A Brush with Death Essays

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A Brush with Death
When I awoke the morning of June 30th, 2010, I had no idea it would be a day that would change my life forever. I thought it was just a normal start to a typical Wednesday. The smell of summer was in the air and the dew was still sparkling on the individual blades of grass. The other true sign that summer had arrived was my bike. Since I started riding ten years ago, motorcycles have been more than a means of transportation. They are a source of fun, entertainment, and happiness. Nothing is more liberating than feeling the wind passing over my body as I cruise down an open highway. On this morning, like many other summer mornings, I jumped on my brand new, baby blue Honda chopper to ride to my daughter’s swimming
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All of this happened within the matter of five seconds and then everything went dark. When I regained consciousness a crowd of people had gathered around me. For what seemed like an eternity, I could see mouths moving but hear no sound: There was nothing but silence.
I spent six days in the hospital and needed two more weeks of recovery at home. I hated having to rely on the help of others to cook, clean, bathe, and help take care of my girl. The thought of all the mounting medical bills left a constant knot in my stomach, especially since I could not work. My new motorcycle went from being my pride and joy to an unrecognizable object. The thought of getting back on a bike and riding again gave me the chills, and for two months I would not touch a motorcycle.
I have since purchased another motorcycle and rediscovered the joy of riding. This time I stayed on the more conservative side, buying a 1982 mid-sized Yamaha. I also purchased another vital item: a helmet. The first time I got back on a bike I was scared but determined, and when the ride was done I felt a sense of accomplishment.
I am still reminded of the accident daily as I take the County Road I exit to my apartment. The experience continues to humble me. There was definitely a “guardian angel” watching over me that day and the idea of a greater power no longer seems improbable. Although I do not visit a church on a weekly basis, prayer is now a

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