My Last Near Death Experience and Why I Write
photo credit: Harlequin_colorsIt was at the start of the ill times I had in ’07. The cause was a complication of my condition that I won’t bore you with. The result was that I was having trouble breathing. I remember waking up in bed, struggling for air. And sitting up. I could feel my throat closing. I did the test I’d been taught at some point by a nurse – trying to swallow. Then I realized I couldn’t. And I understood why people with allergic reactions and asthmatics are taught to go directly to the hospital. If I didn’t figure out how to combat this feeling, I would die. Quickly. When you can’t breathe, you can’t speak. That’s why the first step of the Heimlich maneuver is to ask the other person if they’re okay. If they nod, it’s possible they might not be. I usually keep asking until they say verbalize. My friends hate it, but the one time it saved someone’s life was reason enough to annoy the people I love. I couldn’t breathe deeply enough to power a call for help. A friend was in the next room. If I can make enough breath to call out, I’ll survive, I remember thinking when things got hazy. I shook my head to fight off the darkness. Which of course made things worse. My life didn’t flash before my eyes when I almost blacked out. And I wasn’t afraid – I was seized with desperation. Not quite fear. I