STILL ALIVE
My journey through war, combat and the struggles of PTSD. And the Perils of Addiction. (And stage four cancer)By Rusty LeeAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Rusty Lee
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4678-4825-1Chapter One
My chin nestled in my palm I sat at my sixth-grade school desk, gazing starring eyed out the window into the horizon stretching far beyond the schoolyard where youngsters played. It was then I dreamed that I would one day become a world traveling journalist, a new adventure around every turn. And about six years later, with the dream still burning, I truly believed that dream would materialize. I imagined myself returning home for a visit but soon departing after marveling my friends with adventurous tales. And when exhaustion set in after the countless miles, I would write novels, spellbinding all who read them. But I would discover life has a way of altering dreams. Some dreams come true. Many don't. Mostly, I would discover, dreams change. But as long as I'm still alive, I've found, the possibility they might come true keeps dreams alive.
* * *
I was four years old the first time I almost died but knew I wouldn't. Something powerful rescued me from death's door and, although I thought I knew, I hadn't the slightest clue what it was.
My family was vacationing at a quaint southeastern North Carolina resort, its focal point a pristine lake with water so clear you could view the lake's bottom without so much as a squint. Although a bit cramped for my parents and their four boys, we laid claim to one of the pine- green cottages peppering the lake's perimeter.
Our first morning, after a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast smothered in strawberry jam, we boys were anxious to romp in the water. Pop and my three older boys sprinted to the end of the pier and, without slowing their strides, dove into the cool morning water for a race to the lake's bottom. Having yet learned to swim, I was left standing at the pier's edge, alone.
A couple minutes passed with me watching the big people play. Then, like a torpedo, Pop burst above the surface. This was my chance. "Let me play in the deep water with ya'll, Daddy. Please!"
Pop spurt a stream of water. "Not this time, son. We need to teach you how to swim first – just stay on the pier and watch for now." Head down, I sulked.
Lugging towels and a red aluminum cooler, Mother trudged up the pier toward us. She went about her business of being Mother, placing towels for my father and brothers and filling red plastic cups with ice. She then sprawled out her petite five-foot frame to soak in the sun, all the while keeping her proud eyes on her beloved family.
I watched with wonderment as the big people churned all the way to the lake's bottom that I knew had to be at least a hundred miles deep. When Pop and my brothers reached the lakebed, they'd circle, hold hands then battle to stay submerged the longest. After what seemed an eternity, one brother would shoot to the top with the others close behind, gasping for air. Then they splashed about, laughing, and in a few minutes spiraled back to the depths.
I plopped down, my plump chin resting in my pudgy palms and, sitting on the pier's edge, I dangled my toes in the water. What I wanted at that age – when nothing seemed fair – was merely to belong. I decided to do something about it. When Pop and my brothers submerged, I glanced toward Mother to find she was busy watching the others.
I backtracked a few feet then stood at the pier's edge. Since I'd been watching my brothers and Pop do it, I figured it'd be an easy task to dive into the water, swim to the bottom and float back to the surface – just like the big people. Then they'd have to let me be a real member of the family. I raised my arms and then, leaped in feet first.
The first few seconds were OK. The cool water rushed past my body. But when the water swallowed me whole, I began to sink. I flayed my limbs. Looking upward through thousands of air bubbles, I saw Mother leaning over and looking down at me. Sinking, I thrashed as water surged inside my lungs that felt like they were ready to explode.
And then something incredible happened. A soothing calm I'd never felt came over me. Somehow, I understood it meant, "Do not fear. Everything will be all right."
I stopped fighting then looked up to see my brother, Sammy, spiraling toward me. With one great swoop of his arm, he turned our bodies upward and we rose to the surface. Once above the water, Sammy squeezed me, offering comfort. My other brothers, Johnny and Bobby, lifted me from the water and placed me on the pier. I gasped for air.
As Mother hovered over me, Pop wrapped his arms around my terrified mother and me to console us. Mother, the only person on earth that could make me feel that everything was okay even if it wasn't, bundled me in her arms.
With eyes closed, she kept saying the same words. "Oh thank you God for saving my son. Oh thank you God for saving my son."
Her words puzzled me. I thought my brother rescued me. Who was this God person?
That memory of serenity in a near death situation, with my mother continually praising God for saving me has been forever etched upon my mind. I wondered many times in the following years if it was when Mother began praying that I experienced the soothing sensation that calmed me when all seemed lost.
There'd be other times my life almost ended. Some came unexpectedly. Some I saw coming yet I escaped, barely. A couple times, at least, I wished I had died but didn't. And I would come to believe in God. And I would leave Him. And I would doubt if He even existed.
* * *
Four years later, we moved into a brand new sandy-colored brick house perched atop a knoll of a one-acre lawn peppered with pine, elm and oaks. Just beyond our backyard was a rolling landscape of many moods, and beyond that was a thickly wooded forest.
One morning I was exploring the brook that meandered lazily through that expansive forest. The winding brook played a principal role in the life of the woods. The stream journeyed slowly over level land then cascaded down elevated terrain into small ponds that provided homes for small fish, turtles, salamanders, water spiders, snakes and a slew of various bugs. Crickets and grasshoppers bounced around the thick foliage at the edges. Though hidden, frogs made their presence known by their continuous croaking. And a myriad birds lent their sweet serenades.
During warm months, my brother, Bobby, I and some of the neighborhood gang often skinny-dipped in the ponds. I was always mindful that a turtle might snatch my pecker clean off.
This trail of water furnished nourishment to all kinds of plants. Ferns, honeysuckles and dazzling flowers grew along the edges where sunrays pierced like golden arrows through the thick forest canopy. Raccoons, opossums, squirrels and other forest animals drank along the banks.
The stream stretched for miles. Tranquility was its welcome by- product. The soothing sound of the flowing water caressed the ears and spirit. Even at my young age I could see how water that travels peaceably along earth's terrain is one of God's most precious gifts. It can calm a troubled mind and console a hurting heart.
I was scrounging about the creek bottom in search of crawdads. When I found one, usually under a rock beneath the surface of the water, I'd pick it up to study it. I'd turn it upside down to look at its...
