Wednesday's Question Of The Day:
Close To Death
Hump day? Well, I'll give you something to ponder.
Yes, it's time for Wednesday's Question Of The Day.
Each Wednesday, a new question to give you the opportunity to do a bit of self-examination. Think of it as a way of getting to know all about you and a chance to learn a little more about me.
That's right. You know me; spill that tea! For I am the king of over-sharing!
Oh, and please leave your responses in the comments section.
Why, think of this as a little blogging kiki!
Okay! Ready, set...
Here's today's question:
What is the closest you’ve come to death?
1996 was a particularly perilous year.
You haven't lived until you've been given last rites.
My doctor! She was a fiery Irish woman of sturdy stock who took no crap from anyone. She was my champion, time and time again. She fought for me like no one else ever has... ever. There were three times that year I came very close to passing.
Once, they put me up in a vacuum sealed room which Elizabeth Taylor had just vacated. Anthony Hopkins mother was staying just across the hall. He would visit her every day.
Once they pumped eight pints of fresh blood into my body when my body had stopped producing new red blood cells. That worked... for a week.
Once, I was in this private room squirreled away from the rest of the world. A nun would come visit me. She gave me this large fancy pewter crucifix she'd gotten from the Vatican (I still have it). She's the one who fetched the priest and informed me that last rites were now known as a prayer for the dying. If she thought she was getting that crucifix back, well, think again, hon.
I was in such denial.
The fourth time I came close? My doctor felt she was out of options - it was time I went 'home'. My poor parents, who only a month earlier had a clue of what I was dealing with when I showed up to their 40th Anniversary Party with an IV attached to my arm, weighing only 131 lbs., were summoned. She found someone to take over my care... expecting the worst.
Well.
I'm a strong believer in healthy denial. I wasn't thrilled about leaving Los Angeles, and the idea of being given over to the care of my parents felt like a death sentence of a different nature, but I never lost sight of overcoming - I simply refused to believe that I would ever end.
I still don't.
It took two years to crawl back to life as I sort of knew it. But I did it... making foolish mistakes all along the way.
The other times.
Once, I stupidly tried to swim across this rather wide river. I didn't take in account the current and ended up being swept downstream as two of my best friends watched on in horror. I found a downed tree and then a bridge trestle, which I clung to until I gathered enough strength and oxygen to try to get back to shore. Yes, I was an idiot.
Another time, I was mountain biking and missed a curve. Someone found me at 2:00 am. I had broken my neck in two places, had a major concussion, and looked like hamburger. I was a John Doe for about eight hours - I had no idea who I was. In the emergency room I kept repeating numbers and later, a kind nurse sat down and created phone numbers out of them, calling until she reached The Ex, who had been frantic. The doctor told me that less than 5% of those with similar injuries survived.
The oddest was the first time -I was four! I found a small piece of copper tubing with a jagged edge in our playhouse (on the farm). For some strange reason, I wondered what would happen if I pushed it into my wrist. My wrist! It was a bizarre compulsion. It, of course, would not stop bleeding and soon reached the point where my mother threw me in the car and drove 20 minutes to the nearest hospital. The doctors didn't know what to make of it and my mother was questioned quite severally. I came to with a nurse tut-tutting and giving me the evil eye.
Anyway...
I think I have two left.
That said... I'm still making horrible choices. And getting older. So...
Tick, tick, darlings.
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Me - Meryl Streep
from the 1992 film Death Becomes Her
.webp)
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