On your deathbed, it’s too late to make wish lists.
That’s the thought that went through my head high over the ocean, willing the plane to go faster as I rushed thousands of miles back to New Zealand to meet up with my gravely injured wife in the hospital near Christchurch.
Let me back up.
It was 4:30 in the morning in the holy city of Varanasi, India, when I got a strange message from my 15-year-old son, Sam. “Dad, give me a call as soon as you can.” I was up early to attend a religious festival, and I made the call.
The first thing Sam calmly said to me when he picked up the phone was, “Dad, don’t freak out, but mom’s been in an accident, and she’s in a helicopter being flown off the mountain.” The mountain, that is, that she had basically fallen off.