When I was a teenager, one of my best friends shared the story of how his father pulled their car to the side of the road, getting out to capture the carnage from an automobile accident with his Super 8 camera. Robin, my friend, was outraged by his father’s behavior. I failed to understand why his father did what he did.
Many years later, after the dust settled from my sudden cardiac arrest and I sought to fill in the gaps in my memory, I asked my family members if anyone had taken a photo of me while I was comatose, with the breathing tube, ECG wires and at that. No one had and I failed to understand why not.
It’s only now I’m beginning to understand. I couldn’t take a photograph of someone I dearly love, unconscious in their hospital bed, after being told they might not survive. So why do I still wish someone had taken one of me?