I Shouldn’t Be Here

Clay Hurtubise

It started when I was six. No, correct that, it started before the union of egg and sperm. The condom had broken, and I was an accident. I dedicated a book to my folks with:

As he spoke,

The condom broke.

Nine months later,

I awoke.

I was chasing my sister, Monica, when I was six. She had turned the corner and was approaching the kitchen. I was closing in. She swung the heavy 15 pane glass door closed. I put my left arm up to stop it. My hand went through the center panel of thick glass.

At first, it didn’t hurt. Not understanding what was happening to me, I was fascinated. Beautiful sprays of red were appearing on the deep yellow walls of the kitchen. The lines dripped down like icing on a cake.

Monica understood immediately. She rushed outside where my brother just happened to be. In moments he had me on top of the white and now red porcelain sink. He had just taken first aid at the boy scouts. He applied pressure then tightly wrapped my wrist.

Monica ran outside. My mom was just getting off the bus, one house away. Mom immediately dialed for the operator. It just happened that a police car was nearby.

I remember him as tall and thin, and wearing a police hat that had a hard visor. He picked me up and dashed to his car. I was in the middle, mom in the passenger seat. We took off with a squeal of the tires and the siren started. “This is cool”, I thought. I was getting sleepy. I noticed the bandage was red. I distinctly remember when he turned left to go up the hill to the monolith of a hospital. Then everything went dark.

Everything had happened like on a movie script. Even death.

I woke up in my bed. My wrist was throbbing; my mom was sobbing.

I shouldn’t be here.

The oil well erupted. It knocked me backwards as it shot 160 feet up. I was 60 feet up on a platform. The stench was suffocating.

An explosion was likely. Rescue folks guided me by yelling directions. No one thought I’d live. I shouldn’t be here.

Pfizer, my old English sheepdog, pulled me out of bed. I landed on the floor with a heavy thud.

I was told that Fize and I had a half hour before we would have died from the furnace fumes. I shouldn’t be here.

The infection was systemic. My lungs were filled with fluid. The doctor shook his head. He sent me home to die, it was certain. I took the powerful antibiotics and slept 16 hours a day. For two weeks.

I shouldn’t be here.

Misdiagnosed for weeks. The pulmonary embolism clusters were in both lungs. The W.R. doctor said, “shit, I don’t know how you’re still alive”.

I had a reaction to the treatment. While in intensive care, a nurse finished taking a blood sample from me. Casually, on her way out, she said, “we think you only have an hour left to live”.

After I made it, a few days later the same treatment was done. The results were the same.

I shouldn’t be here.

A massive stroke knocked me down. The neurologist told me, “we all have an exit ticket”. When my cardiologist entered the exam room last month, he said, “I didn’t expect to see you again”.

I shouldn’t be here.

The inevitable is closing in. Until then, I’m staying.