Prologue
Death was calling him.
He remembers her most recent call. May 1, 2010.
He had just moved into his apartment. Beginning a new life. Alone. Hopeful. Joyous.
Then it all turned to shit.
Somewhere around noon. The witching hour. His mood dropped. Crashed. Plummeted. Lower than a salamaner’s belly. Lower than a cockroach’s. Lower than a snake’s.
Winnie Churchill had called IT his Black Dog. Depression. The Big D. She came to visit that noon. That first Saturday in May. He had his regular coffee and muffin at Tim’s. He had done his yoga practice. He had picked up the keys to the bookstore from Mike.
Just back in his apartment. Lunch made. Consumed. Standing in his living room. The depression started in the bottom of his feet. Icy. Crept up his legs. Icier. Like liquid fire-ice. Turning his muscles into glacier blocks.
Exactly like the eighth of March nineteen eighty five.
The depression took six minutes to capture his body. And, his brain. His mind. Neurochemicals one and all. Fixed in his blood.
How long this time, he thought. Three months? Six? A year?
Not those. It turned out to be exactly one hundred thirteen days and three hours.
Three in the morning. His life ended. Almost.
His front bumper catapulting into the concrete sound barrier. A second later his neck slammed into the shoulder strap. His seventh cranial verterbra cracked. Then the second verterbra followed. In rapid succession. His upper body smashed into the steering wheel. It bent. Cracked. Shattered. His ribs cracked. Puncturing his right lung. His forehead smashed into the front windshield. The ridge over his right eye impinging first. The skin ripped. Blood began cascading out. Soaking into his T-shirt. Dripping on his jeans. Soaking his running shoes. A wide flap of skin and flesh ripped from his chin. Adding to the copious flow of blood from his face. Then his right carotid severed. Almost. Blood seeped into the flesh surrounding the artery. Proceeded directly to his mid-brain. Ballooned the artery wall. A haemorhagic stork followed. The best. Or worst. For last. His right foot had been planted firmly on the gas pedal. His Oldsmobile was rocketing at ninety kilometers per hour. His right heel bone shattered into a dozen pieces.
The Olds came to brief stop. Rocked back.
Ten seconds. And, his life was over. Almost.
Or, had it just begun?
Excerpt from CRASH! Memories of a Healing Journey, All Rights Reserved, Lyle T. Lachmuth
