On September 13 I meant to post something important to me.
I'm only a month or so behind.
September 13, 2007 was the day I nearly died, and more importantly the day I started really living.
For those who've been around since forever you'll remember this time well. I don't even need to make a mental note of the date. Something always reminds me.
September is spring, magpie season, magnolia's in bloom. 13 is an unlucky number depending on who you ask. My accident happened at almost 10 am exactly.
This September 13 just gone I got my dates mixed. I thought it was a day earlier. I had an errand to run and my Dad offered to pick me up. So it was that this September 13, which I thought was 12 I sat on the side of the road waiting for my Dad. My back was sore and stiff from running. The clouds covering the sun made it cool and the wind made it cold. When Dad arrived, Mum was in tow and they were bickering about directions - just as they were bickering about which hospital I should go to 5 years earlier - to the day, to the hour and chances are to the minute.
I'm not superstitious, religious but there is something about September 13. On the flight to Italy I read Russell Mockridge's posthumous autobiography MY WORLD ON WHEELS. Russell was killed on the first stage of the Tour of Gippsland in the first two miles of the race - on September 13 at the age of 30. I was 29.
If you want the full story on my accident well, maybe another time. The short of it was I crashed training, broke my neck in three places (C1, C4, C5) and am beyond fortunate to be here at all, let alone walking and riding.
I talk a little about it here from 27.00
I already knew was life is short.
Every day is a gift. That's why it's called 'the present'.
Makes the most of yours.