When I was a young boy, no more than five years old, I was shot in the head. Even seventy years later, I still remember it quite vividly. I was visiting my Grand mother Eva Groover. It was a cold winter morning.
I was sitting on the floor in front of a crackling fire in the kitchen fire place waiting for Grandma to finish cooking breakfast on the pot bellied cast iron stove. The next thing I knew I was in the bed looking up at Grandma’s anxious face as she wiped blood off of my forehead. Some how a bullet had been swept into the fire place. The heat from the fire had caused it to go off as if had been shot from a pistol.
The bullet struck my forehead knocking me instantly unconscious. Fortunately it was a glancing blow. If it had been half an inch lower, I wouldn’t be here writing this today. I think that’s about as close to actually dieing as I have ever been.
Now, as an old man facing the prospect of death by natural causes, I wonder, will it be the same? Will I just suddenly go black and that’s it? Maybe so. Or maybe I will wake up in a new form to a new life. Either way it will be interesting.