A second dose of survivor’s guilt.

This is the 54th anniversary of a tragic moment in my life. On February 20, 1970, a horrific car accident gravely injured my brother Allen Miller, who would pass away six months later from his injuries. He was only three years old when the car crash took place.

At the time, I was attending first grade (Clarksville Elementary, School #2 of The Twelve), and was not in the car with my siblings when the accident occurred. Over the years, I’ve dealt with a case of survivor’s guilt from that day, although it only seems to manifest itself when other personal tragedies occur in my life. I think about how much different my life would be had Allen not been in that car that day. Or if the driver of that car never got behind the wheel that day. Or a hundred other things.

Fast forward to two weeks ago, after I had the first of two consecutive surgeries. The first surgery was a vascular surgical bypass, in that the veins in my leg were not delivering enough blood to my feet. The surgery involved finding a good vein to use as a bypass.

But after the surgery, as I woke up from the anesthesia, I was told that they almost lost me on the operating table. That I had lost nearly three units of blood. And that even when they gave me those units, I still needed three more units after the surgery.

But the words “they almost lost me on the operating table” hit me like a Mike Tyson punch.

They saved my life … but I almost died right there. Just two weeks before the 54th anniversary of my brother’s fatal and long-lasting injury.

And I’m still mentally processing it. I don’t want to die. Not yet. Trust me, I could be 110 and I would still say that I don’t want to die, not yet.

I tried to recall what happened between the time the anesthesia took my body into slumber … and when I came out of the anesthetical haze. Did I see a heavenly choir and the gates of St. Peter? Did I see a phalanx of dancing demons and unquenchable fire?

I didn’t see anything. I don’t even recall if time flew by or not.

It’s that weird moment where you don’t truly know your existence prior to your birth … where a billion years could be just the time of a second. And when you die … are those billions of years afterward just another fleeting second?

This is what I’m thinking about now. And I’ll need to process it … today, more than ever. And I’ll remember my baby brother on this day … the few tiny fragments of memory I have of him.

This is how I deal with survivor’s guilt. And this year … it comes in a second bonus package.