The fragility of life

How seven words can save you

May 25, 1998. Memorial Day.

Photo by Diego Jimenez on Unsplash

As soon as my eyes opened, they were greeted by the blinding fluorescent lights that Thomas Edison himself would be disappointed in. My back stuck to the 45-degree-angled bed drenched in sticky fluids I later discovered were (my) sweat and blood. My nostrils were filled with the all-encompassing stench of antiseptic.

I attempted to rub the crusties from my eyes to see if this was all a bad dream, but the soft flexible plastic tube placed inside the my left arm’s vein had different plans. Ouch! Oh boy, this must be real.

Strangers in white trench coats hurried through the halls holding clipboards so close to their chests like the valedictorian who didn’t want anyone to steal their answers. These trench coat wearers were speaking in tongues. Uttering words like benign, malignant, and hypertension. They didn’t bother to look up to pay me as much as a courtesy glance. And certainly no words of encouragement.

Where am I?

Mom hopped out of her seat, nearly hitting her head on the ceiling, when she noticed I was awake. She shouted out to the hallway where dad and Jennifer (step mom) were pacing. The three of them gathered around me like kids at a campfire with tears rolling down their collective cheeks. I had never seen dad cry before. They took turns bombarding me with kisses and forehead rubs.

Why were they crying? Am I in heaven?

All of a sudden, one of the trench coat wearing strangers stormed into the room.

“He won’t need another surgery.” he said.

“However, we do want him to stay for a few more days so we can keep an eye on hit vitals. But he should be ready to leave by Thursday.” he continued.

The man left without waiting for a response from anyone. He was off to the next room like a conveyor belt. A collective sigh of relief exited the room with him.

My face was pale. I was too weak to lift my arms above my head. It took every ounce of energy I had just to move my eyes up to the top left corner of the room where the cartoons were playing.

“How are you feeling honey?” Mom asked.

I didn’t answer.

She rested her hand on top of mine to get my attention. After a moment, she tightened her fingers around my wrist, her eyes searching for mine.

“Arman, can you hear me?” she asked.

Sure I could, but I couldn’t be bothered to exchange any words in my current state.

The truth is, I was shocked into silence.

What is going on? I kept thinking.

A few hours earlier . . .

It was a hot and steamy Memorial Day morning in Acworth, Georgia. That kind of hot where you could see those bright wavy lines rising from the pavement.

We had the day off school to celebrate whatever you are supposed to celebrate on Memorial Day. Only four more days left in the school year. I was about to graduate. From kindergarten.

I was still new to the neighborhood, but had lucked out because a kid my same age lived just down the hill. Dillon O’Connell. He wouldn’t have been my first pick of the friend litter but we shared a few similarities. Same age. Same gender. Same bus stop pick up. Enough boxes filled to make us best friends.

Dillon invited me over to his house that day because he wanted to show off his new green and yellow flower sprinkler. I had seen commercials for these bad boys on Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network for weeks. (They were all the rage in the late 1990’s.)

Say no more Dillon. I’m in.

I couldn’t wait to see what all the hype was about. This was long before I realized the truth that toys appear way cooler on commercials than in real life.

Mom granted me permission to go. Before she could finish saying yes, I was out our front door and knocking on his a few nanoseconds later.

“Hi Mr. Dillon’s dad, can Dillon play?” I asked.

“You can as long as you do one thing.” he replied.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Never call me Mr. Dillon’s dad again. My name is Bill.” he said.

I walked down to the basement to find Dillon already prepping Mario Kart on the Nintendo 64. He knew me too well. We raced while his sister’s dolls stared at us with those motionless toothy grins. I did my best to avoid direct eye contact.

After losing a few races, I had had enough. I was ready for the main event.

Mrs. Dillon’s mom Erma yelled down to us from the top stair, “Dillon! Your dad is setting up the sprinkler now.”

We grasped hands and jumped with boyish joy. And made a pact to never mention that moment again.

Then I realized I had forgotten one key item. My bathing suit.

“No worries.” I thought. “I live just up the street. I’ll be back in thirty seconds.”

If only I knew how wrong that thought would turn out to be…

I asked Erma if I could go grab my trunks.

“Yes, just make sure you look both ways before crossing the street, ok?” she said.

I nodded, half-listening as my mind was consumed with the unveiling of the majestic plastic flower sprinkler.

Focus Arman. You have one goal right now. Secure the bathing suit.

What follows has been totally wiped from my memory. But it feels like I was an outside observer thanks to mom’s countless retellings of the events.

I got to the end of their driveway. Forgetting what Erma had advised just seconds earlier. Looked one way. Coast was clear. Go.

BOOM!!!

Mom heard the loudest screeching sound of her life while cooking in the kitchen.

“What was that?” she thought.

She peeked out the window to see.

At first, all she saw was an SUV that was facing oncoming traffic with smoke pouring out of its hood.

So she, along with the other neighbors, rushed outside to see what had caused this ruckus.

To her utter dismay, she found out why the SUV had crashed. Her young boy lying motionless on the pavement about 25 feet past the SUV.

She recognized the bright red Atlanta Hawks shirt that I refused to take off. And ran over to my side screaming a scream that only a mother can belt out when she may have lost a child.

I floated in and out of consciousness. (Not like Drake.)

Erma dialed 911.

Cops rushed to the scene.

My dad left work right after my mom called him. He whizzed through traffic like he was Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.

I was pretty banged up. Too banged up to be driven in an ambulance. So they ordered a helicopter to airlift me to the Children’s Hospital of Atlanta (CHOA).

The paramedics placed me on the stretcher while my parents and the neighbors watched in horror.

Mom and dad followed the paramedics onto the helicopter. Only to be denied access. The pilot and two paramedics would be my only companions.

They were distraught. Not knowing if their son was gonna make it. I can’t fathom what that moment was like for them.

Mom later recalled that watching the helicopter fly off into the distance was her life’s pinnacle of emotional pain. She would’ve sacrificed a limb to be by my side. Holding my hand. Rubbing my forehead.

Fast forward to Thursday when I got to leave the hospital . . .

It wasn’t the best summer I ever spent. The next three months consisted of me laying motionless on a makeshift mattress in the living room. Thanks to the body cast that started at my chest and continued down to my right ankle and my left knee. Connected by a bar at my thighs. I was paralyzed without being paralyzed.

I did learn some valuable life skills that summer. I got really good at video games (Bomberman to be specific). Learned how to pee in a cup. And poop in a bucket. While my friends learned less valuable stuff like how to swim and how to ride a bike.

To make a long story short (or maybe a short story long) — I survived.

I won’t bore you with the laundry list of injuries my five year old body endured. But besides my right leg being a few centimeters shorter than my left, I like to think I made a full recovery.

Although my fiancé may disagree.

She thinks that SUV permanently knocked a few screws loose in my noggin. Hard to argue.

Moral of the story . . .

We hear it all the time but I hope my story reminds you…

Nothing is guaranteed in life besides death (and taxes).

This moment could be our last. So why be miserable worrying about stuff we have no control over? We don’t want to be in a bad mood before we die, right?

There’s nothing quite like a near death experience to shake you to your core with the realization that life is fragile. More fragile than we’d like to believe.

I should not be here today. But I am. And so are you. Even with all the shit you’ve been through.

Your situation may seem dire. But hey, it’s better than being dead.

PS - Look both ways before crossing the street 😉

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