He was holding the gun at my abdomen, when he finally pulled the trigger. The shot was loud enough to stun me, hurt my ears, and echo off the building across the street. I clutched at my gut while the impact knocked me backwards to the pavement.
When I got my bearings, I noticed an expanding pool of blood around me. I figured that the noise would have woken up everybody, lights would come on, and someone would come to help me...
I started to realize that if I wanted to live, I needed to get up, go to my apartment and call for help. I ripped my shirt off, tied it around my stomach as best as I could, got up, crossed the street, climbed a flight of stairs, entered my house, and collapsed into a chair by the phone. I called for an ambulance and waited as my blood continued draining onto my carpet.
As we rode to the hospital I went into shock, and my blood pressure was dropping dangerously. They finally slipped a pressurized suit on my body and blew it up with air to keep my heart pumping.
When we got to the hospital, the staff kept insisting I give them the number of my next of kin (my mother), so they could call her. I kept refusing, and told them they could call my business partner, but I didn’t want them waking up my mother and worrying her. I told them that my partner would call her in the morning. They tried to explain to me that I might not make it to the morning.
I wasn’t buying it…
I kept insisting they not frighten my mother. The nurses gave up and brought in the surgeon and several other doctors. They explained that I was in shock, had a faltering heartbeat, and had lost a great deal of blood. They didn’t know what vital organs had been hit, or where the bullet was located. They insisted they should contact my mother.
I assured them that the operation would go perfectly fine, and my mother could be notified in the morning, when I was in the recovery room. Since they desperately needed to start the operation, and since I wouldn’t budge on my stance no matter how hard they argued, they finally relented.
I just knew that I was going to survive. How did I know? No idea, I just knew that I knew.
It wasn’t a case of fearing death, or fighting death. Death simply wasn’t part of the equation for me at that point. Your mind cannot process two conflicting thoughts at the same time, and all I was thinking about at that moment was living. So continuing our discussion from the last post, here are a couple questions for you:
Have you ever just known something, even when you didn’t know how you knew it? And what’s the lesson in all this for you?