I’ve already died.
I mean there are multiple moments in my life that probabilistically could have been the end.
But here I am; privileged to share these thoughts, obligated to be alive.
As a 3-year old I faced a 33% of death by the age of eight. I grew up a lifetime’s worth during those five years. But it was fine because I’m here to write about it.
As a teenager in Italy, I followed the bravest idiot and jumped off a 40-foot cliff into the sea. I knew how to tread water but not much more. I didn’t check the tide tables or scout the landing. I didn’t throw a rock to test the depth, but I saw the others resurface; so I just went. I can feel the arc of my descent even now; a brief weightlessness followed by the slap of concrete air on my skin. I lodged a small pebble in my heel that I put up with for a few months but it was fine because I’m here to write about it. I didn’t over analyze the set of possible outcomes, which included doesn’t come back up; I just went.
In my twenties I went skydiving. It’s statistically safe, the instructor said so before requiring my signature on forms indicating the prospect of my death and my waiver of their liability. Jumping from a plane might be safer than driving on I-95 at 2 am, but certainly less so than drinking a coffee while I write this. Anyway I’m fine; and here.
Two years ago I spent a night in the E.R., convinced I was dying: an extreme panic attack. But it’s fine now, I’m here.
But …
