All I can remember is a flash of me, as a baby, lying in the hospital bed. I can not fully recall how I felt or what exactly was going on. I had an epiphany of sorts when I was about two years old having been without breath, bereft of life, for a good few minutes.
        

Enjoying a fun and crazy day, my cousins and I were at my Aunt’s house on Long Island to celebrate 4th of July. The sun drilled us with warmth, bouncing over the generous sunscreen liberally applied by Mom to protect my red-freckled fair skin. While my Bedford cousins swam in the backyard pool, my siblings went indoors to change. Small, always incredibly quiet, I toyed unnoticed by the edge, riding a noodle as though it was a pony. One of my cousins, Sydney, who was about four at the time, had to go to the bathroom, so my mom took her into the house. No one knew I was still outside in the flurry of towels and rush of more than half a dozen cousins under 12 going indoors. My four-year old cousin Zach was practising his crawl, having just learned to swim without floaties; his younger brother Levi, age 3, was bouncing on top of the water in a full floaty vest. Uncle Paul was focused on his three British-born sons new to the water. Suddenly Zach surfaced sputtering, turning blue and choking. Uncle Paul hurriedly hauled him out of the water, lay him on his side, and was patting his back as Zach vomited up spurts of chlorinated water. It all happened in just those few seconds. Galloping on the noodle, I tipped into the pool. I vaguely remember the icy feel of the water all around me. I slowly disappeared into a watery world of nothingness. Unable to swim, I lay nearly lifeless at the bottom. Fortunately, my seven-year-old cousin Max was standing on the diving board about to jump and saw me. Without hesitation, he dove in and swam quickly to the bottom, still thinking I was a doll or toy that had fallen in. All the while, I felt as though I could no longer move. Alone, Max was able to lift my body out of the water, revealing an unconscious, lifeless, and blue little girl. Realizing it was me, he screamed for help and his father. The horror was unfolding quickly. Everyone was screaming. I could faintly hear the many shrill and raspy voices screeching for my mom. While waiting for the ambulance to arrive, Uncle Paul conscientiously gave me CPR, not stopping despite how blue and still I continued to be. Uncle Hal, who actually had Coast Guard training, called an ambulance but watched as Uncle Paul fervently, but calmly, rotated between pumping my chest and breathing air into my lungs. When the ambulance finally arrived, my mom rode with me. Having seen Uncle Paul’s ministrations, she prostrated herself on the ground, rolling and screaming as though I was already beyond help, gripped in primal parental fear. “You’re a hero,” the ambulance attendant told my cousin Max and my Uncle Paul, somehow knowing Paul had quit smoking (eight years earlier). He handed Paul one of his cigarettes, and my Uncle took it with trembling fingers (and unfortunately continues to smoke). A neighbor, who had watched the entire scene from her balcony, concurred, and crying, hugged my Uncle Paul. “If you’d stopped or paused, or were less calm, she might not have had a chance,” the attendant told him and my young cousin Max.
As I faded in and out of consciousness, we sped off to the hospital. While driving in the ambulance, “The next 24 hours are crucial. Anything can happen,” said the EMT’s to my mother.  “With 80% oxygen, her lungs could fill and cause her to drown in her own fluids.” Looking back on this now, I can only just imagine just how devastating this news must have been to my mother.
        

When we arrived at the hospital, I saw a bright whiteness all around me. The shock of what was happening took over, causing my mom to faint again, this time on the hospital floor, as she was chasing the gurney. She woke up on a stretcher herself, moments after she was overcome with the fear of not knowing my outcome. It was an incredibly scary and emotional time for everyone, especially my parents and siblings who did not know if I was going to live or not, or if I would ever be the same.
        

A few hours later, my father arrived by train from work to Long Island, for our family barbeque. When he arrived he was devastated by the news and reality of the accident that greeted him. Instantly, he rushed to the hospital with my aunt, not knowing what state I would be in. He said the ride felt like an eternity. With his emotions escalating, it took berating the nurses until his belligerence gained his entry to my white-curtained cubicle.  Once he got there, he never left my side. After throwing up the fluids they were giving me and spending a night with an oxygen mask in ICU, I woke seemingly back to normal. I recall feeling miserable, my entire body ached. I could smell the putrid aroma of some type of disinfectant. Slowly, I was regaining the full use of my senses.
        

After a visit to the doctor, days after my accident, I was given a miraculously clean bill of health. Returning back to Bedford was quite a relief to all, especially for my siblings, who had last viewed my blue lifeless body several minutes after Max had pulled me from the pool.

With much gratitude to my cousin Max and Uncle Paul for their fast-acting efforts, I am here today. Ever since this tragedy occurred, I have heard this story many times throughout my life, as I was too young to remember all of it. It has certainly taught me how valuable life is, how, in just a few seconds everything can change. These precious seconds could have changed me from an animated and vibrant girl to a lifeless body. They did result in  my learning to swim while still in diapers, with daily instruction in indoor and outdoor pools, an apt follow up for this Aquarius-born girl. I prefer skiiing to swimming, showers to baths, and while I have no fear of the water, I still look wryly on open bodies of blue. The ocean doesn’t beckon me as it does my friends and sneaking off to  skinny dip in the reservoir was a night out I passed on. Maybe it’s the cold of the waves or the depth of the man made lake, or that the ocean’s pulsing and crushing tumult and the largesse of the reservoir remind my subconscious too much of being at the bottom of a pool.

I have been forever humbled by the traumatizing episode and have a very special friendship with my cousins down the street. I prefer sharing a hot tub I can easily get in and out of with my raft of cousins, and roller coasters to water rides. Although, I’m closest to Levi now. Perhaps that’s because when I was in kindergarten and he was in first grade he threatened to punch the boy on the bus who was pulling my braids and Max’s heroism is a more closeted, closely held memory.