Fortunate Son: A Memoir

There is light in a child's eye. Some would say it so the child can see. But if we look, the light is so we can see what the child holds. That is life. That is everything the universal is. Rhythms are shades of light. Circumstances within the physical dims the light; reaction to it deepens the darkness momentarily. Light of the child succumbs to the pull of reaction. The adult gives in in a want to go back.

The third day after my human birthday I sought to go back. I had hints beforehand. Glimpsing figures out of the corner of my eye; the quickness of shapes I couldn't quite make out. A dizzy spell struck one morning as I sat down in front of the computer. I pushed the spinning aside determined not to let it worry me. When I told a friend he relayed his story of collapsing in the laundry room unable to move. There was a rush to hospital then no real diagnoses later he said. We forgot about it with beer and burgers in bar with a pool table that tried to lure me to stay awhile. I wondered if my game held up.

I was standing in my kitchen early afternoon the next day when it hit. I fell to my knees. An ineffable force seems to be taking me apart. Sickness became a pestilential eruption of the stomach. I staggered, arms outstretched, unable to stand, my body ricocheting off the hallway walls. On my knees, inside the small bathroom, prone, I reached to embrace the toilet. It was as much to keep part of me vertical as a receptable for my insides. All that my body had taken in kept leaving me. Everything spewed into the bowl again and again. There was no measurement of time, no anticipation it would end. Up came fluids that were never taken in, kept as some sort of internal balance. The contractions were uncontrollable. Only my arms seem to work, gasping the toilet bowl as if it were a buoy to keep me afloat.

My contractions subsided. I went in and out of consciousness. Only the dry heaves awaking me. I moved away from the toilet, reaching up and pulling a towel from the wall rack to catch what little vomit now came up. It was getting dark. I could not stand up. My legs broken without the pain. My head stuck out the doorway. My nose inches away from the door jamb. I turned back my head and saw one of my cats looking at me. Concern or wonder, I didn't know which. I held the towel to my mouth and curled into a fetal position. I closed my eyes and fell into hypnagogia, between wakefulness and sleep. I told myself I had a stroke. Was it my mind or consciousness speaking that? I was somewhere with the blackness.

image by Lorelle Taylor

I awoke and lifted myself up, my back against the wall. I was extremely cold but not shivering. I ran my hand down one arm and across my chest. There was no radiation of warmth, just a dry coldness. I'm going into shock. I fell back down to the floor, my head buried into the crook of my left arm. "I'm ready. Time to go." I wasn't afraid, just tired. Nearly immediately after that voice? that consciousness? my mind? I heard, "But you won't see a grandchild."

I stirred but still couldn't stand or even sit up. To the left was the living room and my phone. To the right my bedroom. Without thought, I moved across the floor on my back in an on-and-off waggle like a worm stranded on hot concrete. I pulled myself onto the bed laying on my left side, leaning over the edge, a thrown rug below me, still clutching a towel. I'm not dying now. Just need to rest, build up energy to reach the phone.

I lay there for more hours. The automatic dry heaves less frequent. Hypnagogia remained, wakefulness only sparked when I felt the towel slipping from my hand. A cat lay next to me. A touch of normality. At some point I rolled to look at the lighted clock on the nightstand. It was nearly 5am. I had to get to my phone and dial 911. I sat up, weaving, got up on my feet, stumbling from wall to wall, I made it to the desk chair and called. After giving my name and address I got angry at the barrage of other questions and yelled, "Just get them here."

Three EMT workers found me on my bed. They steadied me as I sat up and put an IV into me. I was strapped to a wheelchair and taken to the ambulance. I still clung to my towel, the ride keeping my sickness seething. At the ER another IV and two brain scans. I had a cerebellum stroke, a rare condition that is life-threatening. It had been 15 hours since my stroke, too late for neurosurgical intervention. One cat and vomit have given me the bulk of my awareness. I was helpless but I knew I was ready to die. The ER crew asked me if I could see and repeatedly for my name and birthday. They checked my eyes, heart; asked if I could move my legs. I was exceedingly tired. I went for an MRI. I spent four days in the hospital, another four at a rehab facility, saying my name and birthday at the start of most every conversation. Nurses, medical staff, and therapists told me I was progressing very fast, that I was fortunate, maybe even unusual for my fast recovery. The nerves in my brain were rerouting, they say, building new pathways. For a time it seemed my vision had improved and somehow, I felt smarter. They didn't have sure answers for why it happened, told me my other three arteries to the brain were open and fine. Maybe it was the afib. Maybe they didn't tell me everything they knew. "We know little of the brain," I heard more than once.

Now I take four different kinds of drugs. I have a dead spot in my brain. A familiar aphorism from Friedrich Nietzsche goes, "What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger." Stronger for what? When I really leave this plane I think I'll know.