The only thing I could feel was fear. I vaguely remember a short boat ride across the river from where the big bummer took place. From there it was a quick Medi-Flight ride above Sacramento to the hospital. A handful of firefighters and paramedics shot me out of the back of the ambulance like a wave breaking on the asphalt. Then the excitement began. My fear started to grow as the paramedics and doctors and nurses continually had little private conversations and powwows, obviously discussing the extent of the visible damage that I’d done to myself. I looked on. No, that wasn’t possible. I couldn’t turn to look because my neck was immobilized by a couple of blocks of big yellow foam. So I listened. It was so chaotic that trying to eavesdrop on these people was near impossible. I guess that a conversation would probably have to wait.
The whole furball of activity really seemed surreal because you seldom see this kind of thing outside of a TV episode. People were barking orders insisting on bags of this and tubes of that, sprinkled with short breaks of the murmuring powwows. I remember thinking, as people hung over my head looking down at me, that their startled looks began to mirror how I felt. My line of sight became a camera’s point of view looking up from the ground in a football huddle of medical personnel. It was the same thing you see on ER, the little pen lights shining in my eyes along with questions being shouted at me. Continue reading “The Dive.”
On August 11 last year, I celebrated the anniversary of my not so glamorous injury. 23 years ago is a very long time. I did as I always do on one of these anniversaries, count my chickens and consider myself lucky to be alive with someone to love. That same day as I went about with my lukewarm life, I was terrified to learn of Robin Williams death. Alternating bouts of tears and disbelief I decided that it was very appropriate for this to happen on a day that typically finds me saying ‘thank you.’ Continue reading “Big boys don’t cry.”
How the hell do people write books about themselves? Telling stories of where they were and what they were doing, that’s one thing. How about sinking the pickax into your own gut and mining the bits for all the things that make you, you?! Who wants to do this? The first reason why I want to try is strictly monetary. I’m hoping that I can find a way to help support us in some fashion. The second reason, okay, there is no second reason. Not really anyway. I guess I feel cheated that I wasn’t able to make my mark in this world in some other fashion. Although, where I am is mainly due to decisions that I have made, I do feel that there was some kind of misalignment in the, chance, opportunity, luck machinery. The Fate thing, if you want to call it that. Anyway, things are the way they are and there’s probably a good chance my circumstances may allow me to make a mark in spite of myself.