| Wake-up Calls by Suzanne Vadnais Monson My outlook on death and dying changed dramatically when I met Jim. His near-death experience and how it redirected him onto a truer and more authentic life path helped me begin to question my fears and assumptions. Was what happened to him an opportunity to clean up his bad habits, make some better choices and grab life by the horns? Was it an accident? Was it divinely guided? All I can tell you is that even today, some 25 years later, this very macho man still cries when he tells the story. Jim was an impressive 20-year-old man. After years of hands-on experience and two years in technical school, he was on his way to a career in automotive diagnostics and repair. Jim managed a Crown Auto Store and was working his way up the corporate ladder. A skilled and thorough technician, he had little time or patience for sloppy workmanship. Jim ran a tight ship. Well respected and liked by most everyone he met, he was at the top of his game. And like most kids in the prime of life, he thought he was immortal. Then it happened. The wake-up call that forever changed his life took place in an instant. In a hurry to close up one Friday night, anxious to get to a party, Jim took over the job of inflating a set of tires so the mechanic could clean up and they could all get out of there. Unaware that the mechanic had selected the wrong size of tube for the tire he was working on, Jim firmly pressed the air hose to the stem of the innertube and began filling it with air. He was bending over the tire to see why it wasn't sealing when it exploded. The pressure from the explosion slammed the steel tire rim down hard onto the concrete floor and sent it sailing up into the air, catching Jim just under the chin. He was catapulted to the top of the 24-foot ceiling of the shop. His head ripped open when he smacked up against the ceiling radiator, and he dropped in a heap on the floor. To anyone witnessing the accident, it looked like his life was over. Won’t be here Disoriented and sedated on the operating room table at St. Paul Ramsey, Jim remembers hearing the doctor as he was leaving the room. "He won't be here in the morning," the surgeon said to the attending nurse. "There's no way anyone could survive this massive head trauma. My vacation starts tomorrow and I'm going." Jim drifted off into another world as he fought to comprehend what was happening. He remembers entering a room filled with other people he couldn't see, but whose energy was so strong he could feel them brushing up against him. The room was buzzing with intense conversation. Problems were being solved, insights were being shared, breakthroughs were happening. Jim moved around the room listening, feeling warm and at peace for the first time in his life. "Can I stay here?" he asked a strong presence standing beside him. "You still have work to do," the man replied. "I'm afraid you have to go back." Jim was furious. He wanted to stay. As soon as this man told him he had to go back, Jim reentered the room where he was lying, bandaged like a mummy, in a hospital bed. He remembers drifting around the ceiling and looking down at himself, scared and angry. "You don't know how difficult it was to come back," he tells me. "I don't know where I was, but that other place was incredible. I've never come close to touching the feeling of serenity that filled me in those brief moments when I was there." The doctor was shocked to see him in the morning. He told Jim it was a miracle that he'd made it through the night. Jim wanted to tell the doctor that he was there against his own wishes, but his jaw was wired shut and he couldn't talk. Trapped in a hospital bed for months, undergoing endless experimental surgical procedures, he felt like a freak. Superglued together He showed me some of the pictures that were taken as he progressed: having his skull super-glued back together, having his face laser-welded back to his skull, having slabs of his thighs pieced into his face to replace the flesh and skin that had been sheared off by the radiator. Complete with bolts sticking out of the sides of his head anchoring wires that held this delicate mosaic of a face in place, he looked like Frankenstein. Jim had a lot of time on his hands as he waited for the grafts to take hold and the healing to begin. He thought about his life, about how amazing it was that he had survived, his brains intact, his body still functioning pretty much like it used to. Even though he didn't want to come back, he began to wonder if there was a reason he'd been sent back. Not a religious man, he sensed there was something to that room full of high-level beings he'd encountered, something important. He knew he had to pay attention to the signs he was being shown. There were some things he needed to clean up. When he left the hospital three months later, he was completely transformed. I ask him what the biggest change was. "I slowed down. I was always in a hurry before the accident," Jim says, smiling. "Impatience was my middle name. If I'd been paying attention, if I'd taken five minutes to stop and check that tire, I would have seen that it was all wrong. I take the time to stop and look now." Being in his presence is a Zen lesson in mindfulness for me. I've been married to this man for more than 11 years now, and I am still amazed by the things he notices. I often tell him how grateful I am that he was sent back. I wouldn't have wanted to learn many of the insights he's shared with me without his guidance. Living with Jim keeps me aware that wake-up calls arrive in many different ways. Each one of them is a gift. Suzanne Monson is the owner of Come Out and Play, the Art of Creative Expression. Her workshops and products include the Getting Started in Art series, offered through JoAnn Etc. stores, and a series of summer art camps and retreats at The ArtBarn and on her 20-acre property on the St. Croix River bluffs. For more information, contact Suzanne at comeoutandplay@cornernet.com or call her at (715) 294-4522. Copyright (c) 2002 Suzanne Vadnais Monson |
||
|
|
|
