On Sunday, Nov. 29, I was returning from Thanksgiving travel with my family. Our plane touched down at La Guardia around 7 p.m., and we arrived at our home in the Fort Greene area of Brooklyn at 8. Shortly thereafter, I went out to get some groceries.  Carrying my groceries around 9 p.m., I crossed onto my block, about a dozen doors from my home. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt as if someone had hit me on the back of my head. I yelled an expletive. Turning around, I saw the silhouette of someone running away across the street. I wasn’t going to take off to pursue my assailant, so I decided to continue home.  But I found that I couldn’t walk steadily and veered, first into a wall, then into a parked car. I placed my hand to my neck, and it came away covered in blood. My mind went back to my childhood in the suburbs of Los Angeles, to a brief and not particularly successful stint as a Boy Scout. One is supposed to apply pressure to a deep wound.  On doing so, my mind cleared, and I was able once again to walk steadily. I proceeded to my home and unlocked the front door. I live about two blocks from Brooklyn Hospital Center and figured I could probably get there more quickly by walking than by waiting for an ambulance.  So I called into the house: “Guys, I need some help. I think I’ve been attacked.” Leaving the groceries in the foyer, I headed down the sidewalk toward the hospital. (On reflection, I realize that dropping off the groceries was a bit over the top.)  I felt my wife and daughter catch up with me. Understandably shocked to find half my body covered in blood, they kept their cool, each taking one of my elbows. I kept thinking that all I had to do was make it to the E.R. and I would be fine. I figured they would stitch me up and send me on my way.  At the hospital, my wife rushed toward a couple of orderlies in the driveway. “My husband’s been stabbed. Please help us!” They escorted me into the building.  The next thing I remember, I was lying on a gurney, surrounded by medical personnel. Some were cutting clothes off my body. I noticed a woman standing above my head with two defibrillator paddles. A man said, “Try to keep your eyes open.”  It occurred to me that defibrillation looks painful in TV shows and movies, so I had better stay conscious. I thought this might be how death happens — closing your eyes and just falling asleep.  I learned later that upon arriving in the E.R., I had passed out and gone into convulsions, regaining consciousness while I was on the gurney. I remained conscious as they packed my wound, the least comfortable part of this whole experience, and put me through a CT scan.  It was looking as if I wasn’t going to get sent home with a few stitches after all. It seems my attacker had severed my vertebral artery. Normally, in such situations, the doctors would cap the artery to stop the bleeding. But because my wound was so close to my skull, they didn’t want to risk the possibility of brain damage.  The next morning, I was transported by ambulance to Mount Sinai Hospital, to be operated on by a neuroendovascular surgeon. Over four to five hours, the surgical team performed minimally invasive surgery, navigating through my arterial system from my groin to the severed artery, which they closed off with over a dozen coils and vascular plugs.  I remained in the I.C.U. one more day before being transferred to another wing of the hospital, and was then released to go home on Dec. 2.  The person who stabbed me remains at large. Detectives from the police department first visited me in the E.R. at the Brooklyn Hospital Center, followed up when I was at Mount Sinai and are continuing to apprise me of their investigation.  Initially, they told me it never happens that an individual is attacked by an unknown assailant, except in the case of a mugging, which this did not appear to be since nothing was taken.  So they first sought to uncover some connection between my attacker and me, before concluding that this did, in fact, seem to be a random attack. The police unearthed a surveillance videotape showing my assailant — tall, skinny, wearing shorts and a distinctive backpack — though the angle reveals only the individual’s back.  Theories abound. Some believe that this was some kind of gang initiation. The police, however, think that sort of activity takes place in cities like Chicago and Detroit, but not in New York.  Because I’m Asian-American, others argue it may have been a hate crime. I have since learned that Asians are seen as easy targets because of perceived language barriers and a reluctance to report crimes.  Moreover, there has recently been an increase in attacks on Asians, including victims being pushed from subway platforms, and targeted assaults on Asian women in Manhattan. Just two weeks after my incident, a 16-year-old Chinese girl in Queens was slashed on her way to school by an attacker wearing surgical gloves and a mask.  State Assemblyman Ron Kim, who represents parts of Queens, cited my case while calling on city officials to investigate whether a trend of bias attacks exists.  I realize how incredibly lucky I am to have survived with no long-term damage, thanks to the skill of my doctors. I have learned that most people who have their vertebral arteries severed suffer a stroke and lose feeling in half their bodies.  A little more than two weeks after the stabbing, I was feeling pretty much back to normal. I have also been deeply moved by the outpouring of well-wishes, gifts, flowers, food and prayers from my friends, relatives and associates.  A few weeks after the attack, I was walking through Times Square on a weekend night. Most New Yorkers avoid the area unless necessary. That evening, I saw the whole scene through new eyes. The bright lights reminded me why I first chose to come to New York from Los Angeles, decades ago. The energy excited me once again. I even found myself grateful for the ridiculously slow-moving tourists.  It seems I get to live in this world a while longer. Despite the terrible attack, or because of it, I felt as if I had suddenly stepped into “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Just in time for the holidays.  David Henry Hwang is a Tony Award-winning playwright, screenwriter and TV writer, whose works include “M. Butterfly,” the Broadway musical “Aida” and “Chinglish.”
The playwright David Henry Hwang thought he had been hit on the head by a random attacker. Then he noticed the blood.