What was your closest brush with death?

[MNDude]

It seems almost everyone has a story of how they almost drowned, almost drove off a cliff, or narrowly dodged a bullet. What is your story of the closest you came to dying?

[OneWingedShark]

Wherever you go, there you are and God is with you.

This is true even [especially?] when you don't know he's looking out for you. So, let me share my story…

---

I was born.

Oh come on, I know it's not as exciting as your stories, but let me share the details.

So, my dad was in the Navy, stationed in California — particularly San Diego — and was a nuclear reactor operator on a submarine. So, it turned out that mom got pregnant and he went out on maneuvers, then when he came back he and mom were doing something together (a date, I think, maybe at Marine World Africa USA) and during the middle of this my mom started bleeding.

So, they stopped the fun time and hopped in the car and dad ran into a store to buy her some sanitary napkins, and they continued on thinking that things were fine… for a while. Mom said that it wasn't working and so they went to the hospital. Balboa Naval Hospital, to be exact.

They signed in and dad wanted a wheel chair for mom and me because walking was apparently making the bleeding worse, but the guy at the front-desk wouldn't let him have a wheelchair until he promised to bring it back — after getting my mom and following the appropriately colored line the nurses basically took charge and started examining/getting things ready/summoning doctors, while my dad left mom in their care to return the wheelchair.

As soon as my dad returned they prepped him and he got to watch the operation where I was born and in seconds I was gone: they were taking me to their specialized facilities for premature babies. Balboa hospital was, at the time, one of the (if not the) premier places for handling premature births — not only that, but I got to use the [baby-]respirator when it was still experimental — and had some of the best doctors [for that] in the world.

I was born 11 weeks early, or maybe 8 (I forget), but in either case: the beginning of the third trimester — 2lbs 13oz.
When my dad asked how my chances were the doctor said 50/50. (Dad later learned that that was after I had been somewhat stabilized; so at birth the chances were likely lower.)

So, WRT my birth, I was born:

1. very premature,
2. in a hospital that could be said to specialize in premature births,
3. that had equipment not available to mainstream hospitals,
4. with some of the best doctors for my condition,
5. the brunt of the expenses picked up by the Navy, (my dad would never have been able to afford the actual, full cost of my birth)

and despite all that only had a 50% chance of being born.

Well my dad prayed and said to God something to the effect of if he grows up to love you, please let him live; but if he'll grow up not-knowing/rejecting you then please take him now.* A very powerful prayer, I think, acknowledging God as sovereign over life and death and, at the same time, pleading not for my life but my eternal soul. Because, at the end of time, it would be better to be dead a child (to whom I assume Jesus still says let the little children come to me) than to live a full life, even gaining the world, only to lose the soul.

---

I suspect that God honored his prayer: and so that is likely the closest I came to death.

* I'm sorry, but I forget the exact words.

[Nita Nupress]

Thank you for this wonderful thread. I wish i could individually thank each and every person who shared their stories.

Thanks, everyone!

[Vigilantcitizen]

Well...The closest was a gall bladder issue that also shut down my liver and pancreas...which my healthy 24 year old house framing self didn’t notice till I was less than 24 hours away from death.

Checked in the hospital Friday night....next morning at 7 am I was wheeled into surgery for a 12+ hour procedure. 3 days ICU...3 weeks stay..2 weeks nothing but ice chips and jello. Had 5 drainage tubes going in my gut...3 of which stayed in until about 6 weeks after getting out.

The pain was exquisite...but far worse than anything was going without food for 2 weeks...hooked up to a morphine machine...with nothing to do but watch the fast food commercials on TV all day.

Funny thing...I went into surgery with 60/40 odds. The doc said he was betting on the heavy end....but everyone else in my life was worried. I was too...until a moment that hit out of nowhere as I was being wheeled down to surgery...for some reason....I just knew I was going to make it...was sure of it all of a sudden. I looked up at my wife..parents..favorite uncle...and best friend with a silly ass grin and said,”Y’all quit being such pu$$ies”....quite loudly. Loud enough the nurse doing the pushing slapped me upside the top of my head...out of reflex. I was given a “Happy shot” before they come got me....but that instant I was hit with that feeling...I was sober as a church mouse. Seconds later high as a kite spewing vulgarity at the closest people in my life.

That was the closest....I guess. Between a career in framing, erection, and other trades that work in the air..a youth spent buying $200 beaters and putting $800 of dressed down motors in them....in order to hustle the cash off of the rich kids who were bought new mustangs and camaros...bought high rise intakes and 750 double pumpers to put on top of stock small block heads...and thought they had something. We didn’t drag race....we raced down an 8 mile country road through a river bottom full of deer. Lower River road...now Riverside drive near Six flags over Georgia. I’ll have a memory pop in my head out of nowhere...and I’ll shudder.

That’s not counting my younger partying and hustling days in the not so nice parts of Hotlanta. Or my USN stint. Or the time my wife and I...and two other couples were out in a pontoon on lake west point....and my warnings of the coming squall were ignored...up until the wind got up over 30 mph...and we were 45 minutes boat ride away from camp. If it wasn’t for the lightning popping almost nonstop...we woulda sheltered in a cove in what I’m guessing were 60 mph winds....that caused wakes big enough to cover the channel marker bouys...unheard of there.

God wants me here for something....pretty bad evidently. That scares me more than death.

[Vendome]

Uhmmmm

Wow....

[AD from SpringBay]

What you are about to read is the true account of my latest brush with death…

On June 5th, after a bowel resection, I was diagnosed with colon cancer. But this story begins on Monday, July 1st. I made it to the Illinois Cancer Center in fine spirits and an overall mood of this-might-not-suck-that-bad. The visit with the cancer doctor had gone well and, after some waiting and staring at the fish-tank, I found myself in one of the reclining chairs with an evocative view of the lush, natural central-Illinois grasslands and the corner of the Illinois Eye Center building.

Enter a Cancer Center nurse, youngish, equipped with an arm-load of chemotherapy supplies. She hooks up the drip-bag and extracts what looks like a very shiny roofing tack. She wipes down the skin over the port and impales my ever-aging flesh and I recall, again, this might-not-suck-that-bad. Nurse produces a syringe to flush the port mechanism. As she begins the flushing motion, I feel pressure in my shoulder – not pain, per se, but not a comfortable feeling.

I inform nurse of my feelings (physical, not emotional/spiritual). This strikes her as odd. She tries to draw blood from my port and cannot. Her facial expression turns from git-r-done to ponderous-problem-solver. She extracts the first roofing tack, walks to the nurses’ station, and calls for a one-inch needle because that will surely do the trick. Repeat most of paragraph two.

Her third attempt (ie - a third needle) is to try a slow drip. The slow drip, after eight minutes (I watched the clock) produces a burn in my chest. Treatment stopped. Wife in tears. I’m hungry. The bandage over my thrice-pierced port, fittingly, shows Lucy pulling the football from Charlie Brown. We go to Arby’s and console one another and review the situation. Via cell-phone, I make an appointment with the surgeon for the next day.

Tuesday the 2nd of July: dear diary… today was an interesting day. My surgeon said he has never seen a port go bad before and has scheduled an appointment for a new one. It will be tomorrow afternoon. We both, uncannily, sense that time might be of the essence in my case.

On Wednesday, we drive to the hospital at noon-thirty. I check in. We wait. I am prepped for the port-placement. The roll down the hall is no less surreal than the first time, though with a stronger waft of déjà-vu. After some friendly banter on the operating table, during which I note how I am strapped down and how I have a nice silly feeling, I wake up. The surgeon informs me (and yes, I remember this) that everything went well except that a portion of the old port has broken off and is somewhere in my body. They don’t know where yet and I am to sit tight in recovery. Two x-rays and a phone call to an expert in x-ray reading later, I am told that an approximately 12 centimeter segment of the port has lodged in my right aorta. The aorta, I find myself thinking, is in the heart. The surgeon’s eyes confirm my fears. It is good to know I am once again on the same page as this brilliant physician. A recurring theme whispers something about my poor handwriting and becoming a doctor, or something else, had I it all to do over. The surgeon points to the stats (heart rate, ekg, blood-oxygen). He asks if I can see the numbers. I squint and lie that I can. He says, “Keep doing that. My father told me you can do a lot with a live patient.” Interesting quote, no?

An hour and a half in recovery; wife bravely avoiding tears; friendly banter with nurse who has taken a new job at the Cancer Center. We make plans for the future. Phone calls, kids sent to grandma, normal emergency protocol and I remember thinking it odd that we have such a protocol in place. Friends arrive, bringing dinner for my wife, for which I am very grateful. It is approximately 8pm.

I am sent upstairs to the cardiac procedure room and am introduced to an eastern-European doctor who tells me he has done similar procedures at least once. That was such a funny joke. I am reintroduced to the twilight state, though less twilight than the port procedure. This is a rare case of the sequel being better than the original. I remember asking questions and people laughing. Towards the end, the surgeon catches my attention and shows me the piece of port that had been lodged in my heart. It looked like a very-thin piece of greenish rubber band, four or five inches long. It might have been there for an afternoon or it might have been there for two weeks. Only the Shadow knows.

Either way, one must keep in mind that having a piece of Power Port tubing floating around one's heart is something that can kill without warning.

[thecodont]

Powerful story. Thanks for sharing this.

[OneWingedShark]

Uhmmmm
Wow....

Yeah.
When I stop to think of certain events in my life, I realize that I unwittingly enjoy God's unmerited favor (sometimes to a ridiculous level) — for example, I hate the cold and two years ago when I was working in SD everyone was talking about how freakishly warm the weather was {the time they got a big snowfall was during a two-week vacation I took at the end of Jan; just before I lost my job} then I moved to my grandparents (they had invited me to spend the summer w/ them, I likely wouldn't have if I had gotten a job) and then my grandpa broke his leg… and found out it was because of cancer coming back. So, I helped them out for several months and then my aunt came down with three of her kids and my brother-in-law and sister visited just before Thanksgiving and asked/convinced me to spend some time with them — they live in San Antonio, so I ended up avoiding an Idaho winter.

It's really quite awe-inspiring when you consider the mere possibility that God doesn't look out for you in [just] the abstract, metaphoric sense, but in the real, personal sense. Even more astounding when you figure He could be concerned with even your comfort[?!].

[tv_techie]

Playing ultimate frisbee on a field that was bordered on two sides by a curving road about 5 ft below the level of the field. Saw the frisbee and I would be at the end of the field, but felt I could jump, catch it and land short of the edge.

I didn’t realize the field sloped off before the bushes leading to the road level. I hit the ground and was pitched forward and quickly realized I would be landing in the road. It wasn’t until then that I decided to look for oncoming traffic - you know the answer or this story wouldn’t be here.

I hit the ground and threw myself backward into the bushes. The car brushed my arm and ankle as it screeched to a stop some yards beyond me. Everyone above thought I’d been killed. Happened just a few weeks before graduating from college.

[ODC-GIRL]

Your story brought a tear to my eye.

[Vendome]

You’re kewel.

If I make it to San Antonio we’ll have to meet at Tue Midnight Rodeo or someplace like Sam’s on The River Walk

[ODC-GIRL]

My story is not nearly so dramatic as some, but it does answer an age-old question; Is there never a cop around when you need one?

I was driving to work one morning. I had a series of three intersections in quick succession that I had learned to time just right so that I didn’t have to step on my brakes and made all lights. This day, there was a cop at one of the intersections who turned in behind me after I pulled through. So, unlike usual, I slowed down and stepped on the brakes, coming to a complete stop at the red light. The light turned green. I lifted my foot off the brake and moved toward the gas pedal. Just then a large 4 door BLEW through the red light. Had I followed my normal routine I would have been right there and would have been crushed.

Needless to say, the cop pulled out from behind me, sirens and lights, and turned to follow the car that ran the light right in front of me.

By the time I got to work, 10 minutes later, I was shaking like a leaf. As close a call as I’d ever want to have.

I’m sure that cop was put there by my guardian angel and I’m grateful.

[OneWingedShark]

You’re kewel.
If I make it to San Antonio we’ll have to meet at Tue Midnight Rodeo or someplace like Sam’s on The River Walk.

That'd be cool... except I'm back in Idaho now.

[OneWingedShark]

Powerful story. Thanks for sharing this.

Quite welcome. Wish I had some time to re-hear it from my dad and type it all out; that was mostly off-the-cuff. Not nearly as good as when you've had some time to write it out, and then re-write it (hopefully with better diction).

[Trod Upon]

I recall a period of agitated hyperactivity followed by a deep sense that everything was A-OK, a cessation of active thought, and a pleased awareness of the rhythmic engine noise. The other vehicles had become nothing more than mood lighting at that point. Your test is a good one; perceptible mental impairment of any kind is a big sign, but you have to be quick to catch it early. I was already more or less out of it for some time before the sudden snooze.

[OneWingedShark]

Thought you guys might like this thread, mine's at #221.

[Vendome]

Anywhere near McCall?

[grateful]

When I was 24, I ended up in the hospital due to complications from oral surgery. That day I learned an interesting fact. You can't breathe when your heart isn't beating. Most people lose consciousness shortly after their heart stops. I was awake for the entire 10-15 seconds my heart was stopped. How, I don't know. The ER team shot me full of adrenaline and my heart started again on its own. It was a very curious sensation, watching everything going on around me in a strangely detached manner. My heart had stopped many times before and a few times since, but none was ever that terrifying because it was the only one in which I remained totally conscious.

Then there was this time in the California desert when I was stupidly going 130 mph in the fast lane and a truck going about 75mph pulled out to pass an RV about 500 feet ahead of me. Fortunately, my guardian angels were able to fly fast enough that day to keep up with me. I didn't tell my husband, who was sleeping in the passenger seat, about it until years later. He slept through the whole brake screeching, tire smoking event. Fortunately, nothing was damaged except my mental state.

[null and void]

I hear you! My pancreas exploded on the way to Yosemite one fine spring day.

The pain was impressive, and I had the privilege of watching the paramedics working on my body from somewhere near the ceiling.

I don’t count it as a near death experience, but as a OOBE.

Anyway I had the morphine machine too. I’m grateful for the experience, I never really understood how someone could be addicted before that. Now I do.

[Secret Agent Man]

i mean my gut and arm belts that contract your muscles can be very painful if you set them too high. a taser can spasm your muscles where you can’t control them. 220 is that much more intense with the severe power running through that line.

[Windflier]

I’ve had a lot of close calls, but once when I was fifteen, I was at a house party when a guy walked up to me and pressed a knife into my gut while I was leaned up against a wall. He was a good friend of a notorious thug I’d just testified against in court.

The guy was in the process of telling me that I was about to die for sending his pal to prison, when all of a sudden there was an enormous crash outside. Seems two lowriders were playing ‘chicken’ in the street, and neither one backed down.

During that split second distraction, I made my escape and dived through an open window into the night. I was gone like a rabbit, and never saw the thug again.