When I was 15 years old I moved to Canada with my family. My father couldn’t find a job so he went back home to Iran to his old job. After my brother and I finished high school my mother went back to Iran to be with my Father. My brother who was very close to my parents also left few months after my mother. He lived there, went to collage and started a new job and had a long distance relationship with his girl friend who lived back in Vancouver. We all knew that one day he will propose to his girl friend. He had told everyone that they were meant for each other and that she was the love of his life.

Two years ago, just before I moved to California, I heard a news that Aida, my brother’s girlfriend had died In her sleep. I was devastated and not knowing what to do, called my parents and informed them first. We knew it would be matter of time before my brother would hear the news from his friends back in Vancouver so we did not tell him. After few short days my brother found out and locked himself in his room for few days mourning lose of his love. My brothers never recovered from his loss. Everywhere he was, everywhere he went he would talk about Aida or think that he saw her and lit a candle for her every night. A year after Aida’s death, my brother came here to visit me for two weeks. Him and my cousin went to a club on a weekend, and the next day he told us that he saw a girl who looked just like her but she was with another guy and he couldn’t talk to her. The night before he was scheduled to fly back home, on a Saturday night he went back to the club with my cousin on their way back home to see if that girl was there.

Well I don’t know if he found her or no because that night my brother and cousin both were killed by a drunk driver on the anniversary of Aida’s death. I like to think that their together now.

I don’t remember much. What I do remember is that my day started off pretty much like every other day had. It broke 100 degrees before nine a.m., I was sick of being told to cut my hair by my asshole Sergeant and my breakfast sucked. Three weeks. Not bad, despite the fact we were all trigger happy as hell. Nobody wants to be remembered as the unlucky bastard that “almost” made it home. I was already a hometown hero of sorts back in Indiana, earning the Purple Heart for my gunshot wound nearly six months prior and gracing the front page of my local newspaper. I couldn’t wait. A couple more missions, nothing major, and back to the States. I swore to myself I was going to kiss the ground the second my boots touched home turf. I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. I could let my guard down; I could burn away the death letters I had cried while writing to my family saying my final goodbyes in case I gave my life for my country. We had boarded a large troop-carrying truck, 15 of us in all, and headed thru that unforgiving country to relieve another platoon in the field protecting the roads. I checked my weapon, looked at my comrade sitting next to me, and tried to shield the sun from my eyes as my friends and I rode in the bed of our belching truck as it crossed the barren countryside. Then I woke up.

I didn’t know how long I had been out. I knew something bad had happened to me. God, I was in pain. I heard the voices of my parents telling me what had happened. A car bomb had driven up alongside my truck and detonated, killing 10 of my 15 friends sitting next to me. I was in a hospital in Bethesda, Maryland and it was a miracle I was alive. I had sustained massive head trauma, been severely burned over a large portion of my body, my spleen had been liquefied, my left kidney was destroyed by shrapnel, my left arm was nearly amputated and suffered severe nerve damage, my eardrums were blown out, my spine was fractured, my corneas were rippled from the concussion and I had metal shards embedded deep in my body. That’s a lot to take in. So set in motion the most trying time of my life, exponentially harder than any training or combat operation I had been involved in: the healing process. Military medicine is horrible. I have called on the help of my congressman numerous times, frustrated and irate at the negligence at what our government calls “medicine.” I have been forgotten about in solitary rooms with no one checking in on me, battled with drug addiction, forced to wait for months for surgeries dearly needed; the list goes on and on. The only thing I could confide in when I was alone and had no one was music.

When I was in high school, all the cool kids hitchhiked. Girls would stand on the side of the two-lane highway, the sun-browned-S of their hips thrust out along with their thumbs.

The sight of these girls sent my mother into paroxysms of rage.

“If I ever, EVER, catch you hitchhiking, I’ll rip out your heart,” my mother would say, jabbing a finger at my chest. “Before some maniac does it first!”

“Oh, Tammy,” my father would sigh. He was a happy-go-lucky sort, always with a smile and a kind word. It drove my mother nuts.

“All I’m saying,” she’d insist, “is that a young girl on the side of the road? Anything can happen! Anything!”
And turning my head to watch as we passed these girls, laughing, jostling each other for space, I’d think…yeah, but isn’t that the point?

When I turned 18, I moved from my home in California to Hawaii. I was on my own, and eager to test the waters.
Still, standing on the side of the road on that sunny October afternoon, I was nervous. What if my mom was right? What if one stupid mistake could ruin your whole life?

But after a minute, a truck slowed, and then stopped. The driver was about my age, with shaggy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a sweet, sleepy, smile.

As if on cue, I could hear my mother’s voice, low and ominous, “Ted Bundy looked like the prom king too…”
But the surfboard in back, NPR on the radio, and the Buddha affixed to the dash all told me this guy was harmless.
I wasn’t going far, and we chatted amiably – we were both 18 and we were both from California, though I was from San Francisco and he was from L.A.

When we reached the filling station near my house, I thanked him and climbed out, feeling oddly elated. I’d done it! I’d hitchhiked! And not only that, but I’d lived to tell about it!

I was about halfway across the parking lot when I heard the guy shout something. I turned, and saw that he was smiling, clearly excited.

“Hey…San Francisco, right?”

I nodded, feeling something quicken in my chest.

“They just had an earthquake! The guy on the radio said some freeway collapsed.” He laughed, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. “Like a billion people are dead!”

It’s funny how sometimes you just know. Not the particulars maybe – not that my father was on that freeway, and certainly not that he was dead – but simply that life as you’ve known it has already changed.

As I walked to the pay phone and numbly punched in my parent’s phone number, it occurred to me that my mother was right. Sometimes, the Boogieman has the loveliest smile. And if you stand on the side of the road with your thumb out, anything can happen. Anything at all.

My husband was nearly severed in two in a tractor accident 20 years ago in our groves in Vero Beach Florida, and he is out of town today giving his “chance” story to several hundred people.

Most people who are in tractor accidents like this do not survive to tell the tale.

I want him to post his story, personally, however, because his scars are not mine to show, nor it is mine to give away, so we’ll just have to see if there is any interest in knowing more about a college kid nearly dying alone in the middle of nowhere…and having to crawl through canals that are full of gators and snakes…all bloody and alone.

Was it a miracle or chance that he survived? Ask him!

There is much to tell about my life. Part of it beings with my mother not being by my side since I was 1 year old. I’ve always believed things happen for a reason, so all the experiences I go through always have something to teach me. My mother not being there has led me to strengthen myself in all aspects. Not to bad-talk my father or anything, but I learned to cope with him. Throughout my life I had a sense of not wanting to be a part of this world. Until the age of 18 when I was put into the hospital for MRSA. It was only then that I learned to value life. This experience alone made me realize that I have been given a second chance at life to accomplish something. I’ve yet to know what it will be, but I will attempt to touch as many peoples lives as I possibly can. There is much more to tell, but it is to much for me to cover here. I’ll be more than willing to share it with you all.