Short Story: I AM NOT S.A.N.E.

On November 22 of this year, I witnessed firsthand my grandfather’s birth to eternal life. After a fall knocked James Berka unconscious, emergency responders arrived; my grandpa had been oxygen deprived for only a few short minutes but was ultimately declared brain dead. As my family and I spent our final moments with him before he would be removed from life support, many tears were shed. However, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief and closure for my grandpa. As he lay in the hospital bed totally oblivious to life, he was immune to the side effects of Parkinson’s, a disease he had battled for many years towards the end of his life. At that moment, my grandpa was not swaying uncontrollably nor struggling to articulate a single sentence.

I had never given much thought into how I would die. There’s something about being young that causes us to believe we’re invincible. It’s not like dying young is uncommon, it’s just that there’s something extra despairing about a life ending before it had really begun. Over the past 18 years, I’ve never thought twice about my mortality. I mean, it wasn’t anything special to me. I knew that I would eventually die, but eventuallies aren’t always as far as you think. Here I am, only 18 years old, my cold body

“ My involvement began just over 10 years ago, when a nephrologist with the bedside manner of a gargoyle sat at her desk, eyes fixed absently on some point high on the opposite wall, casually told me that I was likely to be dead in a year or two or

I fought the thoughts of not being able to breathe and allowing myself to have a panic attack. I have never been very religious, but it got to a point where counting didn’t help and the moment that destroyed my health replayed over and over. It was the few seconds prior to blacking out, to when I looked up at my rearview mirror and saw a truck coming right for me because he fell asleep. These thirty minutes of darkness symbolized the endless emotional and physical pain I had endured and my return to the darkness, which I cannot explain. So I prayed, hoping that even though I couldn’t remember all the verses, it would end the spinning and the torture. These moments of fear were more than claustrophobia; it was also a concoction of sadness. Sadness, that uncovered my weak and fragile human being self to the world because I had still not healed. As these thoughts deepened, the bed of the MRI machine began to move outward and I knew it was over. I hadn’t realized that my body was trembling until they took the thick white sheet off me. It revealed my shaking legs covered in Goosebumps and so, I pulled my fuzzy green socks up and with their help got off the bed. I wondered if that’s what it was like to live through a traumatic event or was it me being dramatic? Either way, I shut the door leaving the loud and terrible noises behind me. As I walked out, I could never see myself laying in that room again, unable to escape the endless

You felt your knee raise itself unconsciously as it climbed onto the window sill, you leaned outward. It was like breathing in clarity, like everything became so clear to you: you were on the third floor of some rotten hotel about to kill yourself. You needed to make this count. You felt you stomach rage uncertainly, beckoning the question on whether or not you wanted this. You inwardly told your body sorry for wasting it. You hoped your body could be still put up for organ harvesting for those who needed it. You were sorry to the organs who wouldn't get that

Imagine an elderly man, dying from a grueling disease known as ALS that makes it painful to breathe, unable to walk or stand, and eventually, unable to swallow food. With little money and time left to live he still seems like the happiest man around as he had his family and friends near him at the end with some of life's greatest lessons to teach. Well what if that man was real, and that man’s name was Morrie Schwartz? Morrie Schwartz was a college professor who had retired and then was diagnosed with ALS. An old student of his, Mitch Albom, saw him on TV and decided to visit his old professor on a Tuesday. Pretty soon one Tuesday turned into another, and eventually that turned into 14 Tuesdays until Morrie’s death. During those visits,

“Mommy, when will I die?” I can still hear my 4-year old’s little voice asking me this question from the backseat as I am driving. How do I answer her? Do I tell her the truth? Do I lie to her? How do I explain death to a 4-year-old? For her, this question was out of curiosity not fear. For me, this was the most gut wrenching question I had ever been asked. Holding back tears, I gave her the best answer that I knew at the time. “Everyone dies sweetie. Nobody knows exactly when they are going to die. Sometimes it just happens when you least expect it. We all hope to be here for a really long time. And there will always be

On the morning of November 30, 2006 my husband came upstairs to wake me up for the day; he found me unconscious with pale blue skin, weak to no pulse and no respiration, after

When I regained consciousness, I tried to open my eyes to check my surroundings. However, being so long in darkness, I could hardly see anything. By the stench and the "beep... beep... beep..." sound around me, I knew where I was. A while later, my eyes got used to the bright light and could see much more clearly. The first thing I saw was a doctor looking into my eyes very closely. When I moaned at him, he backed up and smiled. " You will be fine. Just a little painful; doesn't bother too much," he said. Then he turned to my mother, and they chatted for a while. Before he left the room, he turned to me again, "Rest some more." He smiled again and closed the door. His smile was so warm, but not as warm as my mother's. My mother walked up to me, and she pulled a chair and sat down. I was too afraid to look into her eyes; she would be so disappointed because I crashed the brand new car. It seemed like my head weighted 20 kilograms, and I could not pull it up. I

Death is a interesting thing, for all my life, I thought when I would died I would see God for Judgement.But this never happened, I felt like I was only sleeping and saw nothing but black. When I woke up it felt like I had only been sleeping for thirty minutes, or a hour at most. I got up and rubbed my head " what happened?" I figured that the only way to get answer was to ask Octavia. I turned on the D.S.D and asked Octavia "Octavia what happened and how bad am I injured " Your vitials are zero, I can not check the vital of a dead person" I was silent for a few seconds and started laughing I said " You don't expect me to belive something so silly do you" she was not amused and said " I am not joking, I can't find your pulse .... you don't

How many of you have had the experience of facing death in previous life? Frankly, I haven’t really experienced it. But when I was 8 years old, I was misdiagnosed as having atypical pneumonia which was called “the SARS”. I was isolated in the isolation ward. As a juvenile, at that time, all I did was to wait for the deterioration of my condition, accompanied with a 24-hour non-stop oxygen cylinder, and bronchoscopies, blood and secretion tests.

"In life, there are times when we choose our challenges and other times when the challenges simply choose us” - Travis Roy. I don’t remember what happened to me, I was told I was hit by a car. I was placed in a medically induced coma, for a month. Slowly, the doctor lowered the sedatives to see how I can breathe on my own, within six weeks everything was removed. I woke up; there were family and friends around my hospital bed. I was confused because I had no idea what happened. Mom and Uncle Ray told me stories about how angry I was and would try to get out of bed.

This has been part of my own journey of understanding myself while learning to transition from a faith centered community to a scientific community, and dealing with the personal challenges. My opinion on this topic may change and develop over time, but I wanted to chart my own process and check my understanding of the topic.

I started to shake because I was so nervous from all that was happening. Just yesterday, I was worried about passing my LSAT, and now I was being told that I have something possibly wrong with my brain. I waited until the doctors got the results from the annoying machine. I waited and waited forever. Dr. Sloan finally walked into my room right as I was about to drift off. “Your scans came back, and you have a brain aneurysm,” he said, pausing to let me take it all in. “It has grown to a very large size. The nurses told me you had been having terrible headaches and symptoms for months now. Why have you not come to the doctors before now?” he said with a sincere, worried look on his face. I thought for a moment and started to defend myself, but nothing came to mind. I had a feeling for a few months that something was wrong, but had refused to go to the hospital because I needed to work on my exam and study harder. I pushed through the pain, and eventually forgot about the terrible headaches I would endure for hours at a time. I must have zoned off because Sloan was staring at me waiting for my answer. “Can you please just let me have some time to myself. I need time to process all of this,” I remarked with a scowl on my face. Dr. Sloan started to exit the room, but he looked like he wanted to say something. He stared at me with a curious look, but briskly walked away, sighing because he had given up trying to talk to

I slipped beneath the surface of the pool of grain, my hands sticking straight up over my head as I held my breath, preparing for death. I was preparing for the world to go silent. This was the exact situation my father had warned me about, and I had fallen victim to it despite that. Fourteen years old as of two months ago, and death had already come for me. Or so I thought. I felt firm, callused hands grasp my own, plucking me from my grave. The relief was wonderful. I drank the air in, filling my burning lungs with as much as possible. I almost laughed out of sheer happiness – until my eyes met my father’s.