The Serpent and South America

Invariably, when I meet new people, someone will notice my two curiously located scars. They are on my wrists.

"How did that happen?"

I know what you're getting at, which necessitates the following assurance:

"No, I didn't try to kill myself."

I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. I had nearly forgotten them. The right-wrist scar slithers like a serpent whenever I rotate the arm. The left-wrist scar somewhat resembles South America. The wounds narrowly missed striking veins, serving as a very visceral reminder of mortality and how fortunate I am to be sitting here today, typing the story. In fact, this particular event marked the third notable time I had evaded death before turning 13.

I was in 6th grade and it was summer. My room was located in the basement of our home in Garden City, KS. Anyone familiar with a window well? I had one, which I believe was supposed to serve as an escape route in case of a fire. One night I lifted the window to allow some fresh air. In order to close the window, you must manually push the entire glass structure down and into its frame.

Glass can be quite dangerous, and I was about to learn it the hard way. The window would not go in all of the way, so I applied more force with my next push.

Harder still on the next push. It won't cooperate. The exertion increases as each effort fails and the frustration of a 12 year-old boy mounts. It was probably the fourth or fifth push when...

CRASH.

The glass shatters and I'm standing, completely bewildered and dumbfounded, before the shards which, moments ago, composed a complete and cohesive window. It takes a moment for reality to register. Did I really just do that? For a brief second, I'm pleased to discover that a frail life-form such as myself can destroy a structure as (presumably) strong as a window. I don't feel anything, only incredulity. I just broke my window with my bare hands.

I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. Except, they aren't scars at this point. They are deep, bloody gashes. I know instantly that I'm in big trouble. I release a primal, blood-curdling scream and proceed to run, mortified, up the stairs and into the kitchen where my mother is preparing dinner. I cannot verbally communicate what has happened, I can only offer my wrists and the hysteria in my eyes. My mother interprets the signs and acts quickly, wrapping my wounds in dish towels. We find dad in the garage. He climbs behind the wheel of our minivan while my mother ushers me into the back.

Mom is holding my wrists with her hands. The panic in the vehicle is palpable, and it is taking the van to greater and greater speeds. I feel like I know what my poor mother is thinking: I'm about to lose my eldest son. HE'S 12 YEARS OLD. Please, God, don't let this happen. I'll do anything.

We set a world-record in covering the distance from our home to the hospital in approximately 24 seconds (which, oddly, was plenty of time for my life to flash before my eyes). I remember being practically carried into the hospital's main entrance by my parents. I remember wildly scanning the entrance and meeting the horrified expressions of people sitting in the waiting room. Somebody HELP ME.

Someone must have lead us to the E.R., but I have no recollection of it. The next thing I recall is the face of my doctor. He's elderly, but not frail. I had never seen such poise in a person. The calmness and reassurance he exudes, by some osmosis, overtakes my spastic, apocalyptic despair. I'm not going to die. My grandfatherly doctor administers the pain numbing anesthesia (though I never recalled feeling any pain, probably due to the endorphins still flowing steadily) and begins stitching my wrists back together. All the while, he lauds me for my "bravery." His reassuring words are better than the anesthesia. Thank God for this gentle, venerable Saint whom I shall never forget.

I sit here today, some 13 years after-the-fact. I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist. The stitch marks are still quite noticeable. Before this incident, I had nearly drowned twice. Once, my grandfather jumped into the pool, fully clothed, to save me. His eldest grandson. In high school, I survived a spontaneous pneaumothorax (basically a hole in my lung, resulting in the worst kind of pain I've felt). Then there was the time I had my icy brush with death, climbing the mountain in Colorado (scroll down if you want to read about that particular endeavor).

I don't enumerate these experiences because I think I'm unique, only because I think I'm lucky. Not lucky in a roll-of-the-dice sort of way, either. I'm 23 and, objectively speaking, I'm quite fortunate to be alive. The scars remind me of my mortality. The incidents spark some questions, naturally. Was God watching over me? Did He save me? Why did He want to keep me alive? Am I to do something deeply impacting in this life? To what is God calling me?

I think we're all living on borrowed time. My near-death encounters were humbling. I'm frail. I can be killed in an instant. What do we do with this knowledge? I'm grateful to still occupy this physical terrain, and the experiences impress upon me a sense of responsibility. It's like God says to me I didn't rescue you without purpose, kid. Though we know we will all die, I believe that most of us regard the fact that we can perish--at any given moment--incredulously. Sometimes though, we're sent wake-up calls. Someone close to you dies. Perhaps you have a brush with death. What will you do with your borrowed time? Will you regard it as a gift? Cherish it?

I gaze down and there they are: one on each wrist.