Bed 43.

Modonna: Ray of Light (Sasha Ultra Violet Remix)

What do most people get to remember on their Birthdays?  I'm not sure.  But for me one thing always comes to mind: Bed 43.

Bed 43?  What is that? Bed 43 is a shadow of death that lies at the periphery of my celebration of life.  Don't worry, it's not a scary thing, indeed it is exhilarating in a way. A reminder of who, and what I am.  What then is Bed 43 you might ask?  

Bed 43 was my bed number when I was brought into Parkland Hospital.  It was the night of my 21st birthday.  I was Dead On Arrival.  Car accident.  I was the only vehicle involved.  Road turned, I didn't.  Someone died on the night of my accident, but it wasn't me.  

I am not sure if Heaven or Hell didn't want me, at least not just yet or the fact that I am a pugnacious bulldog.  Or perhaps I met the Lord of Death and said "Not today."  Someone died on the night of my accident, but it wasn't me.

Now it hasn't been easy.  I was resuscitated.  Out of the 42 other beds in the ICU ward, I was the only one who made it though the dark night.  I spent 14 days in a coma.  The reports marked severe damage to both the left and right sides of my brain.  I should not be.  I should not be.  I... should... not... be.  But I am.

I am Bed 43.

Someone died on the night of my accident, but it wasn't me.

Though delayed I set my course.  Perhaps Bukowski is accurate when he said: 

“those who escape hell
however
never talk about
it
and nothing much
bothers them
after

that.”  

Of course the Buk also said "Find out what you love and let it kill you."  Someone died on the night o my accident, but it wasn't me.

What kept me going on?  Maybe it was nothing more than a memory of light.  Whatever was thrown at me, I could take the hit.  Taste the blood in my mouth, grin regardess, with my fists ready, smile, and say "Is that all you got?"  I could tell stories, maybe that's why I am a good story teller. As a History Professor and a Documentarian.  I can go to the edge.  I can dance on the periphery.  I had a memory of light, A light that may have been nothing more than a memory, or ashen embers waiting for a breath.  Who knows?  Someone died on the night of my accident... but it wasn't me.  

We create our own demons; we create our own angels.  Life can be bitter, life can be sweet.  Look to the light my friends.  You create it yourself.  Sometimes bridges have to be burnt, if only to allow one to go forward.  It might be rebuilt later, that is not your worry.  You are your light.  Shine bright.  In an age of shaman politicians and crisis driven agenda sycophants seeking to manipulate... look to the light.  Get out!  Live!

Take it from Bed 43:

"Live!"