Ken Richter had a near-dead experience years ago and now, as he faces cancer, he reflects on what he’s learned by facing his own mortality.
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Twenty-five years ago, I was in a car accident. It was a bad one. I was traveling on I-205 outside of Portland, Oregon, and I never saw it coming. Head trauma, jaws of life, amnesia. I woke up the next day in a hospital bed. My sister and brother-in-law were there, and I started crying. I was so confused. I had been talking to my best friend’s dead brother. He told me I was going to be okay. But where was I? I thought I was dead.
The policeman who helped rescue me stopped in and said it was good to see me alive; he didn’t think I’d make it. I couldn’t remember him, or the wreck. I couldn’t remember where I’d been or where I was, but I did remember my ghost friend telling me I’d been in a wreck, and I was going to be okay. His name was written on a piece of paper by a rescue team member because they told me that’s the name I gave when asked who I was.
That accident reminds me that life can be taken in a moment, and that’s it. Game over. No questions asked, and no second chances.
I remember the recovery process I went through back then. My brain didn’t function normally for about a year. I always felt a bit confused and slow to respond, and thinking took longer. I endured back spasms and neck pain throughout rehabilitation. Years later, friends told me they wondered if I’d ever get back to being me.
Well, I did.
Now that I have cancer, I feel like I’m going through a similar transition of trying to get back to “me” but on a weekly scale. When I go in for daily radiation and weekly chemo, I feel like I’m standing in front of a train. I get on the tracks, take a deep breath and let the train run me over, week after week. My brain gets confused, my body is damaged, and there is a sensation of having been burned from within that makes me nauseous.
Unlike the car accident, I know what to expect ahead of time, and I know my life is in danger. I see this wreck coming.
Every weekend offers a couple days respite. I regain a bit of mental clarity, and my body does this miraculous thing where it overcomes the fire and the poison, and it adjusts. I almost start feeling close to normal at the end of the weekend. Then a new week starts, and I have to get back on the tracks and take another deep breath, and let the train hit me.
This process is my path to stay alive. Not everyone gets to see their path, or even have a path. Many face prognosis much direr than mine. Many are told they are only buying time, with little chance for recovery.
From my perspective, I’m lucky to face this weekly train because I know it won’t last forever. I wasn’t taken in a moment. I have time to think and plan a recovery. I have time to ask questions and seek answers. Instead of a ghost friend, I am embraced by real people on social media, from all over the world, telling me I’m going to be okay, and that I can win this battle. I believe them, and myself, as I face another train.
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Credit: Image—Trevor Leyenhorst/Flickr
“I get on the tracks, take a deep breath, and let the train run over me…” What a brave story… I did not get chemotherapy but lying half-naked on an operating table is like complete surrender…the anesthesiologist said, “The propofol is going in….” and I kept my eyes fixed on the overhead lights until everything went black… Fear of the unknown…fear of the pain…fear of infection…fear of what your family would be like if you weren’t there giving it your all… My prayers for you and your family…rally the troops….continue to talk out loud about it…people will help…asking for rides… Read more »
Thank you Leia. Support is a wonderful gift from family, friends and strangers. We humans have such great potential to be more focused on what’s truly important in the world. Kindness.
I shared this on fb and just wanted to let you know. Ken is a wonderful guy and a great writer and I am so glad that you are publishing his journey. Thanks, for this series will help so many. I am Julie’s sister and Ken and his boys hold a very special place in our family.
Thank you Kathy. It’s great to have family, and to be part of yours.