Upon awakening from an eight-month coma, a man was fatally struck by a pickup truck.
Florida resident Drew Kohn gained notoriety as a “miracle” guy in 2017 after he survived an accident.
Tragically, though, the 29-year-old was struck and killed on July 26, 2024—more than six years after waking up from a 244-day coma.
Yolanda Osborne-Kohn, his mother, said to WTLV, “God granted my request, and I’m not angry.”
“I’m not irate. I’m content. After seven years, I distinctly recall telling myself, “Thy will be done,” while seated on Drew’s hospital bed.
Kohn was hit by a pickup truck at around 5:30 in the morning while he was allegedly strolling east on a Jacksonville, Florida, street.
The Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office released the following statement to People magazine: “At that time, it was dark, and the pedestrian was not wearing reflective clothing.”Sadly, the pedestrian was struck in the outer lane by the pick-up truck driver who failed to see him. The pickup truck’s driver pulled over and dialed 911. After arriving on the scene, Jacksonville Fire and Rescue (JFRD) declared the person dead.
The driver of the truck remained at the scene, according to the authorities, and no one else was harmed or engaged.
It was also revealed that the medical examiner’s office and traffic homicide detectives had both been on the scene and were conducting their own investigations.
Kohn’s family established a GoFundMe page after the accident to assist with paying for his burial expenses as well as “medical expenses he accumulated.” As of this writing, more than $18,000 has been raised.
He was only “days away from his 30th birthday,” according to the fundraiser’s description, which also calls him a “modern-day miracle.”
Days before becoming 23 years old, years before Kohn’s tragic death, he had been in a terrible accident that had left him unconscious.
On July 17, 2017, Kohn’s motorcycle crashed into a car while he was riding it to the gym.
According to WTLV, the 22-year-old was taken to the hospital in a critical condition and placed in a coma due to a traumatic head injury, shattered shoulder, impaled lungs, and other injuries.
“Doctors thought he was brain dead and would never walk or talk again,” the GoFundMe website continues.
Oshnourne-Kohn told WTLV that, considering the likelihood of her son’s death, medical professionals advised her to gather her son’s organs for donation. She did, however, trust in God.
“My faith gave me the boldness to speak up and push back and let them know ‘You’re not getting a toenail or an eyelash,’” the mother stated.
When Kohn emerged from a coma nearly a year after the crash, First Coast News reports that he said, “Yeah, Mom, I’m okay.” Mom, you are loved.”
Kohn gradually made a full recovery, going on to call himself “a modern-day miracle” and say, “My story represents never giving up hope.” God is the source of all possibilities. All I want to do is encourage them to never give up.
Kohn “is now completely healed and free,” according to the fundraising.
I Found Tiny Childrens Shoes on My Late Husbands Grave Every Time I Visited, Their Secret Changed My Life
When Ellen visits Paul’s grave, seeking solace, she’s puzzled by the sight of children’s shoes resting on his headstone. At first, she dismisses it, assuming it’s a mistake by another grieving family. But as more shoes appear over time, the mystery deepens. Determined to understand, Ellen eventually catches the person responsible—and her life changes in an instant.
The first time I saw the shoes, I thought someone had made a mistake. A small pair of blue sneakers lay beside Paul’s headstone, neatly arranged as if left with intention. I figured a grieving parent had misplaced them. People do strange things when they mourn—I know I did. After Paul passed away in a sudden accident, I spent an entire week making jam that I knew I’d never eat. It was the only thing that made me feel like I was doing something, anything.
But those shoes were different. They didn’t belong, and I moved them aside before placing my flowers by Paul’s grave. It wasn’t until my next visit that I noticed something unusual: there were more shoes. This time, tiny red rain boots. Then, during another visit, I found dark green sneakers. It was too deliberate to be random. And it didn’t make sense. Paul and I never had children. I tried to convince myself it was a mistake—a grieving parent finding comfort in placing shoes at the wrong grave—but deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
As the shoes multiplied with each visit, it felt like an invisible hand was pulling at the fragile threads of peace I had stitched together. Frustrated, I stopped visiting for a while, hoping that by staying away, the shoes would disappear. They didn’t. Instead, they kept coming. When I finally returned, six pairs of children’s shoes stood in a neat row beside Paul’s headstone, like a haunting tribute I couldn’t comprehend.
My sadness turned into anger. Who was doing this? Was this some cruel joke?
Then, one cold morning, I finally saw her. She was crouched beside the grave, gently placing a pair of small brown sandals next to the growing collection. Her long, dark hair swayed in the breeze as she carefully arranged them, her movements slow and purposeful.
“Hey! You!” I yelled, charging toward her, the flowers I had brought slipping from my grasp, forgotten.
She flinched but didn’t run. Instead, she stood slowly, dusting off her coat before turning to face me. That’s when my breath caught in my throat.
It was Maya—Paul’s old secretary. I hadn’t seen her in years, not since she abruptly left her job. She had always been warm and cheerful, but the woman standing before me now seemed burdened with a sorrow I recognized all too well.
“Maya?” I whispered, the disbelief heavy in my voice.
She nodded, her eyes red with unshed tears. Without a word, she reached into her coat pocket and handed me a worn photograph. My hands shook as I took it, my heart pounding in my chest.
It was a picture of Paul, smiling down at a baby boy cradled in his arms.
“His name is Oliver,” Maya said softly. “He’s Paul’s son.”
I stumbled backward, the world spinning as the weight of her words sank in. My husband, the man I thought I knew so well, had lived a secret life—with a child.
“You and Paul were…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Maya nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I never wanted to hurt you. But after Paul’s accident, Oliver started asking about his dad. I told him Paul was watching over him, and every time Oliver gets a new pair of shoes, he asks me to bring the old ones to his daddy.”
The shoes… they were a child’s way of staying connected to the father he had lost.
I wanted to scream, to demand answers from a man who could no longer give them. But standing there, staring at the shoes left behind by a little boy who would never know his father, I felt my anger start to melt into something else—something softer.
Maya looked at me with guilt etched on her face. “I’ll stop bringing the shoes. I never meant to upset you.”
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