Defying Death

Earlier this afternoon I rewatched Evel Knievel jump his motorbike over a ravine. I fast-forwarded through countless minutes of build-up, audience predictions, and the man himself getting ready to launch through the air. After all, I already knew the ending.

The headline running across the bottom of the screen boasted an overused, unoriginal alliteration:

“Death-Defying Daredevil”

The few seconds of footage showing Evel flying through the air raised my heart rate a tick or two. But I’m not here to tell you about an underlying heart condition. I'm here to tell you it takes more than flinging yourself over canyons to defy death.

And I would know. I’ve already defied him three times.

I met Death the first time as a toddler. It has been cemented into my brain as my earliest memory, and I doubt I’ll be forgetting it any time soon.

My older sister and I were playing “school.” Rather, she was the teacher, and I was a babbling undisciplined two-year-old pupil.

As my parents watched television in the living room, my sister taught me the ABC’s and one, two, threes, at a time when I was still learning where to handle my most basic of bodily functions.

Determined though she was, her attention waned, and she ran to the kitchen to grab a grape-flavored ice pop from the freezer. When she came back, I was staring at the ceiling, mouth agape.

My chest rose and fell, laboriously wheezing with every inflation.

Although she was only five years old, she knew something was amiss. She yelled for my parents, who scooped me up and drove me to the hospital.

If my memory serves me correctly, my dad flew down the highway as my mom tried to calm my panicked tears. I cried for help, more scared than anything.

My sister was scared too, sucking the rest of her ice pop so quickly it turned her mouth purple.

My parents ran me to the ER and a nurse in a terrifying mask laid me down. The brightest lights I had ever seen since birth blinded me as she tried to hold me down and supply me with oxygen.

I fought her with all my might. I would never allow this scary human with bloodred eyes cover my mouth. I was barely getting enough oxygen as it was.

I was incensed; kicking, screaming, and biting anyone who got too close. The overworked nurse ran into the hallway for backup.

My lips turned from red to a blueish-purple, and it wasn’t from an ice pop. My screaming quieted to whimpers. My flailing was failing.

Then he came in. He didn’t need to open the door.

He floated above me effortlessly. His smile was warm, his hair golden, but it was his touch that I’ll never forget.

He closed my parted lips with one icy hand and shut my eyelids with the other.

That should have been the end, but it wasn’t my time. Not yet.

Something in me stirred, something I still have difficulty explaining. My body convulsed, repelling Death to the other side of the room, hovering behind my crying mother.

Undeterred, he returned, his sharp teeth exposed and claws extending to claim me.

The nurse ran back in with a burly friend, who reached me before death could. Oxygen mask secured, I fell into a deep sleep, despite those terribly bright fluorescent lights.

When I awoke, my family and I were back in the car on the way home. I didn’t see death again for four more decades. But let me tell you, you never forget your first brush with death. And I don’t think he forgot, either.

---

Bumper-to-bumper traffic and poor time management got me in my current situation, running through the airport to catch a flight. Twenty years ago, that wouldn’t have been an issue. Infrequent exercise coupled with an occasional cigarette had taken its toll. I gasped for air. I leaned on the stanchions dividing me from more responsible travelers to catch my breath.

I begged my way to the front of the security line, ignoring the sneers and jeers from those I had cut.

“I’ll… miss my… flight,” I pleaded with the perturbed faces waiting in line. I didn’t have time for any objections, not today.

I couldn’t miss this flight to New York, or my boss would have my head. I was on thin ice as it was.

My briefcase, belt, and shoes flew through the security scanner as I held my hands above my head. The indifferent TSA agent waived me through, and on I ran.

Well, on I jogged.

Ok, slogged.

I glanced at my watch. The gate would be closing in three minutes. I looked for my flight on the big board filled with tiny lettering and squinted. Flight number DL 2006 - Gate A4.

Lucky me, it was close. As I approached, there were still a few stragglers waiting to board.

I slowed my slog to a walk, placed my hands over my head and took in some deep wheezing breaths. Sweet salvation.

I took my proper place in line this time, wiped my forehead free of sweat beads, and prepared my boarding pass for the satisfying flight attendant swipe.

It was a gorgeous day outside, and with some luck I would see the sunset as we approached JFK. I saw the metal tube that would be hurling hundreds of us through the air in a matter of minutes. It was smaller than I expected.

They say you’re more likely to die from lightning, ladders, or fireworks than a plane crash, as if that’s comforting.

Just as I was handing my ticket to the kind stewardess, I heard a thump from the window. She gasped and we ran over to see what it was.

A black bird, crow, from what I could tell, laid dead on the tarmac below. That was unsettling, but I had never been the superstitious type.

I shrugged it off, chalking it up to the pea brained aviary not seeing the recently polished window. My phone vibrated, but it could wait until I took my seat. I had inconvenienced enough people at the airport already today.

Another airline employee made an announcement as I made my way toward the plane.

“This is the final boarding call for flight DL 2006, destined for New York-”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A trio of suicidal crows. Beyond strange.

I checked my phone, which annoyingly hadn’t stopped vibrating. A litany of missed calls and a succinct text from my mother-in-law prevented me from flying that day.

My wife was in labor.

I informed the kind stewardess I wouldn’t be flying in an amazing display of eloquence along the lines of, “Can’t fly… my wife!” And really ran this time, despite my lungs’ protests, back to my car.

I sped down the HOV lane to witness the birth of my third child. A murder of crows flew overhead in the opposite direction.

That night I held my youngest daughter and watched the nightly news from my wife’s hospital bedside.

“Breaking News: Flight DL 2006 Crash Over North Carolina – No Survivors”

Death had returned for me again, just as my original memory of him was beginning to fade. My body tensed, and my daughter cried.

I rocked her back to sleep and changed the channel. Death had been kept waiting for the second time. This time by his greatest and longest-lasting nemesis: new life.

---

My final meeting with Death was a few days ago, and I imagine I’ll meet him again soon enough. I suspect he’s been keeping an eye on me more of late, although I don’t fear his presence like I used to.

I’ve lived a long life, which is more than many can say. My children have children. My dear wife recently adopted her sixth dog named Harvey, sharing the same name as the previous five. He’s nearly blind, which makes three of us.

Although I outgrew my asthma with age, other ailments came and went throughout my life. I spent a few nights in the hospital with pneumonia, and another week when my kidney decided to get infected. I never saw Death again though, so I, unlike my dear wife, was never concerned that the end was nigh.

My wrinkles have grown pronounced, my hair – what’s left of it – is grey. I involuntarily moan when I sit or stand. But it’s a delightful thing, growing old.

My doctor found something abnormal in my blood on my last checkup. Then they did their tests, and found something more abnormal – cancer.

They would have found it sooner if I had been more proactive, they said. Something would have killed me eventually, I say. I’ve had an on-again off-again battle with death for as long as I can remember, but it’s a fight we’re all destined to lose.

As my wife and I took our late afternoon stroll last Monday, I noticed Death following us. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry to catch me, but he didn’t have any reason to be this time.

On our Tuesday walk, my wife picked up a discarded ice pop wrapper.

On Thursday, the crows cawed louder than usual from their roosts.

Death has joined us on every walk since then, although I don’t remember having extended an invitation. My shadow has grown longer behind the setting sun, creeping closer to Death as I walk away.

I’ll let him take me away this time. He has waited long enough.

But he’ll have to catch me first.