And.... Scene

It is a story I've told time and time again.  For years, I was unable to get through it without completely falling apart; at some point, I could feign enough distance to spin the tale without spinning out of control.  In dreams and quiet moments during the day, it is the Lifetime Channel psycho-drama-tear-jerker that always seems to be on.  I don't need to watch the whole thing.  I already know the ending.  Or do I?

Open on a girl, distant and distracted in the back seat of a car.  The chatter from the front seat is miles removed from what she sees and hears; she is far away, wondering why she is there, wondering where exactly "there" is, wishing she had stayed home but feeling dimly privileged to have been invited out on this last Saturday of spring break.  She peers ahead and to her left; suddenly, her face flashes alarm.  Something is off.  She yells to the driver to stop but the car accelerates.  Her arms fly up to shield her face.

Impact.

Cut to black.

Nietzche wrote "what does not kill me, makes me stronger."  It's a wonderful ending to the movie, if you can write it that way.  But the loose ends don't always wrap up neatly in a bow at the end of an hour and a half, or even a day, a year, a decade or two decades.  What does not kill me, makes me stronger.  But "stronger" is a relative term.  And what about what does kill... even if only for a few seconds, or a few minutes?  What say you, Nietzche?

Voices above her are frantic, disorganized, panicked.  She opens her eyes, the ground coming into slow focus.  Why is she here?  What happened at that party?  Who are all of these people and why are they staring at her?  She lifts her head and finds a familiar face.  Relief.  She shifts her foot and realizes she is partially on grass, partially on concrete.  She has to get up.  She's embarrassing herself...

For years following the accident, I lived by the rule of carpe diem.  Sieze the day, for I never knew whether another would come.  I would appreciate each moment, savour every experience.  If the moment seemed dull, I would spice it up.  If I am to carpe the diem, it should be a diem worth carpe-ing.  If I am going to wake up on the concrete again, it will be for a reason far more interesting and entertaining than some silly car accident.  If I was going to face down the Reaper again, it was going to be with a smile on my face, and come hell or high water, it was going to be on my terms.

Pushing her hands to the ground, the girl tries to push herself up but crumbles  back to the ground as the strangers standing over her murmur.  Her chest feels like it's on fire.  Confusion and embarrassment give way to terror; she cannot get up.  She touches her face.  Blood.  She tries to straighten her leg, but when the top of her leg moves, her knee and foot remain planted like so much dead weight on the ground.  "Am I going to live?" she asks her friend.  The friend, who is shaken and injured herself, nods yes.  "Will I ever walk again?" 

Silence.

I promised myself that I would never forget the second chance I'd been given by the many doctors, friends and family who helped me.  When did I forget that promise?  When did the gift of survival become just another life lesson that had been learned, tested, then packed away like an old holiday decoration?  

The paramedics arrive and scurry to her side, carring a wooden stabilitizing board.  She begins to cry, because she believes the board means death.  She is shivering; shock has set in.  

Years later, Byron and I turned down a job on a sailing vessel called the Fantome.  With Hurricane Mitch bearing down on our island home of Grand Cayman a few months later, we shuttered the shop, consoled the guests, and bunkered down for what would turn out to be the second most powerful Caribbean hurricane since the 1800s.  Returning to work a few days later, we learned that the Fantome, after trying to outrun the storm, had been lost at sea along with her crew.  All that was ever found was a few life jackets and a portion of a staircase.  How many more reminders did I need that I was lucky to have survived?

"Don't cut my socks off.  They're my father's."

The movie replays itself every day.  (BTW:  World's Worst Netflix Queue EVER.)  Each time, I am torn apart and rebuilt. 

"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."

My chest tightens.  My breath quickens.  My throat closes.

"We were finally able to reach your brother."

Over and over again, every single time, a small part of me dies. 

Prom.  Graduation.  Learning to walk again.  Riding a bike.  The first time back on the volleyball court. 

Inhale.

"You've healed remarkably well."

The chasm begins to close. 

She steps out into the sunlight, warmth radiating onto her face.  She closes her eyes and steels herself to move forward, one step at a time. 

Roll credits.

What does not kill me, makes me stronger... eventually.  What does not kill me, makes me me. 

Even twenty years later.

Carpe diem.