Thirty Years

I was wearing a navy blue Yankees jacket, I remember that. And denim overalls, too. They were brand-new, and I’d never wear them again. Not after the doctors had finished cutting through them to get to my broken body.

It was a Saturday night – March 31, 1979, and I was going out to dinner with my parents. I was 8 years old, and my brother, Eric, was 5. My dad had just dropped us off on Forest Avenue, across the street from the restaurant, while he went to park. My mom held Eric’s hand and mine, and we were waiting for a clearing so we could cross the street. I have no idea why I did this, but as we stood on the street, just inside the curb, I let go of her hand. And started out into the street.

I got halfway across the street. But then there was that car, traveling toward me in the far lane at a pretty good speed. I started to run diagonally, but wasn’t able to get out of the way fast enough. I went flying into the air, landing on my head in the gutter. My mother screamed. People all around the restaurant sprinted toward my body as fast as they could – my dad, who’d seen it as well, the first among them …

I’ve been feeling a bit depressed lately. About career stuff. I’m 38 years old, and it’s nearly 10 years since I made the non-traditional move of switching from full-time journalist to full-time teacher. I wanted more one-on-one interaction with young people, to inspire and encourage them the way so many teachers and pastors had done for me when I was young. I’ve found teaching to be fulfilling, as I had hoped it would be, and I’m proud of myself for working so hard at it and making a difference in the lives of others.

But, as with most teachers, I don’t make a lot of money. And so when I look around sometimes, I get envious at what others have. I think about the car we can’t afford, the vacation we can’t take, the towns we can’t even think about moving to. I look at our TV, our camera, our sofa – all functioning, but weathered with age. I want to upgrade my life.

And yet …

Thirty years ago tomorrow, I was struck by that car on a dark street in Staten Island. The car’s impact sent me up, rather than down, which saved my life. I don’t remember much about that first week, but I did eventually learn that I had broken my right femur and hip bone. I was in traction at Staten Island Hospital for six weeks as the bones healed. Eventually, I developed a slight seizure disorder, possibly spurred by the accident. My parents were the ones more permanently scarred by this event, though, to the point where even today they still look after me sometimes as though I’m 8 years old (I am sure I'd do the same). My brother, too, can still recall the image of his only sibling tossed in the air like a rag doll. Our family, in an instant, was nearly shattered.

I was driving home tonight, heading west on I-78 through the Watchung Reservation. I spotted something on the side of the road – a deer, perhaps. I slowed the car down a few miles per hour and found myself wondering for a moment what would happen if that deer had darted into the highway and caused a fatal collision for both of us. If I had just a few moments left to live, what would be the final thoughts in my mind? Would I die wishing that I’d earned a few thousand more, or bought the girls a new TV on my final day?

Or would I think about how much I’d want to see their faces again, or hear my wife’s voice, or eat a meal with my parents, or spend some time talking baseball with my brother? Would I think about the achievements unaccomplished, or would I think about the unbelievable, underappreciated joy of moments spent with the people I love?

I have every right to think about my career, and to care about it deeply. But if there’s one thing that March 31, 1979 taught me, it’s that perspective and gratitude are everything in life. It can all end so quickly. And if it doesn’t – if you do get another shot, as this 8-year-old in the Yankee jacket was given that night – then you might want to lean more toward the joy than the jealousy, and more toward the things you have than the things you don’t.

There’s a little scar on my right shin, left over from that cast I wore for a month and a half. The skin has a different texture there, on that inch-wide scar. It’s smoother. Softer. More delicate. Kind of like the hand of an 8-year-old. Or life itself.