Deo gratias, Deo gratias, Deo gratias for my life and David's. But I feel just like I did after my son Simon died suddenly of meningitis 22 years ago. The line between life and death is thin, thin, thin, and we take our lives too much for granted. We both thought we might not make it out of the ocean. We spent a couple of hours in the ER in a hospital in Berlin, MD, got oxygen, chest X-rays, and all checked out before they released us and we took a taxi back to the beach to get Dave's car and drive back to our cool rental house.
Now I never want to go in the ocean again... or, rather, I never want to see anyone I love go into the ocean again. I now have such a healthy respect for its power that I know I will forever be careful, if I ever venture out. I know Dave will also. But the other kids, let alone the grandkids... no, no, no, I will be a wreck if I am ever present when any of them go out any further than knee-deep. I fear I have ruined the beach for myself.
Me, me, me. It's all about me. But no, really, I could wax philosophic or even theological but at the moment, 78 hours after the fact, all I can wax is shaken to the bottom of my being.