Oh, and I did have a large handgun pointed at me once. In my late teen years, I was living with a bunch of people in an apartment in Ann Arbor. One of my housemates was an old hippie radical from the sixties, but who liked to flex her second amendment rights, and owned a Charter Arms Bulldog .44 Special, a revolver that shot bullets so big that it only held five rounds in the cylinder, not six. Also, her bedroom faced the front door, and she kept the door open.

I came home quite late one night, stumbling into the kitchen, when I heard her voice from the other room: "Who's there?"

I said, "Me."

I heard "Me who?" ::CLICK::

I said, "It's me, Sean, Mary. Don't shoot."

I heard "Oh." ::ka-click::

Didn't freak me out until the next day. Not that I was ever bothered by the gun in the house. It was quite a nice gun, and she cared for it well and knew how to shoot, and was a pretty cool customer, so I trusted her not to shoot without cause, but I did sweat a little the next afternoon, thinking about how close she came to plugging me.

laura made me want to hug her. and B too. and then her again.

My closest brushes with death have all been in airplanes, and possibly in my head. I have been flying for decades, and don't think anything of it, and then there's that moment on landing, just before touchdown, that I grasp the armrests and my brain goes into capital letters: THIS IS THE TIME. And then it's over, and nobody notices that we almost crashed.

(It doesn't happen on every landing, and I have been in some hairy landing situations with crosswinds and puddlejumpers, but when it does happen, I am absolutely certain.)

When I was 3 (I don't remember this), I climbed a 6 foot bookcase and brought it down on top of me. Apparently, I fell under a table, so the bookcase didn't squash me flat. I don't know whether it would have killed me, but it would not haev been fun to find out.

I once looked out from the top of Dixville Notch Promontory, in New Hampshire, and thought I was already falling the 2000 foot drop to the ground. I wasn't; I wasn't even close; but I had to sit down very far away from the edge and stare out at the horizon to get my heart to stop fighting its way out of my ribcage.

(Knock wood, I've never been in a high-speed car accident; never been mugged; never been hospitalized; never broken anything more serious than a toe.)

Okay, here’s where I actually had bloody thoughts of revenge:

An old 4-plex I lived in where an old lady and her old son took exception to me for no reason I could figure . I was polite, I was courteous. This guy once had me blocked in the driveway while he washed and polished his car (I was the only one with permission from the landlord to use the driveway anyway). I was late to an appointment and asked him to please move. He said “When I’m done” and proceeded to languorously polish his car. The old woman use to give every visitor to my place the stink-eye. I tried to think positively “At least they’re keeping an eye on the place in case something bad happens”. They were. My apartment was burgled of everything resellable, including a new Mac, on Easter day. I found out from what I overheard the old dude say that he and his mother had watched the whole thing happen. And never called the cops.

Another one was when I was a master tenant of a house. I was on unpaid medical leave at the time. At the risk of putting off some prospective renters, I was very candid about what the household was like: recycling, energy conservation, etc. I got two guys who said they were into that. Fine. Well, when they moved in they did whatever they felt like. Polite requests and talking got nowhere.

I had just gotten a small worker’s comp settlement and was finally being able to put some $ towards rehab. My RSI was getting a little better through that work. Stress makes my RSI worse. Dealing with those guys (one in particular) made it get worse again, wasting all the money and work I’d put towards getting better. Eventually, when it looked like there was no alternative, I gave them both 30 days’ notice.

Meanwhile, they got boy’s club buddyish with my landlord and talked him into letting them move right behind me (I was actually supposed to be allowed to move in back when that house was done). I wanted to be away from these belligerently inconsiderate people and he made them my neighbors! The worse of the two stole a couple of things of mine, including a waffle iron I’d inherited from my family.

Anyway, I really wanted revenge. The guy had lied just to get cheap rent. He’d stolen things. He made my RSI worse when I’d said upfront that I needed a harmonious household and been clear about what that looked like to me. He wangled his way into the house I was supposed to move into. And because he’d moved in behind me, now I had to give notice on the house and pay a lot more rent somewhere else.

Yeah, that guy drove me so far to the edge that it was a very good thing I didn’t have a gun. (I realize it must sound like I had a minor amount of provocation, but telling every little detail that piled up would just take forever and bore you.)

Closest to death:

Extremely depressed periods when I’ve been looking into and doing cost/benefit analysis on various suicide methods. Getting caught in a powerful undertow in Hawaii Shooting down a waterfall in Hawaii and forgetting that the pressure of all that water would be bearing down on me if I surfaced directly up

there's probably a night or two in my past where I almost drank myself to death and didn't realize it until the next day.

My friends and I were talking about the fact that none of us actually knew anybody who'd directly died from drinking too much. And we were heavy, heavy drinkers in college. My one friend said she came close, waking up and finding that she puked off the side of her bed. If she'd been passed on her back rather than her side...who knows. We did know a guy who, when very drunk, decided that he could leap a 30 foot gap between buildings. Not so much. OH! And the following year a friend of the gap leaper jumped off an overpass on Storrow Drive (when very drunk and depressed about his dead friend) and he survived.

Personally, I don't know that I've come that close. (Knocking all the wood.) Except that I drive about 30 miles on 95 every day. And, it's possible the guy who attacked me in my house could have had a knife (he had used one to slice the screen to break in th window). But he was too stunned by me fighting him that he never had a chance to even think about using it before he decided to run away.

I once looked out from the top of Dixville Notch Promontory, in New Hampshire, and thought I was already falling the 2000 foot drop to the ground. I wasn't; I wasn't even close;

I always get that feeling when looking out from mountaintop lookouts. But I still want to look. There have been a couple lookouts in the Rockies and in Yosemite that I've had to lie down on my belly and crawl out to the edge in order to get the view I wanted to see. I just got too struck with vertigo to walk upright to the edge.

Hell, I get that feeling when visiting upper floors of capital rotundas and looking down from three flights up. My imagination just takes over and I feel like I'm already falling.

I get that feeling looking over the rail of a big boat (ferry). And mountains, and such, too of course. I still climb things. Just very slowly and carefully.

Oh hugs!

I must mention how delighted I am that all of you survived your close calls. Because really the world is a better place with you in it.

I'd always kind of thought I had a fear of heights, but upon reflection it seems it's really a distrust of trees, rickety ladders, etc. I'm fine looking over rails at extensive drops and whatnot as long as my actual footing is stable.

Except that I drive about 30 miles on 95 every day.

Hah. A friend of mine called her boss to let her know she was going to be very late, if she made it in at all. Boss: Oh, you got caught in the traffic jam from the awful accident? I figured you leave early enough to miss it. Friend: I am the awful accident.

She rolled her car three times at 70 mph and ended up upside down in the median. She was fine. She called 911 from the car. When people bitched that week about how late it made them (took some people 4 hours to get in) she would helpfully pipe up "That was me!"