Part I:

My journey of faith began 30-ish years ago when I dropped myself on my head in a quiet Manassas, VA, neighborhood.

While it would be convenient to blame the accident on my bicycle, it’s much more accurate to express that my coordination skills (or lack thereof) were likely involved. Those same “coordination skills” have haunted my existence, managing to keep my humility levels relatively in check to date.

But what initially appeared to be a seven-year-old’s simple fall from a moving object turned much more serious in the moments following my accident. While I can’t remember the accident or the subsequent events in the several hours that followed, it’s a day my mom and dad will never forget.

It’s the day they almost lost their daughter.

After my dad loaded my limp body into our gray 1983 Ford Econoline van, we raced to the local hospital. He fought to keep me from losing consciousness, knowing intuitively that I’d suffered a serious concussion but unsure of what else may be afoot. As we descended upon the emergency room, the hospital staff quickly determined my case would be referred to Children’s Hospital in neighboring Washington, D.C. Minutes mattered, and I’d be flown via CareFlight. The trauma I’d suffered was causing intracerebal bleeding, or bleeding in the spaces surrounding the brain, and every moment became a precious commodity to my survival.

Honestly, I’m still bummed that I don’t remember my first (and only) helicopter ride.

As we fast-tracked to Children’s Hospital, the in-flight staff noted my brain swelling was continuing, and it was relayed to my parents that I’d likely need a procedure called a craniotomy. Essentially, the attending surgeon would drill holes in my skull to drain the blood clot, thereby relieving pressure within my skull.

And they wonder why I don’t like needles…

The journey continues tomorrow.
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