When I talk about the time I got hit by a Chevy Suburban, people sometimes want to know what it was like to have a near-death experience. And I have to confess: I don’t remember. So was it even “near-death?” I’ll never know.

I believe that my brain decided to strategically erase that part of my memory. On October 20th, 2006, near 5pm, I remember walking down the sidewalk in the cool crisp air. Then I remember hearing a firetruck siren, looking up, and seeing a giant vehicle flying through the air and knowing it was going to hit me. And knowing there was nothing I could do. The next thing I remember is being lifted into an ambulance, the sun in my eyes.

I have no memory of flying into the air, hitting the building next to me, then landing on the concrete sidewalk, which is what the doctors later told me probably happened, based on my injuries. The paramedics told me that I was conscious when they got to me on the sidewalk, and that I spoke to them, but I have no memory of this either. It’s probably not worth remembering.

And anyway, I’m learning that even if my brain doesn’t remember, my body often does. The siren of a firetruck, especially one that’s stuck in traffic and lingers too long, will grate my nerves and eventually force me to plug my ears. More than once, the sight of someone being loaded into an ambulance has brought me to sudden tears.

But these are all just pieces of a bigger thing. The biggest thing is that thirteen years ago, even if I think of it as “near death,” it was only that. NEAR. I’m alive, and so happy to be alive. I will never stop telling this story onstage, or in my book (working on draft two!), or on this blog.

So you know the drill: go be alive! And of course, listen to some Goldfrapp.