[ 001 ]
First off: I welcome any and all input on these entries. Better it to be constructive, but the offer is there.
When I started this memoir project about a year ago, I got 4-5 entries written, volumes of data collected ... and then I stalled out. I'd like to keep going now. I'd like to complete this project. I'd like to be the best bearer of light I can to others who have suffered like I have. And as of right now, this is the best way I know of doing that.
So here goes.
[ 001 ]
My life began with a bang -- when I was hit by the car.
I just had to get from one side of the street to the other. That’s all. From there to the library, and from there I would take the city bus home. But no -- on that day there were other plans for me, plans that I did not even know had been made.
Plans that I didn't know that *I* had made, or rather that my soul had made on my behalf.
I was definitely in the crosswalk. I remember the intersection well. It was right by the store I was coming from. I didn’t know that the six o’clock Southern California sun would be in a driver’s eyes. I wasn’t thinking about there not being a light at that intersection; it was a crosswalk and that was good enough for me.
I flew thirty feet and landed on my head. I don’t remember what went through my head as I sailed through the air. In fact, I don’t remember any of that day in question. All I’m telling you are things that I’ve been told, things that make sense to me, things I would have done back then.
I’d always wanted to ride in a helicopter. I guess I should have been more specific -- what I really wanted was to be conscious for my ride in the helicopter. Maybe I should have also said that I didn’t want to be taken to Mission Viejo Regional Trauma Center. And from there, to Emergency. From there straight into surgery, where I died again. From there, into the Intensive Care Unit. And back to surgery. And dying again.
Wash, rinse, repeat. Four or five times. Yes, including the dying part. It was, as they say, rough going.
I was a stubborn cuss, though. As welcome as it might have been, I didn’t let myself pass on. My soul had a mission, a mission of which I was completely unaware.
[ thanks to: my own cojones, and the band God Is An Astronaut ]
Copyright (cc) 2010 John Onorato. Some rights reserved. by-nc-sa
When I started this memoir project about a year ago, I got 4-5 entries written, volumes of data collected ... and then I stalled out. I'd like to keep going now. I'd like to complete this project. I'd like to be the best bearer of light I can to others who have suffered like I have. And as of right now, this is the best way I know of doing that.
So here goes.
[ 001 ]
My life began with a bang -- when I was hit by the car.
I just had to get from one side of the street to the other. That’s all. From there to the library, and from there I would take the city bus home. But no -- on that day there were other plans for me, plans that I did not even know had been made.
Plans that I didn't know that *I* had made, or rather that my soul had made on my behalf.
I was definitely in the crosswalk. I remember the intersection well. It was right by the store I was coming from. I didn’t know that the six o’clock Southern California sun would be in a driver’s eyes. I wasn’t thinking about there not being a light at that intersection; it was a crosswalk and that was good enough for me.
I flew thirty feet and landed on my head. I don’t remember what went through my head as I sailed through the air. In fact, I don’t remember any of that day in question. All I’m telling you are things that I’ve been told, things that make sense to me, things I would have done back then.
I’d always wanted to ride in a helicopter. I guess I should have been more specific -- what I really wanted was to be conscious for my ride in the helicopter. Maybe I should have also said that I didn’t want to be taken to Mission Viejo Regional Trauma Center. And from there, to Emergency. From there straight into surgery, where I died again. From there, into the Intensive Care Unit. And back to surgery. And dying again.
Wash, rinse, repeat. Four or five times. Yes, including the dying part. It was, as they say, rough going.
I was a stubborn cuss, though. As welcome as it might have been, I didn’t let myself pass on. My soul had a mission, a mission of which I was completely unaware.
[ thanks to: my own cojones, and the band God Is An Astronaut ]
Copyright (cc) 2010 John Onorato. Some rights reserved. by-nc-sa