I’ve done several posts for my games of the year. I was ready to do one last award when I was reminded of another game that I played earlier this year. I really thought it was last year–or rather, I had completely forgotten it was this year. Because, you see, the first half of the year has been wiped out of my memory because of my medical trauma. I’m watching the Game Informer Game of the Year video and two people (of two) so far mentioned a game that I had played, but it had completely fallen off my radar. So I’m going to squeeze that in before I get to my final award of the year.
The little soulslike game that could with an adorable crow as the main character
Death’s Door
I loved this game by Acid Nerve when I played it. The art style is gorgeous and colorful, and the little crow who is the main character captured my heart. They don’t ever say anything as they trot around the worlds, but they swing their red sword with panache and flair. They have a little cock to their head that is inquisitive and jaunty. They captured my head from the start, charming the pants off of me.
I loved exploring the worlds, brightly-colored and hand-painted. even though I’m not as enamored with getting lost in said worlds. Each area is distinct, but within each area gets a bit samesy at times. I have a terrible sense of direction, which means I spent a lot of time lost. That’s never enjoyable to me, but I’ve come to accept it’s probably going to happen because as I said, I have a terrible sense of directions and any game that isn’t Souls without a map is not so much fun for me.
I didn’t really mind as much in this game because each environment was so charming. There were little Souls nods such as walking across the rafters a la Anor Londo. The biggest one is Pothead, a jovial character who is strongly reminiscent of Siegmeyer, the Onion Knight. Both affable and jolly, but ultimately helpless in the field–though they fancy themselves fierce fighters.
The bosses are very colorful and creative, but I didn’t enjoy fighting them, sadly. In fact, I would have to say that the combat is the weakest part of the game. You only have four health pips (you can get more later, but it’s grueling), which means you can only take four hits in a fight. There are healing flowers that you can eat that will refill the pips, but, you can only plant them where there are flower pots.
I like that the ranged skills are refilled when you hit things with your sword. The combat is very simple and even though there are different weapons, they don’t play that much differently. The combat is fluid, yes, but it just doesn’t quite have that satisfying crunch to it.
Still. I loved the game enough to 100% it (in the game. Not platinum it. Because you have to beat the game with the umbrella, which does half-damage, as your only melee weapon to plat it) and see the movie ending. I forgave it its sins because it was so delightful and I just adored the little crow. I can heartily recommend it and am glad I played it all the way through.
My final award is not game-related. Yes, this is a bait-and-switch, but it’s my blog and I can do whatever I want.
This has been a really weird year for me–specifically, the last quarter of the year. To recap, I somehow got pneumonia, couldn’t breathe, and called 911. Then, I collapsed and passed out in my front hallway. The cops came and bagged me (oxygen) until the EMTs arrived. The latter rushed me to the hospital. On the way, I had two cardiac arrests and a stroke. I arrived at the hospital unconscious and stayed that way for a week. The prognosis was dire and everyone in my life was preparing themselves for a funeral.
K told me she discussed with her hubby whether she should come here in those first frightening and confusing days in order to see me while I was alive or if, gods forbid, she should wait until I died so she could attend the funeral. My brother told me that he definitely thought about having to plan a funeral. In addition, my parents had to plan their trip here, not knowing if they would have to attend a funeral or not. Ian told me he had no idea what to do while I was in the hospital and made a desperate bargain with the gods he doesn’t believe in should they spare me.
If I lived, the doctors warned my brother, there would surely be irrevocable damage. I did some research a week ago into cardiac arrests and strokes–and the prognosis was very grim. For a cardiac arrest that happened outside of the hospital, there is a 90% chance of death. For an in-hospital cardiac arrest, there is an 80% chance of death. The biggest mitigating factor is if there is a bystander around when the event occurs. So you could say that I had the best situation possible for such a terrible chain of events in that I had cops/EMTs at hand for the events. As my brother pointed out quite bluntly to me, I was really lucky I called 911 when I did because half a minute later, I probably wouldn’t have been able to make that call.
I appreciate my brother for many things during my medical emergency. He was my hero in the way he was on top of everything. He set up a Caring Bridge journal and directed everyone there. He wrote in it daily, albeit tersely, making sure to note the main things that were happening to me each day.
He talked to my docs while keeping my friends and family updated with the news. He Zoomed them in with me while I was unconscious–which, by the way, was really weird to watch. My mom made me view one of the sessions after I returned home, which I did not care for. At all. It was really bizarre to see an unconscious me–not going to lie.
My brother had to make hard decisions such as okaying a central IV line (which they ultimately didn’t use). He also had to contemplate pulling the plug on me, which I’m eternally grateful he didn’t have to do–make that decision, I mean. That’s not something anyone should have to do–make that call–and for all the hard work my brother had to do while I was unconscious and after, at least that’s one thing he was spared.
He was my rock during the whole ordeal. He did everything that needed to be done without complaint. He did it quickly and efficiently, and he did not grumble at all. When the hospital told my family that I was ready to go home in two days, my mom freaked out (as was her wont) whereas my brother just looked at the list of things that needed to be done and did them (as was his wont).
He built a commode (never used), put rails in the shower and above the bathtub (the latter was more for my father because I don’t take baths, but still), and put a chair in the shower. He also bought a ton of adult pullups, puppy pads, and baby wipes for me to use. In addition, he bought a walker (that I never used, but it was nice to have) and a bunch of food. He spent so much time taking care of me while also doing his regular job and taking care of his family. And he did it all without uttering a word. When I tried to thank him for it, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “We’re family. It’s what we do.” Which, true, but not everyone could have done it as capably, coolly, and competently as he did. I will never be able to repay him for it–never.
Everyone likes to marvel over how I’m a miracle. Which, I’ve written before about how I’ve gone back and forth on being called that. I’ve always understood why everyone called me that, but my enthusiasm for it waxed and waned over time. In the first few weeks, I was fine with it. Let’s face it, I was drugged to the gills so I was pretty much fine with anything. In addition, I did feel like it was a miracle that I was alive, especially the more I learned about my situation.
I started to resent it in a few weeks, however, because it was a real conversation stopper. Any time I brought it up, say, with the nurses who came to visit me at home, every one of them to a person brought out the word ‘miracle’. Which, again, yeah, I know it is and that I am (one of them called me a literal walking miracle) , but I didn’t like the way it minimize the rest of my life. I mean, I still had to go on and be me–that wasn’t the end of my story.
It’s been three-and-a-half months since I collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. By some amazing luck, I didn’t have to do any rehab after leaving the hospital. The docs said it would be months if not years of rehab–the second day I met with the physical therapist, she said she had nothing for me. That’s why I’ve come around on the word ‘miracle’. It is a miracle that I was able to call the cops before I collapsed. It was a miracle that I woke up from being unconscious (after pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and a stroke) a week later. It’s a miracle that I did not suffer any brain damage or any damage in general (physical, anyway). It’s a miracle that I had minimal issues with walking and talking, and they all went away in time. It’s a miracle that I didn’t lose my goddamn mind from living with my parents for two-and-a-half months. It’s a miracle that all my memory issues have resolved themselves. And it’s a miracle that both my heart and brain have been deemed in great shape. I have my last heart appointment in two days and then I’m done with my whole medical ordeal.
So. My final award is….to me. For surviving something that should have killed me and technically DID kill me–twice. For being a goddamn miracle and not going quietly into that good night. For picking a fight with the devil and winning–again, twice! For looking death squarely in the eye and saying, “Not tonight, Satan. Not tonight.” For being pushed to the brink and holding on with all my might, with the love and support of friends, family, and others. For not giving in when it would have been easy to just let go.
I’m still here, damn it. My heart is still beating and my brain is still thinking. I have battled my way back to nearly 100% and I’m not done yet. I consider every day I’m alive a bonus and I’m determined to live the rest of my life to the fullest.