Death postponed

I know God exists, either that or I am going crazy. I talk to him every day. Not directly, at least not always, though in moments of anger he is sure to catch a piece of my mind. I, like I would hazard to guess most people alive no matter what religion they may profess to call their own, talk to him most in times of need. I would imagine this is a difficult thing, to be begged to spare and save while rarely thanked.

My life has been an interesting one, the interest level taking off exponentially recently as the stress caused from the death of my father a little less than two years ago has been added to by the addition of my biological parents reuniting and finding me not three weeks ago. Much like George from "It's a Wonderful life" I have wondered the importance of my life, the curiosity of a world with out me floating through my head.

I should have been dead on two occasions and wonder what stroke of luck or unseen hand played a role in my continued existence. There are other near miss occasions I can see through the misty fog that is my memory, but these two I can recollect with clarity, almost as if the events that begat them were purposefully seared into my consciousness, their absoluteness separating them from the fog.

The first was when I was about 10 years old. My family had left, as we did at least twice a month, for a weekend out on the boat, an activity my parents reveled in and one my brother and I had grown so accustomed to that it ceased to elicit an argument. We had anchored in Port Ludlow, a little cove etched into the coastline of Whidbey Island.

As always happened when we were finally at anchor, my brother and I took off rowing for the shore, happy to finally be free of a 30 by 11 foot prison at sea. We arrived at the shoreline and my brother took off on his ever present quest for all things marine, leaving me to tie up the dinghy. I hopped out, sans shoes, as I was so used to the rocks I didn't feel I needed them.

Pulling the boat up the rocks I stepped on a broken bottle and sliced a gash in my foot three inches wide and to the bone. Bleeding profusely I yelled for my brother to come row me back to the boat 300 yards off shore but he refused, thinking I was faking in some attempt to lure him away from his beloved beach roaming. Left with no other choice I set out to row myself back, the race on to get back to my father the doctor before I passed out.

In my recollection of the ordeal I was a tough solider muffling my cries every time I passed another boat at anchor. According to my parents, my wails could be heard across the cove, their pitch rousing them from their books to see what caused me such pain. My version will remain in the recesses of my memory, as I prefer to see reality as a time long enough passed, its true sounds forgotten. Either way, I got 25 yards from our boat when my parents saw the 4 inches of blood and water in the cockpit of the dinghy.

I recall hazily watching my father fly into action, the knowledge that I was safe lulling me to sleep. I cannot recall being yanked from the dinghy but remember waking up to my father stitching my wound with fishing line, but not before he showed me the bone through the depth of the gash, and my mother pleading with me to stay awake.

This story took on a life of its own as my father and I have always argued the true mix of blood and water in the dinghy that day. He tells me that with the amount of liquid sloshing around in the dinghy there was no way even 80% of it could have been less than water, that I would have lost consciousness on the row halfway to the boat. No level of explanation that neither when we got to shore nor when I hurried back in the boat was there ever more than a half an inch of water in its floor will sway him, his medical background not allowing it.

During this trip I do not recall any angels, no helping hands assisting with the rowing, for it was too long ago to recollect, but I do know that I never felt in danger, that even with the amount of blood I was losing my strength never wavered.

The second life saved was about 3 years ago when I was taking one of my dogs, Roscoe, out for a run in McDonald forest. We had been climbing up a bike trail, Roscoe alternating between running off in exploration and fearfully cowering at my feet, the smells and scents of other animals both enticing and scaring him. We walked for about a mile, through a windy and muddy trail and up a little hill about 200 yards long. When we reached the top I decided to give Roscoe an actual run and took off, near a full sprint, down the hill and out toward the trail head a mile away. I ran as fast as I could, my lungs bursting but my feet churning and steadily plodding after Roscoe. I am pretty fleet of foot and jumped effortlessly over downed trees and around muddy corners until I came to a 60 degree right turn in the trail.

One of the things I had not accounted for in this jaunt was that I was wearing sweats, those baggy, oversized soccer sweats everyone sees me in, their pant leg openings flopping over my ankles. As I was turning this sharp corner I felt my left pant leg catch under my shoe and felt my body pitch to the left, precariously leaning closer and closer to a topple position, when I felt a wall of sorts against my left shoulder and my body slowly being righted until I was again stable and upright, all the while my feet never wavering from their chugging state.

About 20 yards down the trail, when I finally came to a rest, I walked back to the spot and looked at where I had tripped and where my skull was headed. It turns out that had I continued to topple as gravity should have mandated my skull would have made direct impact with a 5 foot diameter downed fir, cut in half to make room for the trail, and my head would have served as my air bag.

Now, I know that many people can recollect a time like this, though I do not know with what clarity, but I am left to wonder the why behind both of mine. I know fully that there is no way I should be here, not with the acute loss of blood at 10 nor without an invisible wall and helping hands blocking my impending contact with a felled tree.

The question that permeates my thoughts from the knowledge of both of these blessings is the answer to the great philosophical question of why I am here. Why me? Why am I supposed to be here? Does my life has some larger purpose?

Perhaps both were blind luck. I have tried to justify both as pure coincidence, that perhaps I have a really good guardian angel, but to admit the existence of a guardian angle is to admit that my guardian has a reason to protect me. Figuring out that reason is an arduous task at best, I find it hard to believe that any answers are going to miraculously or even unceremoniously appear, no matter how hard I look for them or with how passionately I plead.

Though I am not thrilled by this I think that is kind of one of the great mysteries of life, that we are supposed to struggle over our destiny, our purpose for our short walk on this beautiful spinning planet. I believe though that were we to actually open our eyes, ears and our minds to the possibility of an established path we may find our way more readily.

And so I hope to roam for a while, my consciousness a little more aware and listening. My one hope along this journey is that I talk with whatever is out there more often in thanks than I seem to in anger. I figure I owe at least that much.