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Personal health stories

My Four Near Kisses with Death

 By the time I was eighteen years old, I had escaped the clutch of death not once, nor twice, but four times.

Remembering this constantly reminds me that perhaps there’s something still meant for my life down here, or at least that’s how I like to think of it anyway.

Only God can really say, I suppose; I mean after all…I could croak tomorrow and then what would these words mean?  Yet I prefer to dream and aspire that there’s something meant of my existence…an existence that was first nearly cut completely on a dusty African plain called Ghana.

I was one year old, and it was my families very first year to live on the wide and rural plains of Ghana. 

We were great preparers…we had all of our shots, filtered our water AND took our regular doses of malaria pills.

Yet somehow, I guess through the pesky bite of a hungry mosquito one night, my baby self came down hard with one of the greatest and stealthiest killers on earth…Malaria.

Obviously, this is one memory for which I cannot remember…but my mother told me she was afraid they would lose me those days as I lay motionlessly draped in her arms.  But God spared me, and life was good…full of explorative adventures and beautiful sunsets…and playing in the rarely coming rain. 

I turned seven years old and death decided to come calling yet again.




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