I simply cannot fathom what it must be like to wake up one day, you’re your husband goodbye as he walks out the door to work, possibly returns home at the end of the day for a change of clothes (and gears), heads out for a bike ride, and then, has a devastating accident a few blocks from home, and by night’s end, you are sitting in the ER praying for your husband to pull through. And then, just three days later, he dies. Just like that, never to come home again, never to walk through the front door again, never to wave goodbye, to kiss you hello, to hug his kids or grandchildren again.
From the bits of story that we’ve gleaned so far, that’s how Sam A died earlier today. From the most freakish of accidents. What’s more: he was wearing a helmet when it happened. And, most likely, from what we know of the man, he was not up to any daredevilish tricks.
Not to diminish from the tragedy that’s befallen his family in any way, I couldn’t help thinking quiet thoughts to myself; of fortune (good and bad), of angels, of twists of fate …
As if I needed any more confirmation, the tragic and shocking story of Sam’s demise, is just that: a silent, but oh-so-potent reminder that I am a walking miracle. No helmet. Tumbled off a bridge. Onto a rocky riverbank. Spine intact. Minor head injuries only. And all the rest.
How, pray tell, am I supposed to make any sense out of these strangely similar incidents, but oh-so-different outcomes?