I’ve always felt I would make a good corpse. Not in a ‘want to be displayed’ way. That’s ooky. Don’t get me wrong. This existence is rife with poignantly stunning marvels that fill me with awe. I’m not eager to leave, just curious about eternal rest. If the saying ‘You can’t take it with you’ is accurate, I’m hoping it extends to the anxiety shadowing me everywhere. That would make me one happy corpse.

At the age of 5 I got my first taste of blunt force trauma. I found it funny & cool to be rocking 2 shiners & a large ridge across my brow. I looked positively Neanderthal…after a cave fight. If only I was covered in hair the picture would be complete. I wished it was Halloween.

The day before, I decided to butt in on what my sisters were doing in the backyard. We had a tetherball there, but I could see they weren’t playing in the usual fashion. As I sidled up behind one sister she forcefully swung back the baseball bat she was holding, aiming to smash the tetherball, & beaned me instead. Knocked me clean out. Even though it was unintentional, I actually deserved it. I was a snitch.

My tattling on them didn’t come from a sense of moral outrage at their rule-breaking. Quite the contrary. I wanted to be included. But there was a substantial age-gap between these sisters & me. That’s no excuse for being a stool pigeon though. It made them want to ditch me all the more by adding ‘informant’ to the list of annoying little sister traits.

My next encounter being slammed with blunt force was of the pedestrian-meets-car variety. It was All Saints’ Day, 1976. I only recall the date because it had just been Halloween, & I had a budding interest in Dia de los Muertos, celebrated during the 3 days following All Hallows’ Eve. Being hit by a car, I could’ve joined los Muertos on the 1st day of their celebration!

I was a sophomore in high school, a bookish-dorky loner with possibly 3 friends. I say possibly because we only interacted at school & the thing we had in common was being the lowest in the teen pecking order. I was quasi-invisible; I only stood out when some sadist wanted to peck at someone & I was the most obvious target. This is where nonconformists hone the not giving a fuck what anyone thinks of them attitude. I believe it’s referred to as an ‘education’.

It was typical for jerks to occasionally steer their cars at me walking off campus when school let out. They’d veer away at the last moment, disappointed that I didn’t flinch. Little did they know the thought of my sudden demise elicited joy. Oh, to be taken out of this panopticon called high school! I never moved out of the way. Playing chicken with my death wish was a zero sum game.

It’s surprising the car that eventually hit me was driven by someone who wasn’t trying to mess with me at all. He didn’t know how to steer into a skid to regain control of his vehicle, therefore plowed into me.

I was standing in the lower student parking lot (the upper lot was paved, the lower just gravel that sloped down to the street) talking to one of those 3 friends. A car with 2 guys in it raced from the upper lot onto the gravel slope. We were off to the side of the lot to avoid cars heading to the street when I noticed it coming our way. My friend stood a few paces further over, telling me some long story, as I glanced once again at the still-approaching car. It wasn’t gunning towards me like others before, but it was picking up speed. I stood my ground as usual, rolled my eyes.

Suddenly my friend shouts “Look out!” I turn my head to see this car is going to mow me down in broad daylight! With witnesses! At the instant before impact I face away (rather get hit on the backside) & feel steel smash into me with an “Oomph!” I was scooped onto the hood, traveled another 30 feet before skidding to a stop, then rolled off & landed on my hand. That could’ve gone better, I thought. Followed by ‘Shouldn’t I be in pain?’

I stood up dazed & looked at that hand. It was a frozen claw– just like the photo “Child With Toy Hand Grenade at Central Park” by Diane Arbus. The boy in that pic looks deranged, & the hand not holding the grenade resembles my dominant hand now. I couldn’t move it, the fingers immobile. Bits of gravel embedded in the palm. I stared at it thinking ‘What the–?’

The driver jumps out & says “Are you OK?” I said something like “I think I’m fine except my hand.” I waved my claw at him & his eyes grew several sizes. Then he said “What hospital should I take you to?” I named the one my family used, was directed to the passenger seat while his buddy got in the back, & the driver pulled out feverishly heading to the ER.

Even though I didn’t know him I could tell he was majorly freaked. He frantically questioned me, talking as if I were concussed & had to stay awake. Unbeknownst to him (& myself), I was succumbing to something entirely else. As he grilled me, his voice began fading. I said “What? You sound far away.” He panicked, talking louder. Then I interrupted with “Whoa– everything’s gone white. Am I blind?” This experience was different. I could’ve been dying for all I knew, but it was so novel & peaceful as the world receded that I didn’t care. I can only imagine how this affected him, probably along the lines of ‘Oh god– I killed someone!’

After this point I can’t say. I had left the building. Blood had rushed to vital systems; shut off to those unnecessary, like audio & visual input to the brain…& consciousness. Getting to the hospital, being wheeled in, examined & X-rayed all happened sans my knowledge. The next thing I knew I was in a bed, my parents were there, & the doctor was explaining that I’d gone into shock.

The driver must’ve gleaned my name & parents’ number from me. I wasn’t the most lucid during that ride even before the shock set in. Amazingly no bones were broken, my hand returned to normal function. I had a hellacious contusion on my ass, but that was the worst of it.

I’ve concluded I’m very difficult to kill. I’ll have to warn the Death With Dignity folks when my terminal diagnosis comes…assuming I can have a terminal disease. I may be doomed to a relentlessly long life. The irony is not lost on me.