Let Me Tell Y’all A Story is a weekly column that’s not focused on sports. It’s brought to you by our partners at Chuck Owens, Alfa Insurance.

Sunday marked the beginning of my 44th year on Earth.

Anyone else look into the mirror and feel overcome with the emotions of life seeming surreal at times?

My wife, my kids (who are growing up at warp speed), my home, my careers.

How can any of this be real, I ask myself? I was just 12 years old five minutes ago.

My 44th was marked with some of my favorite things. I got to spend time with the people I love the most, we had a delicious meal around the table together, and I was given a book that I’d really been wanting to read.

It was simple and perfect.

It also had me thinking about the worst birthday party of my life, not just for me, but mainly for my childhood friend Kristi.

Kristi’s dad, Terry, passed away a couple months ago. He was always so kind to me and was good friends with my mama, Debbie. I knew I had to make it to the visitation, no matter how busy I was.

When I walked into the church and gave Kristi a hug, she had her son, AJ, with her.

Her way of introducing us was, “you know the story about me running through the glass door?’

She patted me on the chest and said, “that was his birthday party.”

I thought it was my 10th birthday, but Kristi says it happened in 3rd grade, so maybe we were 9.

My family had gotten an inground pool put in at our house, which would make it around 1990-1991.

My mama asked me if I wanted to have an early birthday that year. We’d have all my friends over on a Saturday in August, when the water was still warm enough for a dip.

Or maybe it was a late birthday, held in the spring once the weather warmed up.

Those details are a little hazy in my head and mama isn’t here to ask.

What I do remember is sitting on the hearth in our living room, opening up gifts as my friends gathered around, many clutching their beach towels.

They wanted me to hurry up, as the crystal blue, heavily chlorinated waters awaited outside.

I realized even then how lucky I was that I grew up with a pool in my backyard.

There was a pool at the Holiday Inn that sat beside Highway 55, but who is staying at a hotel in your hometown?

There was a pool at the country club, but we weren’t members there, instead paying dues at Little Bahala Hunting Club.

Getting to swim with all your friends and classmates in a pool with a diving board and a slide, it felt like a real treat then, but it would soon turn into a real terror.

Kristi is one of my oldest friends.

My mama had done home health as a nurse and had gotten to know Kristi’s family through that role. We grew up going to Brookhaven Academy together and we were tight as kids.

She was a tough, tomboy from Bogue Chitto, something I told her kids about when I met them earlier this year.

Kristi stood beside the back door, looking back at my mama, standing in the kitchen.

Just behind Kristi stood my friend Jessica, they were poised to run, almost crouched in their excitement.

When mama said something like, “you can go outside now,” Kristi took off, running straight through a glass storm-door that she never saw across the entryway.

It was said later that my mama was hollering “don’t run” and that when Kristi looked back at her, it saved her life, as he burst through the door with her body turned sideways instead of head-on.

I don’t know what type of glass doors they make today, maybe they are safer and wouldn’t have shattered like this one did.

In 1990-something, this particular glass door exploded in shards that rained down on my tiny tomboy buddy.

Jessica ran behind Kristi, stepping on glass in her bare feet, as everyone else stood around with their mouth wide open.

What I remember the most about that moment was the way my mama took charge, she was a nurse after all and proud of it. She grabbed up a wad of beach towels and held Kristi tightly in her arms, holding compression on her wounds as the towels turned red.

There was blood everywhere on the concrete surrounding the pool. The remnants of it would be there for years.

Mama tried to clean it up later with some muriatic acid and a pressure washer, but the stains remained.

Debbie ran around the side of the house, coming through the front door while holding Kristi tight in her arms. She grabbed the phone off the kitchen wall and dialed the Moak house from memory, which seems now to be one of the most astounding parts of this story.

Again, details might be a little hazy, but I remember her saying something like, “I’ve got Kristi, she ran through a glass door, meet us at the emergency room.”

And they were out the door, with someone driving as mama held Kristi tightly in her arms on the way to King’s Daughters.

I sent Kristi a message on Tuesday and asked her how many stitches she received and if you have read this far and think that I’m blowing up just how horrible her injuries are, then check out this number.

357.

She got 357 stitches on her hip and leg along with a blood transfusion.

Kristi says she still has a big “L” shaped scar that folks will ask her about if they see her in a bathing suit.

She said she had some glass coming out of it a few years ago and had to have some work done on it.

I asked Kristi what she remembers the most from that day.

She told me she kept asking my mama if she was going to die as they rode to the hospital. She wasn’t crying, she was in a panicked shock.

Repeating the question over and over again while mama held her and reassured her that she wasn’t going to die.

Like me, she’s awed at mama knowing her home phone number off the top of her head. That Debbie Furr knew she loved talking on the phone.

I’m glad you’re alive, I told Kristi on Tuesday, as we traded messages and memories via Facebook messenger of the worst birthday party of all time.

Kristi today, with her husband Drew and children Maddie and AJ. Drew is the Director of Player Personnel for football at the University of Oklahoma.