[ WP ] Life has an achievement system . Today , on the day of your child 's birth , as you hold them for the first time , you receive a new achievement . `` A Brush with Death '' . Description : Cross paths with the person who will kill you .

I looked down at my son, what little of him I could see through the bandages. Tubes and wires snaked through him, hooked into the buzzing devices and plastic bags that surrounded him. A machine pumped at his side, hissing as it forced him to breathe, and a collection of chemicals and pain killers were being pumped through him. 
 
 The hospital room was small, quiet aside from the machines that kept my boy alive. We were sealed off from the hustle of the world, quiet and alone in what seemed to be his last hours. Despite all the medicine and machines, my son was dying, taken from me by ill fortune. For 28 years I had worried about him, and worried for him, but always he assured me, he would be careful. Then all it takes is a drunk driver, and every father's nightmare comes to life. Hours of surgery, the best doctors I could afford, but the damage to his heart was just too much to repair; it was only a matter of time until it gave out completely. 
 
 He'd be lucky to live long enough to wake up. 
 
 Sound flooded the room, the shuffle of papers, the echo of talk, the life of the busy hospital outside of the room. I looked up to see my wife entering the room, tears on her face. I stood and hugged her, held her while she cried, and we comforted each other as best we could. The door closed, locking out the busy hallway, and we were alone in the room - a family falling apart, clinging desperately to each other. We had talked over the phone, she and I, but being here in the moment made it so much more real. It was n't just words, it was n't just fears, it was here. I looked her in the eyes and asked, `` Did you bring the cards?'' 
 
 Her tears came quicker, she shook and I held her again, patting her hair and waiting. When she calmed down, she took a step back, sniffling, and pulled several pieces of paper from her purse and handed them to me. I shuffled through them; blood type, organ donor, do not resuscitate. 
 
 What I held in my hand was a death sentence, an order to stave off medical help. These few pieces of paper, the legal jargon that surrounded them, was the difference between remaining on life support or dying. 
 
 I looked at my son again, the bandages and tubes, and I listened to the rasping ventilator, the EKG's, the beeping and humming of a dozen different instruments. 
 
 These little cards were life or death to him. 
 
 There were tears in my eyes now, and I suppressed a shudder as best I could. I walked across the room to the corner that had been my home for the last 24 hours. The nurses had been cleaning up after me, but even so there was a collection of old chip bags and soda cans, coffee cups and energy drinks. I had n't slept in almost 2 days, how could I? To lose my son and not be there because I was tired? No; I was going to be there when my son passed. I had to be nearby, and yet I could n't stand to see him like this anymore. 
 
 I moved the empty bottles aside, and from the bottom of the pile I pulled up a knife, one I had smuggled up from the dining hall. I inspected it - a simple steak-knife, worn and dull but usable. It would suffice. 
 
 I turned around, but my wife was kneeling beside the bandage-wrapped specter. I made my way across the room, the knife held tightly, my hand shaking slightly. I had talked with the doctors already, pleaded, and they had n't listened. It was n't legal, they said. There was nothing they could do, they said. I told them about the DNR order, but they brushed me away, told me to calm down. I was n't thinking rationally, they said, and I needed sleep. 
 
 My wife looked up, and seeing the knife in my hand she gasped and stood. She took a hesitant step towards me, reached up and looked into my eyes. `` Sweetie,'' she said, her voice quivering, `` sweetie, I love you.'' I looked back at her. We had talked about this on the phone, about the timing, about the circumstances, and about the day he was born. I'd carried that brush with death his entire life, always in the back of my mind a bit scared that my son would turn out broken or damaged, deranged or violent. But he'd been perfect, and we all knew that. What other explanation was there? She'd brought the cards. 
 
 Still holding the knife in one hand, I handed the small pieces of paper - the legal right to life - back to my wife and gave her a kiss. 
 
 `` I'll go get the doctors,'' she said and headed towards the door. She looked at me, and the anguish in her eyes tore at me. Then she stepped outside, was caught up in the noise of the emergency room, and was gone. I stood in silence and watched her go, off to do the only thing she could to save her family. Complicit? Perhaps. Desperate? Understandably so. But she was a mother. What choice did she have? 
 
 I tightened my grip on the knife, steeling my resolve. I stepped away from my son, returning to my corner, sitting upon my bed, among the trash that had accumulated. I laid down next to him, our hospital beds pushed together as close as the machines and tubes would allow. I raised the knife up, held it there, muscles clenched. I could feel my heart beating, could feel my blood pressure, healthy and perfect, as next to me my son's heart was struggling. I lowered the knife to my throat. I placed the curved tip against by chin, a short thrust from my brain, and as I prepared to end my life all I could see was my son on an operating table, his chest open and beside him a heart in a pail of ice. No waiting lists, no legal jargon, no hoping that a donor could be found in time. No more machines. Just a son, getting a brand new heart; a perfect match. 
 
 With one hand I reached out, gripping the bandaged hand created by ill fate, and with my other hand I plunged the knife upward. As the steel slide through me, a comforting vision flashed before my eyes: 
 
 Achievement Unlocked: The Noble Sacrifice
