, no punishment dolled out. I will come. My children are adults now, but I still tell them. I don’t care where they are or what time it is, I’m one phone call away.

There is so much in life we cannot control, but drinking and then choosing to drive is not one of those things. That decision is entirely, absolutely yours.

So this New Year, I’m asking you from the bottom of my heart:

Think before you drink.

Plan your ride.

Call a friend.

Call a parent.

Call a taxi.

Call anyone.

Please, value your life—and the countless lives you might touch—more than you value that next drink.

And before you pick up your keys, ask yourself one simple question:

What is the price of a life?

Because once it’s gone, there is no getting it back.

Dee Duryee

dduryee@gbtribune.com