What it feels like to die
In second grade, while living in Mexico City, I won a raffle at my school which gave me enough store credits to buy dulce de leche cones at the cafeteria for a week. My friends and I hugged and jumped as if we had hit the jackpot. The raffle ticket was #33 and from that moment onward it’s always been my lucky number.
So it was no surprise that after almost a year and a half into the pandemic I would finally get to play football ⚽ , one of the things I loved most, on my 33rd birthday. I had been dreaming of that moment for months and had my cleats and gear ready to go. No more watching clips on Youtube, I'd finally get to kick the ball with my own two feet.
An hour into the game, the unexpected happened.
While sprinting for the ball my adrenaline levels went off the charts and short circuited my heart. The electric signals sped my heart rate like Vin Diesel's Chevelle until the muscle could no longer keep up. I collapsed.
The next thing I remember was feeling confused. I was in a cold place, surrounded by loud noises, bright lights and people I had never met. My first reaction was to think that I was being kidnapped. I tried to fight back but was restricted to a bed. In fact, I was being rushed away in an ambulance and had finally woken after being shocked 3 times with a defibrillator. I did not have a pulse for almost 12 minutes. Yet I opened my eyes and was reborn on my 33rd birthday.
WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE TO DIE?
Despite the short term memory loss that comes with such an event I remember a dark place. But not dark as in lack of light. I could see my arms and legs yet this place was an empty void as far as my eyes could see. I was falling slowly as if underwater.
Any other moment and it would've been reason to panic but there was nothing but peace. It was cozy and reminded me of the feeling you get while meditating when your mind is completely at ease. It's not what I imagined death to be like. In fact, I had only recently started pondering that question primarily because of my experience with Uncle Stewart, my father in law.
I had only known him for a handful of years but he makes an impact in my life every single day. His patience taught me to be a better father. His strength taught me to not let obstacles get in my way. To remain positive and grateful.
He was a professional fisherman in Hawaii so every trip to the aina we made sure to get on the boat. For someone from a concrete jungle like São Paulo where skyscrapers are seen in every direction, it was special for me to get out into an open ocean and catch fish the way Hawaiians did hundreds of years ago. No rods or equipment. You wrapped bait around a handkerchief and battled the fish holding the string with your bare hands.
To have the chance of going up against a majestic bluefin tuna you must first catch a batch of opelu, a local bait fish. We did this with a net Uncle Stew built from scratch. He would occasionally tend to it and fix any broken or twisted wiring. Our boat had no fancy tracking devices or electronics. There was rarely any beeping. All you’d hear were the waves on our way to a secret spot hours before the sun came up.
The last time we went fishing was in 2019. After battling cancer for almost 20 years Uncle Stew finally passed. I'm proud to say Lila, my wife, and I were sitting bedside when he took his final breath. He was the first person I loved to pass away. I had never really given death much thought until that day.
When we talk about death most people think about the moment leading up to it. We think of suffering and pain. Rarely do we question what happens next simply because we have no answers. But I was there. In that dark place, there was no awareness, fear or confusion. Just falling. I question how much farther I would’ve dropped. But at that moment my eyes glimpsed a set of brown wires. I could feel the black net on my fingers and the familiarity of the meshed material. Uncle Stew's fish net was slowly rising to engulf my body and raise me up.
The next thing I remember was opening my eyes and realizing I was in the ambulance, on the way to the hospital to live another day.
THE PRESENT
My friends often ask how I’ve dealt with such a traumatic experience. One would think I’d avoid getting back on the pitch to bend it like Beckham or join the dawn patrol to catch some waves. Yet the opposite is true. I’ve learned to enjoy life and not take it for granted. I feel mentally stronger than I ever have.
There is only one thing that pains me to think about. For a few months I had been taking my daughter Camila to ballet. She was perfecting her pliers and practicing for a routine to When You Wish Upon a Star that I knew by heart. Sadly her performance took place three days after my accident and I was unable to attend. The inevitability that her dad was not there, that day or possibly any other day, to see her dance feels like swallowing a ball of cotton. I find myself quickly scrolling past her recital videos when searching through my phone’s camera roll.
Yet as I unpacked a few boxes in my office I bumped into the trophy she received for her performance. It was the first trophy she ever received, period. I kept it on my desk as a reminder to be strong and honestly because I’m a *very* proud dad.
Little did I know I’d receive a present -- a final reminder of the events I experienced. That we have a purpose in life and there is no such thing as a coincidence. Printed in small bold letters was her name, along with her trophy that was inscribed with my lucky number 33.
Until now, only family and a handful of friends know what happened to me. I initially wanted to keep it a secret primarily because I don't want people to feel bad for me. You know what I'm talking about. That look on people's faces where there is a bit of shock that freezes them into not knowing what to say.
Instead I opted to share this with the world on my very first blog post. In an attempt to get past my imposter syndrome I decided to send you a message. If someone you loved has passed away, let this be a reminder that they are looking out for you with their nets and that you will get to see them again one day.
