Bill Leslie: A personal story on first responders

This week I shared a personal story at a First Responders Appreciation Breakfast sponsored by the Cary Chamber of Commerce.

What a wonderful honor it was to speak to more than 100 people including 40 first responders from Cary. We gathered at Prestonwood Country Club to salute them for their courage, dedication, heroism and humility.

Every day these police officers, firefighters, deputies and paramedics stand ready to help save people who fall into harm’s way. They call themselves ordinary people. That may be true but they have chosen to follow an extraordinary calling. And for that, we all thank them from the bottom of our hearts.

My first encounter with a first responder came at age four in my hometown of Morganton in western North Carolina.

I lived on a busy street full of children of all ages.

One Sunday afternoon, my father returned from a business trip to New York with gifts for my two older sisters and me. My gift was a Daniel Boone coonskin cap. I couldn’t wait to show off my new headgear to the older kids across the street.

In the excitement I neglected a cardinal rule in the Leslie family: Strictly no crossing the street without parental supervision.

So what did I do? I darted across the pavement without looking. Bam! A big Buick took me down right there on the asphalt. At least I managed to take out one of the headlights.

Knocked unconscious and bleeding badly, an ambulance crew in Morganton rushed me to Grace Hospital a half mile from my house.

My parents followed in their car. Doctors weren’t sure I would survive, but they told my parents the ambulance crew had done everything perfectly and that I was in the best possible care.

While my father stayed at the hospital with me, my mother walked across the street to Grace Episcopal Church. The front door was open. It was always open back in those days. My mother kneeled at the altar and prayed her son would live. She also gave thanks for the first responders who transported me to the hospital and the doctors who were now looking after me.

When my mom returned to the hospital my eyes were open. I was bruised and battered but there were no broken bones and I was on my way to what would be a full recovery. My mother sighed and said, “Thank God for that open door at Grace Church, the power of prayer and the heroes who took such good care of my son.”

I would love to hear your first responder appreciation stories. Email me at bleslie@wral.com. Thank you.