We’ve all heard stories about how when people are dying, they see a bright light guiding them. Some hear the voice of a loved one telling them to go to the light. It’s all gentle, encouraging, and almost poetic.
Not me. I woke up from a week of unconsciousness with a gasp, ready to fight whomever needed fighting. I was mad as hell, scared, and disoriented. I didn’t know what the hell had happened to me, but I was furious, anyway. There was no gentle waking up. There was no coaxing into the light. It was me, instantly alert, ready to have a go at the nearest person. Fortunately, I was tied down or I probably would have started swinging, which I would have regretted later. This is actually how I sleep, come to think of it. I had a friend who loved sleep. She talked about drifting gradually into consciousness, feeling deliciously dozy as she slowly woke up. Not me. I went from sleep to instantly awake in a nanosecond, which is jarring. I don’t have any grace period between sleep and awake, much to my regret.
That’s what happened in the hospital. One minute, nothing, the next minute, awake and spitting mad. And I couldn’t stop talking. My id took over and ran with every thought that entered my mind. Because I’m aware that I tend to ramble, I keep a tight rein on my thoughts. In the hospital, however, when I was hopped up on sedatives and narcotics, and I had just woken up, I had no control over my mouth.
I rarely think about the fact that my heart stopped twice, but it’s there in the back of my mind. It’s not something I can focus on for too long without getting a bit freaked out. Death is something I’ve been drawn to/repulsed by for my entire life. The thought of death freaked me the fuck out. But, honestly, it’s just like falling asleep forever. It’s the conscious me that is afraid of death. The unconscious me didn’t even know she was unconscious. I know that seems obvious, but I can’t stress enough how jarring it was to suddenly wake up from nothingness.
Back it up even further.
It messes with my mind that I don’t remember the few days before I went into the hospital. I scrolled back in my FB messages with Ian to find the day before I went into the hospital. It was nothing unusual as we chatted about Nioh 2 (Team Ninja). There was no indication that I was feeling poorly. In fact, the only hint I had was that I emailed my taiji teacher on Tuesday to tell her I wasn’t going to be attending the Zoom class that night because I was extremely tired. Now, I’m tired most of the time–or at least, I was before I went into the hospital (BH). Sleep and I are not friends and I can’t remember a time BH when I actually felt rested. I have been less tired and more tired, but tired was the constant state of being.
Ever since I got out of the hospital, I’ve been sleeping eight hours a night on average. I go to bed by 10 p.m., 10:40 p.m. at the latest, which is ridiculous for me. BH, I was never in bed before 1 a.m., and it was actually closer to 2 a.m. or 3 a.m. For a month or so, I was trying to push my bedtime forward (or is it back?) and made it to 1 a.m. before I started sliding again. Being in the hospital, though, cured me of staying up all night. It’s partly because I had just experienced trauma and was tired all the time. It was also because I was woken up every four hours to have my vitals checked. In addition, I was hooked up to several monitors and they would randomly start beeping. Sometimes, it was because something was wrong, but other times, it was just because they felt like beeping–or at least it seemed that way to me. The nurses explained that sometimes, the monitors got knocked the wrong way, which set them off.
“Technology is great until it’s awful,” I said with a laugh. The nurse laughed and agreed with me.
I’m actually rested when I wake up, which is so bizarre to me. I spent all my life struggling with sleep issues, only to have them resolved in an instant by ending up in the hospital. I mean, it wasn’t the hospital, but the trauma that led me to ending up in the hospital.
Did I cheat death or was it just not my time to go? I think you could make a sound argument either way. It’s interesting to think about, but it doesn’t really have an impact on my life one way or the other. I think about what the chaplain in the hospital said when we talked about what happened to me. He believed it was important to think about the lessons I’ve learned from the experience, but not to obsess over it. I agree. There may be something to learn from what happened to me, but at the end of the day, I have to move on from it.
I don’t think there’s a limit to grief or trauma–meaning, you can’t force yourself to get over it. However, there is a point when you can get stuck in your grief. I don’t know how to decide when it’s time to move on, but I can tell when I’m stuck in a rut. I’ve said before that I give my friends a year after a big life event happens to talk only about that event and then they have to move on to other conversation. My friends never took a year to reach the point where they could talk about something else, fortunately. I’m giving myself the same time limit, but I don’t think I’ll need it. It’s been four-and-a-half weeks and I’m not talking about it all the time. I’m writing about it a lot, but that’s the point–to get it out of my system by talking about it so I don’t have to bother everyone with my nattering.
You would think having two brushes with death would make me more equanimous about life’s little foibles. It has not. Or rather, it has heightened some of the petty while allowing me to let go of other unimportant things. The one thing I have to be careful of, however, is not to be too obnoxious about my experiences versus other people’s experiences.
I don’t want to be that person who whips out “I beat death twice” at the drop of the hat. It’s a conversation stopper and not the way to liven a party. Or rather, it would liven a party, but not in a happy way. I don’t like telling people the exact details because: one, they’re unbelievable; two, they sound like I’m trying to shock people; and, three, I don’t want to be known as the person who cheated death twice, even though I’m writing about it now.
Look, there is no way to slip in “I had to have my heart shocked twice” casually. I don’t want to have to bring it up all the time, but on the other hand, it’s what I’m dealing with right now. This may seem like it’s coming out of left field, but I’ve been thinking about dating. Or rather, finding a Netflix and chill buddy or three. But, I immediately come up with the conundrum if I need to tell a potential fuck buddy about my ordeal? My instinct is no because it’s not relevant to the matter at hand–except for my stamina.
My mom and I are at loggerheads because she is having a hard time leaving me alone for more than an hour or two. She is a control freak (it runs in the family) and believes that only she can prevent forest fires–er, stop me from dying. Never mind that she wasn’t here when the original incident happened. Never mind that it was me calling 9-1-1 that saved my life. And unlocking the door before I collapsed. And, it was Ian contacting my brother when he (Ian ) hadn’t heard from me all day long that galvanized my brother into action.
In other words, my system worked. Yes, there was luck involved, too, but I did what I needed to do to be rescued. Even if I had lived with someone, this could have happened. That person might have been asleep or out of town or otherwise incapacitated. Both my parents want to wrap me in plastic and put me on a shelf (in a non-creepy way) because they’re afraid of what might happen to me. I get it. I mean, I can’t imagine how horrible it was for them the week I was unconscious and they were in Taiwan.
However. I don’t want to live my life being afraid of dying. I’ve lived like that for too long. I’ve been too cautious (witness my near-hermitlike existence BH because of the pandemic) and my experience has truly made me realize I only have one life. And it was nearly over! I don’t want to waste my bonus days only half-alive.