Ross Meets the Man Who Saved His Life

I can honestly say, I understand a lot of what Ross experienced.
Though my cir***stance differed, I was also shot as a teenager.
I was 13 years old, the gun was a .38 caliber revolver loaded with a bullet street-named "Cop-Killer." I was shot muzzle-to-flesh.
My aorta was severed, a centimeter-long chunk ripped away. My left lung was punctured and torn. My left arm was instantly paralyzed, blood flow to and from ceased immediately. I lost 6 pints of blood.
My home situation was mentally, emotionally and religiously abusive. I thought my absence would allow my Mother and Half-Brother escape my father, that my adopted sister and half-sister could have our father's attention to themselves and girls at school could have the solos and musical performance attention to themselves and that of the guys at school that were attentive toward me because of my looks and popular older brother.
I shot myself. Before I pulled the trigger, I begged God to send someone to save me. Noone answered their phones, noone knocked on the door. Sobbing, I pulled the trigger. I couldn't find my left arm; then it swung limply into view. My chest/shoulder then gushed with a thick brick red waterfall down my body. The pain tore through me like a white hot lightbulb exploding in front of me. Unable to find the portable phone, I struggled to unlock my fathers apartment door with it's deadbolt, chain and lock. Once out, I banged on the door of the neighbor across the hall, Sherice. After the door opened, I could no longer stand and folded backward onto the cement that was our outdoor hallway. My arm was a transparent blue-gray and the loss of blood left me tingling with a cold sweat that was enveloping me and putting me to sleep. The pain and stench kept me awake and fighting. The smell of gunpowder, burned flesh, blood and burned internal organs competed with the pain for the position of "worst." The pain was a mind-boggling dichotomy; lava flowing thickly through my body and tiny ice-pick needles assaulting me rapidly from head to toe while the feeling of having been torn and ripped open pulsated in my chest/shoulder.
Sherice (sp?) called 911 while a strange man in scrubs applied pressure with towel after towel (they just Had to be white) and patted my cheeks to keep me awake. Minutes later, fire, police and ambulatory responders were working together to assess and stabilize. I never lost consciousness. A fireman gently rolled me onto my side to search for an exit wound. The ripping and tearing pain pierced my brain like arrows, but no exit wound was found (with no exit wound, my blood loss was lessened to 6 pints instead of total blood loss). The shrapnel was spread throughout me like buckshot. The bullet tumbled but stooped less than an inch from my epidermis. Lifting and loading me into the ambulance had me squeaking and screeching with pain. The ride to the hospital was excruciatingly painful; every slowing, stopping, turning, curving, speeding and start were shifting me and causing the pain to spike maddeningly. But, each seer of the startling pain kept me awake and fighting. Once to the OR, a gentle male voice reassured me and told me to count backward from 100; the last thing I remember is 98. 9 hours later, I woke in pain, unable to even lift my head, in ICU. I was critical for 6 days, in and out of surgeries and told my left arm would be amputated dye to unsuccessful blood-flow. My Mother sat vigil while my Half-Brother stood sentinel at my door for 6 days, repeatedly being told to say their goodbyes, told that they'd lost me and told they would have to amputate my arm. 24/7 for 6 days, they suffered alongside me. On the 7th day, I was bumped up to Serious condition and moved to the cardiac ward. A month later, I was learning to walk again. 3 months later, I was at home with a home-healthcare nursing staff. 2 years later, my thumb twitched. Now, 14 years later, noone would suspect my left arm is at only 80% feeling and movement.
I only know the stranger in scrubs was the ex-husband of my father's neighbor, Sherice. He stopped by, unplanned, to see their 3 children. I believe he was a nurse, but that's all I know. I've tracked down a few of the first-responders, but mist of them are blurs in my memories. They're my knights and heroes. I wish I knew who they all were and how they are. I owe a life several times over <3
God answered my prayer, after I pulled the trigger. I guess we should be extra careful what we Pray for. ;)
I grieve for the little lost girl that I was and revel in the heroic knights who ride to her rescue, from intangible foes...
I hope Ross knows how amazing he is for choosing to survive. He's a hero to me.