They say a cockroach can live a week without its head. It will eventually starve to death, but the trauma of losing its noggin is not enough to prove fatal. That’s pretty impressive.

Of course, the creatures are notorious for resisting most attempts to kill them. Poisonous gases, new and improved pesticides, rolled-up newspapers – child’s play to a species that’s been around for 300 million years.

In addition, the reviled cockroach can tolerate much, much more exposure to radiation than a human can. This means a nuclear blast that wipes out other species will leave the cockroach thriving.

Imagine a planet inhabited only by scurrying, ugly bugs that will eat anything. A crisp, shiny world filled with 18-kneed creatures who wear skeletons on the outside of their bodies and can squeeze into crevices the width of a dime.

It’s a warm, happy thought you might share with your children around bedtime. Be sure to tell them about the 6-inch cockroach with the one-foot wingspan that lives in South America.

But my point is that the cockroach is a durable creature. A survivor. Even if the things disgust you, you’ve got to respect their endurance.

I know people who share the trait. Men and women who walk away from calamities that would mark the destruction of others. That alone is enough to inspire awe. These people tend to repeatedly find their way to bodily mayhem only to survive reasonably unscathed.

While the cockroach has evolution and biology on its side, humans seem to survive by luck and a natural ability to bounce.

There was a local man who, on separate occasions, was stabbed, intentionally struck by a car and shot at close range. The stab wounds required stitches, the car caused bumps and bruises and the bullets caused mostly discomfort.

In the midst of all these physical challenges, the guy was also named as a suspect in a downtown home invasion. He was arrested, indicted and hauled into court.

But his gift of physical durability was rivaled by his luck in the legal system. He was acquitted of the charges against him and sent back to further test his mettle in the free world.

Another man survived a hail of gunshots from a drive-by shooting in downtown Lewiston. Lead was plucked from his body and his wounds were patched. Meanwhile, another man who tripped while walking on the railroad tracks died from the trauma.

The victim of a stabbing last year acknowledged his amazing endurance. He was stabbed a dozen times in the chest, back and side. We’re talking about the bodily neighborhood where your heart and lungs reside. Yet this man was fit enough after a week to leave the hospital against medical advice.

A few years before that, the same man was pounded with the blunt end of an ax. A few years before that, he was beaten with a broomstick. If I were this guy, I’d first thank whatever mystical powers had enabled me to survive. Then I’d take a frank assessment of my life and try to determine why everyone wanted me dead or unconscious.

I knew a woman who drank booze around the clock and was always falling down stairs. I saw her stumble into a large hole in the road after she somehow failed to see the barricades and warning signs. I’ve seen her spill from moving cars. What I never saw was any real injury resulting from these mishaps. Meanwhile, loved ones mourn people who died from slips in the shower.

You can never tell what might happen in a car crash. I’ve been to scenes where all that was left was a mangled mash of metal and motor. The car flipped a half-dozen times, rolled down a ditch and slammed into a tree. Yet, the driver was standing upright, dusting himself off and already bitching about his insurance rates.

Around the corner, there’s a fender-bender. A bashed-in bumper, a dented door. A few pieces of shattered glass and some leaking fluids. The driver dead of head injuries and a passenger paralyzed for life.

You’ve got to wonder if it’s genetic makeup or pure luck that keeps some alive while others succumb. Is it the will to survive or just a cosmic crapshoot?

There are people who lumber blindly through life but manage to step deftly over poisonous snakes and open manholes. There are those who stay alert at all times yet they still somehow walk into poles, slip on banana peels and twist their ankles on flat, safe surfaces.

Yes, it’s probably luck. Elusive, mysterious luck that can turn on you like winter weather. Like the man who survived one of World War II’s most vicious battles only to get run over by a minivan years later while celebrating the long-gone war. It’s sad and ironic when your luck is spent and bad karma takes its place.

So, there’s a large, wingless cockroach in Madagascar that is known for its hiss. The high, menacing sound comes from breathing pores in its crispy little belly. Another story to tell while you’re tucking the kids in at night. Be careful walking down the stairs.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter.