Near Death Experiences: Why I'm Thankful My Near Death Experience Kept a Little Distance

Yesterday was my second oldest son's ninth birthday. I can't believe he's already that old, and I also can't believe it's been three years since I survived my own near death experience--an event that is still as mysterious as it was when it happened three years ago on May 16, 2009.

The world is filled with near death experiences. My father once shared his own tale with me by claiming that he floated over his body, saw the doctors, but couldn't communicate. That event has since plunged him into an obsession with creating a device that would allow body-less spirits to communicate with the living.

There's my son, Jonah, who turned 9 yesterday.

For myself, I don't feel compelled to move in that direction, though that event has definitely helped guide many of my decisions since I fell down, quit breathing, and turned blue in front of my wife, my soon-to-be sister-in-law, and my youngest son (while watching Twin Peaks, no less).

My Near Death Experience

So, here's how everything went down. We were all watching Twin Peaks when my phone rang. I jumped up to answer and heard my mom's voice on the other end. We were all planning to head over to my ex-wife's house to celebrate my son's sixth birthday. Anyway, we said a couple things to each other, and that's when I started to feel tunnel vision and lost consciousness.

From my perspective, everything went black. There were no lights. There was no floating over my body. Just a big nothing. (Note: I want it to be known I consider myself a Christian, so I'm not arguing for or against the existence of anything. I'm just sharing what I experienced.)

Eventually, I began to hear a frantic voice. Then, I could see my wife, Tammy, looking into my eyes. I could tell she was very worried, and I tried to to get up--but I couldn't. In fact, I could barely move. It was like my entire body was paralyzed--or like it had fallen asleep.

Stop Breathing, Turning Blue

From Tammy's perspective, I got up to answer the phone. Then, I sat down on the couch behind me and in one motion laid down. Then, I started snoring loudly, which is what cued her in that something was wrong. Eventually my breathing stopped altogether and--right before her eyes--my skin was turning crayon blue.

My soon-to-be sister-in-law called 911, while Tammy worked on me to get me back breathing. While she didn't have a stopwatch out to "time me," both are pretty sure that I'd quit breathing for at least a few minutes. Brain cells begin to die within five minutes of no oxygen to the brain, so my life and ability to function normally were hanging in the balance while I experienced nothing.

Tammy kept blowing into my mouth until finally I started breathing again. Even then, my eyes were open, but I wasn't home. So she kept "talking" to me until I found my way back to her.

No Answers, But Still Thankful

Over the course of the next month, I was put through a gauntlet of tests in Ohio and Georgia by a variety of specialists, including cardiologists and neurologists. I wore a heart monitor day and night--calling in suspicious codes (even in the middle of the night) whenever it beeped. I intentionally made myself hyperventilate for a neurological test (talk about weird). And I went through more than a dozen other tests.

Three years ago, I spent the weekend in a hospital bed.

Cardiologists were convinced it was neurological. Neurologists were convinced it was cardiological. Eventually, I ended up with no answers and a prescription for extra strength Vitamin D.

Without any answers, I felt like a ticking time bomb. The least little jump in my heart rate could send me into a panic. But eventually, that passed. I've learned to move on with my life, and I'm actually very thankful.

That moment, as horrible as it was, helped me realize what I was doing to myself. I was pulling all-nighters, letting myself get overly stressed out about work, and staying locked inside every day. I was truly lucky that I didn't have a similar event when I was home alone (with my 6-month-old son). If that had been the case, this blog post probably wouldn't exist.

So when I start pulling my hair out about work or bills or "a million things to get done" in a short amount of time, I now have my near death experience to draw upon for strength and patience and perspective. Nothing's so important that it's worth killing myself over. I can take a deep breath, relax my shoulders, and remember I'm alive.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out these other posts from the Blissfully series:

• The Good Side of My Father.
• I Began as Eyelashes Blocking the Sun.
• When Everything Changed.

Things That Scare Children (Blissfully Series)

Throughout 2012, I'll be sharing stories about myself on Sundays as part of this Blissfully series. My life has already had its share of good and bad moments, but these are the ones I consider the most important.

The Vacuum Cleaner of Doom

Today, I've been cleaning and organizing a bit. My mind often seems to mirror my surroundings. If they're cluttered, so is my brain. When I got out the vacuum cleaner, Will started telling me not to run it. I told him I had to run the vacuum. So he went to his room and closed the door until I finished.

You see, Will is afraid of the vacuum cleaner. Since we live in an apartment building, he's also afraid of the noises upstairs (especially heavy walkers), leaf blowers, and lawn mowers. Reese is also spooked by normal noises. It can get difficult as a parent to explain that there's nothing to be afraid of, while trying to help them overcome their fears.

But then again, I think such fears are part of living. After all, I had (still have from time to time) my own set of fears. I remember my brothers and I would run for cover whenever the dump truck came by for its weekly collection--and we did the same when the street cleaner came 'round.

I can't remember if I was ever afraid of the vacuum cleaner, but the sounds caused by flushing a toilet always terrified me. It almost sounded as if a ghost or demon was ready to reach up and snatch me. The sound was not just unpleasant, it made me fear for my life.

Of course, these things are foolish fears, though I'd be lying if I said I haven't created new things to fear as I've grown older. And some of these new fears are foolish. I know it. Silences when I'm alone. Talking to strangers. Imagining people hiding behind corners and bushes in the evening. Expecting to see ghosts (or burglars) appear behind me when I look in mirrors.

After all these years, I realize I can't just dismiss the fears of another person, because the things that scare children are the things that scare me as well. Foolish as they may seem to others, fear is very real for those who suffer it.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out these other posts from the Blissfully series:

• The Good Side of My Father.
• I Began as Eyelashes Blocking the Sun.
• When Everything Changed.

When Everything Changed (Blissfully Series)

Throughout 2012, I'll be sharing stories about myself on Sundays as part of this Blissfully series. My life has already had its share of good and bad moments, but these are the ones I consider the most important.

Happy sad house fire

I have to confess: I've been coming up with excuses not to write this post for the past few weeks. My life, my perspective on life is a good one, but it hinges on a set of dark events in a relationship that I'd never wish on another person.

Relationships are funny in that they can seem to be traveling along one trajectory for the longest time. Then without warning, that trajectory can suddenly and permanently change--for better or worse.

I mentioned in an earlier post how I was always a happy child. I'd run up to strangers in public and give them hugs. I always smiled (still do, in fact). And I attribute this happiness to my home life.

My brothers and I would sleep together in the same room and bathe together in the same tub. We'd cuddle with our parents on the couch. Our parents--both of them--would tuck us in and hug and kiss us good night.

We were all so affectionate that I'm not even sure when the lines started getting crossed. Instead of taking baths with my brothers, I was taking them alone with my father--unaware there was anything weird about that arrangement.

I was around six years old when I started becoming aware. That's when my father took it upon himself to teach me a new sort of kiss in which he'd put his tongue--huge and warm--into my mouth, and I was supposed to do the same back to him.

"It's called a French kiss," he said, "and you need to put it in my mouth longer. Like this."

That's when everything started to change, and something new and strange began to dominate my life. And it's when I started keeping a secret that would not be told for nine long--and lonely--years.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out these other posts from the Blissfully series:

• The Good Side of My Father.
• I Began as Eyelashes Blocking the Sun.
• The Strangers Who Watched Me.

The Good Side of My Father (Blissfully Series)

Throughout 2012, I'll be sharing personal stories about myself on Sundays as part of this Blissfully Series. My life has already had its share of good moments and bad moments, and these are the ones I consider the most important to my life.

From the left, my brother Simon, my father, my grandfather, and me.

From my experience, there are many children who have complicated relationships with their parents. With five children myself, I completely understand this dynamic. Parents have the nearly impossible task of trying to guide their children to be independent thinkers who can make themselves happy without making other people unhappy.

As a result, parents are charged with being loving but also firm, which can be confusing for children. Throw in the fact that children often start off life thinking their parents are perfect--when in reality parents are messed up human beings themselves--and it's easy to see how things get off track frequently.

Anyway, I have a very complicated relationship with my father. But before I get into the complications of our relationship, I want to share the side of him that was perfect.

My Father, the builder
When we were kids (I grew up with two brothers), my father built us a bunk bed that doubled as a fort and had a G.I. Joe emblem painted on the outside. This wasn't a kit. My father actually designed it, went out and purchased the wood, and built it. Of course, we loved it.

But my father also would build things with other materials. For instance, he'd often take the mattresses off our beds, cushions off our couches, and blankets to build forts and secret bases for us. And of course, he'd wrestle us all as we ran around jumping on him, hitting him, kicking him, and pulling his hair. He took it all with a smile.

He turned our garage into a sort of low-budget sports training area by hanging up a basketball hoop on one end for basketball games that could be played any time of year and any time of the day or night. Plus, he cut a hole into another wall that represented a pitching strike zone for baseball, in which I'd spend hours practicing my fast ball. These advantages (that really didn't cost anything but a little imagination and willingness to cut a hole in the wall) helped me and my brothers grow up as athletes.

My Father, the organizer
My father loved games. He'd get all the kids in the neighborhood together to play wiffle ball, football, kickball, run races, complete obstacle courses, whatever. He was like the neighborhood gym teacher or something.

One time he went out and bought a bunch of these cheap plastic BB guns with little yellow rubber BBs, and he had all the kids in the neighborhood gather and have a massive BB gun fight. That's just the kind of thing he'd do.

My Father, the manager
Early on in my life, my father was more of like a stay-at-home mom than a typical bread-winning dad. He had a job here and there until latched on at Domino's Pizza, which is where he finally started to move up the chain of command.

At some point, my father was promoted to manager, and he even got his own store in Beavercreek. I remember there was a big grand opening celebration, and it was an exciting moment for me to see my father doing something so important.

He threw himself into his new role by listening to motivational tapes by big business leaders and motivators, and then he'd often share the main points with me. He worked hard and was rewarded with Manager of the Year honors, bonuses, and endless pizza.

The Good Side
My father always had a smile and an infectious laugh. In fact, he still does from time to time. He's a people person, who never shies away from a crazy idea and thinks anything is possible with enough hard work and the right attitude. Really, there's a lot about him that is good--and even great.

But nobody is perfect, and that's precisely where the real story of our lives often starts to emerge. More on that next Sunday.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

*****

Check out these other personal Not Bob posts:

• My Father Is Running for President.
• I Began as Eyelashes Blocking the Sun.
• The Strangers Who Watched Me.

The Strangers Who Watched Me (Blissfully Series)

Throughout 2012, I'll be sharing personal stories about myself on Sundays as part of this Blissfully Series. I shared the first post last Sunday (click to continue), and another one should magically appear next Sunday. My life has already had its share of good moments and bad moments, and these are the ones I consider the most important to my life.

As a boy, I loved curling up in tight spaces.

My first baby-sitter was my Aunt Sherlene. She's one of the nicer people I've ever met, so I know I got off to a good start. However, I was so young when she watched me that the memories I do have come without audio and are like two-second blips of footage and emotions.

Outside of family, there are four main baby-sitters who I remember the best. I'm not sure what process (if any) that my parents used to select sitters. As a kid, they often felt kind of random. But when you're a kid, there's the world of adults and the world of kids.

Mr. and Mrs. Shady
First of all, I'm not giving nicknames to each of my baby-sitters to be mean. And I'm not doing it to protect their identities. The simple fact of the matter is that I don't know who any of these baby-sitters are. These people who watched me through the day were all strangers outside of when they watched us.

So the first sitters I can remember were Mr. and Mrs. Shady. I may have distorted them over the years, but I always think of the Mr. Shady as kind of like Tom Petty with a moustache and Mrs. Shady as a female Tom Petty (without the moustache).

I remember having to take naps on their floor and eating (yes, eating) strings out of their carpet. (By the way, one of my earlier memories was eating ants outside on the back patio of our little house in Fairborn.) My appetite for thread may have been prompted by what they always made us eat: mushroom soup.

Seriously, that's all I remember these people ever feeding us. Mushroom soup or nothing. Except, we did go to a hospital or doctor's office once, and they gave us some Combos (pretzels and processed cheese-tasting product). Mmmmm.... To this day, I still can't stand to eat anything with mushrooms in it.

Lady Down the Street
The lady down the street was the mother to a "friend" of ours in the neighborhood. Of course, the kid wasn't really a friend of ours. He was a troublemaker through and through, and I wouldn't be surprised if he joined a gang when he got to high school (we moved out of Fairborn when I was in the 7th grade).

The lady down the street was always yelling at her kids, but I don't remember her being too mean or unfair with us. In fact, she worked with me some on learning how to tie my shoe laces as a kid. But we weren't there too long before moving on to...

The Waitress
This woman wasn't really a waitress, but she looked like one of those middle-aged women you might find in a diner who has a permanent scowl on her face. When she did smile, it was the forced kind that was seeking a tip. Her own children were young, and she took in more than just me and my brothers.

I'm probably being unfair to The Waitress, but she always sided with her own children, and I remember my brothers and I hating her for her favoritism. But I do remember she lived close enough to our elementary school that we would walk there after school when both my parents had jobs.

Grandma Sitter
This woman was not really our grandma--or a relative of any kind--but she was old and smoked like a carton of cigarettes every couple days. She watched us one summer, and I remember splashing around in her pool--one of those little, hard plastic ones--and playing endless games of Yahtzee by myself while watching videos on MTV.

She was nice enough, but all I remember of her were the cigarettes.

How Things Were
Now, there are a ton of childcare institutions and pre-schools. While those existed when I was a kid, baby-sitters were the norm--and were really the only affordable option for my parents. After spending days with these people, you might think I'd have better memories of them, but they were truly strangers who let us run through their houses and play with their kids.

There are times when I wonder if baby-sitters are a good or bad thing. In one sense, it opened me up to new people and gave me perspective on my own home. If I was watched at a childcare institution, I wouldn't have been able to compare one house to another.

But for better or worse, these were the strangers who watched me and helped shape me.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

Tweet

*****

Check out these other Not Bob posts:

• My New Weekend Routine.
• The Golden Rule to Everything.
• Poetic Saturdays: Until Further Notice.

I Began as Eyelashes Blocking the Sun (Blissfully Series)

Welcome to the Blissfully series of blog posts I'm doing for 2012. Every Sunday, I'll be sharing a personal post about my past. The title of the series is taken from the song "The View," by Modest Mouse: "And if it takes shit to make bliss, then I feel pretty blissfully." I've had some good moments and some bad moments, and the Blissfully series will share the ones I consider the most important to my life.

Robert Lee Brewer (Painting by Didi Menendez)

The world began for me--my first memory--as black lines and sunshine. For the longest time, I thought I was viewing gigantic blades of grass. It wasn't until I was much older that I could appreciate the length of my own eyelashes. Instead of viewing Whitman's leaves of grass, I realized I began as eyelashes blocking the sun.

For years and years, I misinterpreted my own first memory. As such, take these memories for the faulty and flimsy things they are. I promise I will do my best to accurately capture the various important moments of my life. When possible, I'll try to protect the identities of the folks involved--though there will be moments when that is impossible. (Sorry in advance, identities I can't protect.)

Whether by grass or eyelashes, I've always considered the black lines and sunshine memory a comforting one, though I could understand it being interpreted as scary for others. Maybe that's why I was always known as a happy kid. My mom used to tell me how I would run up to strangers in public and give them hugs. Even now, I receive feedback from people on how I always seem to be smiling. It's just part of my DNA to look on the bright side of things.

Unfortunately, this series of posts will not just be a collection of hugs and sunshine. In fact, some posts may even have a little note at the beginning to warn of graphic content. That said, I do think everything that happens--the good, the bad, and the in between--is supposed to happen. So I may have made it through some bad moments, but there aren't any black clouds hanging over me. They made me who I am.

But my life (and this series) is not just a collection of bad news. There will be good posts to balance out the bad. I'm going to attempt to go in chronological order. I'm going to attempt to be accurate. I'm going to attempt not to hit my head anymore.

This post began with my first memory, and I shared my mom's memory of me running up to hug strangers (kids, do not follow my example). I'll end this post with another shared memory. It's about when I got a scar over my right eye. It's harder to see now than when I was a child, when it was very obvious.

The story goes like this: My father was driving with my brother David and I in our unsecured car seats, and he got into a wreck. My unsecured seat flew face first into the dashboard. Apparently, face covered in blood, I kept just touching the blood and looking at my fingers without crying. Meanwhile, David dangled upside down bawling away.

As a child hearing this story, I always used it as proof that I was somehow tougher than other people. It's a perfect example of what doesn't kill you makes you psychologically stronger. Of course, I'm now smart enough to know the only reason I wasn't crying is that I probably suffered a concussion. David reacted appropriately.

Anyway, there's the truth of what happened, and there's the truth according to us. History--even a personal history--is a complicated journey. I hope you enjoy the ride.

*****

Connect with me on Twitter, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Plus, sign up for free e-mail updates from this blog in the top right-hand corner of the page.

Tweet

*****

Learn more about me and my peeps in these posts:

• My Father is Running for President.
• How to Pack for a Hurricane Chase.
• Confession of a Man With a Moustache.