Stabbed, Snarky, and Still Standing

I Was Touched by Crime, Kicked His Ass, and Kept Going

Every year, like clockwork, I hold my damn breath starting October 1st… and only exhale once December finally gets its act together.

The fall and I… we have history. And not the cute pumpkin-spice, sweater-weather kind.

Nope. The end of the year is apparently when the universe likes to throw hands with me:

• I was stabbed in November.
• I got my Stage 3 cancer diagnosis in November.
• My ex passed away—in September.
• My Expedition literally caught fire and burned to the ground—yes, also in November.
• I got hit by an 18-wheeler—also November.

At this point, I half expect my Halloween decorations to unionize and file for hazard pay.

But let’s go back to the night in 2014 when a stranger broke into my home and learned the hard way that I’m not the woman to mess with.

The Night I Got Stabbed — And Fought Back

November 17th, 2014.

Early morning. I’d just wrapped up a marathon work weekend—formatting, layout, consulting, podcasting, social media… the usual “I love my job, therefore sleep is optional.”

After hanging up with an author at 4 a.m., I crawled into bed around 4:44 a.m., played a few Frozen Free Fall rounds (don’t judge me), and shut my eyes.

Ten minutes later: bedroom door opens.

I think it’s my son.
It’s not my son.
It’s a stranger in a jacket and baseball cap.

So naturally I sit up and say exactly what any six-foot redhead with brothers would say:

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY HOUSE!”

He rushed me.

I rushed right back.

We traded blows.
I kicked him—twice.
He hit me again.
I shoved him into the doorframe.
He bolted.

And because adrenaline is petty, I chased him down the driveway yelling for him to come back so I could finish the job.

He had the knife.
I had the rage.
I won.

Realizing I Was Bleeding — Not Just Mad

Under the porch light, I saw blood on my hands. “Good,” I thought. “I busted that little prick’s nose.”

Then I noticed the blood wasn’t… stopping. And it wasn’t all his.

On me.
On the ground.
On my clothes.

So I yelled for someone to call 9-1-1 until I gave up and did it myself.

Dispatch told me to lie down and apply pressure. I refused to ruin the couch, so I stretched out on the coffee table like a crime-scene chaise lounge.

Harris County Sheriff’s Office showed up fast—first one car, then enough to form a neighborhood watch meeting. Paramedics arrived and cut off my clothes while the officers tried very hard (and failed) to pretend they weren’t looking.

“You Fought Him?” — The Deputy Exchange That Lives in Infamy

While I was bleeding all over the coffee table, one deputy began questioning me.

DEPUTY: “You fought him?”
ME: “Of course I fought him.”

He blinked like I’d broken a rule.

DEPUTY: “Why? Did you know him?”
ME: “No.”

Still confused.

DEPUTY: “But… why fight him?”
ME: “Because I’m a six-foot-tall redhead who grew up with brothers? I don’t know—I just did.”

They circled every angle: Was I dating someone? Did I piss someone off? Did an ex send him? Did I have enemies?

Sir, if my exes wanted me dead, they’d send a team and a bomb. One guy with a knife is amateur hour.

I gave a full description anyway:

• 5’9″–5’11”
• Slim build
• Hispanic
• Baseball cap
• Black jacket with a silver/white swoosh emblem
• Short hair
• And he ran that way (because no, I still can’t tell you north/south/east/west even when I’m not actively leaking).

The whole conversation boiled down to:

Yes, I fought him. Obviously.

Ambulance Selfies & ER Sass

The paramedics cut my clothes off in the living room. My boobs were out, my patience was gone, and my main thought was:

“Please don’t let me bleed on the couch.”

In the ambulance, my phone buzzed.
It was an author asking about her box set.

So I replied:

“Hey, I’ve been stabbed and I’m on my way to the ER. I’ll keep you posted.”

Not subtle, but accurate.

At the hospital, I retold the story repeatedly. I apologized to the CT tech for my language.

TECH: “If anyone has earned the right to cuss today, it’s you.”
So I cussed some more.

Round Two with the Deputy: Needles, Nausea, and “Tag Me”

Back in the ER, the doctor needed to stitch me up. The deputy was still there.

DOC: “Can I show the wounds in front of the deputy?”
ME: “Sure. At this point, bring in the cafeteria staff if they want a peek.”

The doctor injected lidocaine into the wounds—one by one.

The deputy watched one needle go in, turned pale, sat down, and nearly passed out.

DEPUTY: “You should’ve warned me…”
ME: “Sit down, head between your knees, deep breath.”

DEPUTY: “Are you always this calm?”
ME: “Calm? No. But I can’t see it, so it’s fine. And when you catch the rat-bastard who did this, give me five minutes alone with him. I don’t need a weapon.”

DEPUTY: “…You really think you could take him?”
ME: “He had a knife and ran from me. I think he knows the answer.”

Later he took photos.

ME: “Don’t post those on Facebook.”
DEPUTY: snickers “I won’t.”
ME: “If you do, tag me.”
DEPUTY: “You’re a character.”

Correct.

I took another selfie while waiting for ICU. Comments rolled in: WTF? OMG? YOU WHAT?!

Apparently “stabbed but still snarky” is very on-brand for me.

Recovery, Car Break-Ins, and System Failure

I was moved to ICU for 24–36 hours to make sure my liver didn’t tap out. No food, no Diet Coke, and a stabbing—not my favorite combo.

And because chaos loves me, someone broke into my car (stealing my driver’s license and debit card because I used to be THAT person) while I was still in the hospital.

So within an hour of getting home from being stabbed, there were cops at my house again. At least this time I didn’t leave strapped to a gurney, by ambulance.

And no, I do not live in a bad area. I live in the suburbs. This was an anomaly… with sequels.

The Actual Damage

The liver laceration was:

• 1½ inches wide
• 3½ inches deep
• Almost the entire depth of the liver

The doctor gave me a fun list of restrictions:

• No alcohol for six months (just rude)
• No aspirin
• No lifting
• Limited driving
• Use pain meds sparingly

My liver would swell if I sat too long or slouched, so my schedule became:

Work 4–5 hours → Lie down 2–4 hours → Work 4–5 hours → Repeat

My oldest son took over cooking. Life became a team sport.

“Did they ever catch him?”

Short answer:
No.

Longer answer:
Hell no, and they’re not going to.

Despite giving a clear physical description and escape direction, the detective told me:
“It’s a generic description. Not much hope.”

And here’s what stings:

Because he stabbed me multiple times—including a near-fatal organ wound—the case was classified as attempted murder.
If it had been one stab, it would’ve been felony assault.

Multiple stabs to the abdomen?
That’s attempted murder every day of the week.

The system shrugged anyway.

Then they told me:

“If you see him around town, call 9-1-1.”

Sir, I did your job once already.
If I see him again, I’ll finish what I started before you even get the car in drive.
(Assuming I don’t hog-tie him and toss him in a Houston bayou first.)

What I Learned (Besides the Obvious “Randos Shouldn’t Enter My House at 4 a.m.”)

• Life blindsides you when you’re minding your business.
• “Work friends” can become real family when you’re bleeding on a coffee table.
• Kids and moms are stronger than you think—but trauma lingers.
• Trauma shows up in small moments, like your child saying, “Don’t get stabbed, okay?”
• Scars aren’t shameful—they’re receipts.
• Recovery isn’t linear, but survival is badass.

He came into my home to hurt me.
He left running.
I’m still here.

Life is precious.
Life is finite.
Life is limited.
So live without limits.

My scars are proof I fought back. Proof I was stronger than the moment meant to break me. Proof that when fall rolls around and chaos starts its annual nonsense, I may get knocked down—but I never stay there.

I get up.
I crack a joke.
I swear a little (okay, a lot).
And I keep going.

If the universe wants another round, it better train harder.

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Disclaimer:

Every conversation, quote, reaction, and snark-soaked exchange in this post is real. Nothing here is exaggerated or dramatized for effect. I pulled the original text—including the deputy dialogue, the ER moments, and my own uncensored commentary—from archived versions of my old website on the Wayback Machine:
– https://web.archive.org/web/20141204145909/http://www.e-bookbuilders.com/2014/11/touched-crime-kicked-ass-part-1/
– https://web.archive.org/web/20150801080109/http://www.e-bookbuilders.com/2015/03/attacker-butt-now-what/

This story is exactly as it happened. I lived it. I survived it. And I’m still here to tell it.