I have more to say about NaNoWriMo and what I hope to accomplish with it. In yesterday’s post, I talked about my time in the hospital. In part because I wanted to talk about it, but also because I want to write about it. I have toyed with the idea of writing a memoir since my medical crisis.
Side note: In the RKG Discord, there was a spirited debate about whether déjà rêvé was real or not. I did not know what it was when “C” brought it up so I Googled. It’s similar to déjà vu in that it’s the feeling that what you’re experiencing is something you’ve dreamed before. C talked about how he’d experienced it all his life, and a few people immediately dismissed it as not possible and bunk. One in particular, “D” was quite rude about it as was her wont.
I see this happen so often. If someone can’t imagine something, then it can’t be true. I am the opposite because I am so deep in the weeds of being weird, I constantly have to accept that my lived truth is not everyone else’s. I mentioned this about empathy a few posts ago, by the way. People really, really, really don’t like any hint that they are not as empathetic and/or intelligent as other people.
In this case, I easily accepted what C said because I had similar things happen to me. Not in terms of dreaming, but because there are times I can predict what is going to happen. I don’t talk about it because I have nothing to back it up (though my mother firmly believed I could make things happen because I would call them out before they happened.
C made it clear that he would dream things and then they would happen later. D kept saying it wasn’t possible. Someone else insinuated that he (C) just thought it was happening. The way D was so absolute about her belief that it just could not possibly be true was fascinating when viewed from a distance. I know it’s not unusual, but I rarely see it in such a discrete/concrete fashion.
The reason I’m pointing this out is that what happened to me is not possible, either, apparently. Or at least I cannot find someone else it’s happened to. When I tell medical people what happened to me, I inevitably hear that I’m a miracle.
Here’s an example. After I left the hospital, I had a nurse come once a week to check up on me. One time, the nurse could not get the system they use to work. She asked me what happened to me, and I gave her the quick summary (walking non-COVID-related pneumonia, two sudden cardiac arrests, and a stroke). She typed it all in and then went on with the checklist. She quickly read out the symptoms/situations and said no, no, no, and then said heart surgery, yes. I was half-listening, but sat up when I heard that. I said I hadn’t had heart surgery, and she made me repeat that. I said I did not have heart surgery; I just had an angiogram (which turned out fine).
She put down her phone and stared at me in amazement. After several seconds of stunned silence, she put a hand on my arm and said, “You are a walking miracle!”
I am alive. I should not be. So pardon me if I don’t buy all the OMIGOD IT CAN’T HAPPEN SCIENCE! arguments when it comes to things like dreams and experiences. I don’t believe science explains everytthing. I think it’s really fucking great, obviously, as it’s because of science that I’m still alive.
Side note: My brother has an interesting take on my medical team. He said they didn’t really do anything while I was in a coma. Medically, he means. Yes, they put me on ice and monitored me. Yes, they pumped me full of drugs, too. But they didn’t do anything other than that (not counting the EMTs, obviously). Basically, I woke up on my own. There was nothing they actually did. I will argue that putting me on ice helped a great deal. It’s a new-ish technique that is not wholeheartedly embraced across the country. From what I gather, it’s done to keep the swelling down and to minimize the chance of brain damage.
This is something that I want to write about as well. The medical crisis itself, how I dealt with it, what I thought was happening, and what probably was happening. Oh! That’s another reason I am more open to ideas of flexible realities. I was stoned out of my mind while I was in the hopsital and 90% of what I thought I experienced did not actually happen. I did not realize this until several months later.
Up until that point, I would have stated confidently that everything I thought I experienced in the hospital actually happened to me. Yes, I know that drugs were involved. Lots of very strong drugs. But it still happened. My reality for that week was very different than the actual reality, but it was very real to me.
Here’s the problem for me when it comes to writing nonfiction. I have such a hard time keeping things separated. Everything is entwined and I can’t talk about one thing without mentioning another. I can’t talk about my medical crisis without giving backstory about my family for context. What actually happened to me will take maybe twenty pages to explain (and that’s with fleshing out all the meat on every little bone), and while it has the wow factor, it’s not actually the interesting point of the whole situation.
I want to write about how it’s affected me beyond the immediate. Which, actually, was not much at all. The immediate effect, I mean. The physical effect. I had a clean bill of health two months after I left the hosptipal and by the time my parents left (three months in total), I considered myself 97% recovered.
This is not possible, either, when you really drill down. I should not be alive. I am. I am the living embodiment of anything is possible*.
*I don’t really believe this, but it’s a good last line.