Earlier this month I had my birthday — Thirty-nine years of being alive. Thirty-flippin’-NINE!! My mother was thirty-nine when she had me, so there’s a strange feeling of having arrived. I know it’s weird; I can’t quite explain it. I’m also at an age when a person starts looking back and asking, “How did I end up here?!?” I mean, I’m in a good place . . . a great place, actually. It’s just not what I expected. I imagine very few of us get what we expected, some better, and some worse. I can’t help but feel extremely fortunate. There have been dodged bullets, a few broken hearts, and some sudden directional shifts that have brought me here . . . exactly where I’m supposed to be. It’s interesting to look back and think on those moments which could have gone differently, especially those which could have prevented me from being here at all.
- Thirty-nine years ago I arrived two weeks premature being strangled by my umbilical cord. Sis says I was literally blue. Then I developed jaundice. Hey! Yellow and blue make green! Hence, I like to joke that I’m multi-racial. Either that or an alien. Daddy always told me I was bought on sale at the TG&Y. Whatever. It’s all good.
- It was thirty-two years ago that the family RV glanced off of a curb in Kentucky and flipped onto its top in the interstate median almost the instant after I had crawled down from the overhead bunk where I’d been reading a comic book. The bed was crushed. I came out hardly bruised. The comic book survived, too, but just barely. (It was Archie, by the way. I still remember.)
By the way, that same year gave me my first impression of death (a cousin who passed away in a car accident — she looked like the sleeping princesses of fairy tales), a frightening hurricane, and the first loss of a grandparent.
- It has been nearly twenty-two years since I wrecked my first car on the interstate in a 5-car pile-up at Christmas time. Mine was the first car . . . on a bridge with no shoulder. Somehow I managed to avoid hitting the car in front of me or the bridge railing (although I could show you how close I came with my thumb and forefinger) and stay in my lane while sliding perpendicular to it. My driver door faced oncoming traffic , and the last vehicle I’d seen in my rear-view mirror was an 18-wheeler. A big pickup truck hit me in the front fender and the railing instead, and a compact car dodging the truck hit me in the door. It’s the only time my life has literally flashed before my eyes. I was convinced I was about to die, but I walked away with mild bruises from the seat belt and door arm rest.
- It was twenty-one years ago that I was run off the highway (ominously nicknamed “Bloody 98”) while driving back to college from a weekend visit home. The road was only a two-lane at the time, and as I crested a hill, I saw two 18-wheelers headed straight for me, trying to simultaneously pass a line of traffic. The first one cleared in time, but the other didn’t, forcing me into a ditch. Fortunately, my car and I were undamaged, and some good Samaritans helped me out of the ditch and on my way. I always regretted not getting their information so I could thank them properly.
- That was also the year of the infamous trip to New Orleans. I went under the misguided notion of protecting a couple of foolish friends, only succeeding in proving myself the fool. The effort of keeping them out of danger resulted in staying up all night to keep myself safe. I was the one in best shape to drive us home the next morning, which is a sad commentary considering I don’t know how we made it across Lake Pontchartrain. I couldn’t keep myself awake. We made it across that lon-n-n-ng bridge, but not beyond it. I veered off the road and into a ditch just inside of Slidell, Louisiana. The car landed on its side, throwing both of my passed-out friends across the vehicle, one nearly flying through the window by me. I’ve hardly spoken of the incident for shame, although there is far worse trouble a naive 18-year-old can make for herself. An unfortunate side-effect is that I have disliked New Orleans ever since.
- Another unfortunate side-effect of that trip and car wreck was the subsequent depression. There were other contributing factors, but the wreck triggered it. I’d always been sort of a sad kid …. y’know, shy and awkward with poor self-esteem … but this was on a whole new level. I ceased functioning during daylight, staying up all night and sleeping all day. Oh, and I wanted to die. Quite literally. I considered taking matters into my own hands, but knew I didn’t have the right. My life wasn’t mine. I had given it to Jesus when I was six years old, and the authority to decide its ending was his, not mine. That didn’t stop me from praying for it, though. The phrase “if I should die before I wake” from that childhood prayer held a lot of appeal for me. I wanted it more than anything. (By the way, He said ‘no.’ . . . Oh. I guess you caught on to that, huh?)
Wow, that was a morbid turn. Let’s get back to more fun vehicular acrobatics, shall we?
- A few years later, nicely settled back in my hometown and attending a different college, I found myself (and my car) airborne on the interstate when driving to school one morning. I had a 30-minute commute up I-65, and about halfway through it a truck carrying 3 rolls of reinforcement wire unsecured on its flat bed merged onto the highway ahead of me. As you can guess, said items were hurled into the road, one landing directly in front of me, lying straight across my lane. I braced for impact, expecting to send the roll flying down the street. Instead, I was sent flying … all four wheels in the air, a la The Dukes of Hazzard. I landed that sucker on all four wheels, too. Forgot to yell “Yeeeee-Haaaaaaah,” though. I really regret that. I’ll never get such a prime moment for it again. (Hopefully never.)
I suppose that’s it for the dramatic, near-death experiences. There were, of course, all the less exciting near-misses of childhood. Stunts on the trampoline. Reckless golf-cart driving. (Nearly clothes-lined myself many a time standing on the back of it while friends drove.) More stunts on the rack of Dad’s truck. And let’s not forget I grew up in the age of wonderfully dangerous playground equipment! (I feel sorry for today’s youth. I really do.) So, what is this somewhat morbid trip down memory lane all about?
I’m here. I’m alive. With so many accidents ripe for claiming my life, I know my life isn’t one. (Although, ironically, I wasn’t a “planned” baby. I once asked my mom if I was an accident, to which she replied, “No, but you were a surprise.” Yeah, Mom. That’s totally different. Haha!) I bet everyone has some story as to why they shouldn’t be alive today; many more dramatic than mine. Still, I don’t know why I’m here. I just know this is where I’m wanted for now, and I’m so grateful to be 39.
The Airstepper's Adventure 