Phoenix
It kinda hit all at once, as I sat on my bed that night. The news I had received earlier that Tuesday sank into my brain letter by letter, planting a very serious understanding within my mind. In that moment, everything else in the room faded to the background. The usual banging around of the other tenants muted themselves. It was like I was the only person in that entire apartment building. More like everyone in the city of Tacoma vacated to the outskirts to give me some space. It was just me and those words. It was just me and the phrase: “You could have died.”
This phrase is not attached to something grandiose. I was not almost hit by a bus, or eaten by a megalodon. I did not almost lose my life defending my friends from a hoard of hell beasts or a pack of insatiable zombies. I was not the virgin sacrifice to ensure that Mount Rainier remains dormant for another century or so. (Although, what the hell? If you’re in need, give me a ring. I’m not guaranteeing the two of us will hit it off, but I think we could be fast and great friends. I’ll buy you all some time to get outta dodge when things get bleak.)
If Death had had its way, I would have never known that I was on my out. One moment I’m here, the next I’m not. It would have been a magic trick that, I would hope, not many would applaud for at its completion.
I will say, even if that was the case, I would not have gone quietly.
You see, last year, I was admitted to the hospital for a routine appendicitis. (Please see [Appendix Here] post.) The fucker, we’ll call him Fester, had dilated itself to 11 cm, swelling to three times its normal size. (Seeing as the surgeon pulled Fat Fester out through my belly button laparoscopically, the bestie, Bea, has made me an honorary woman…since I essentially gave birth. Thanks, Bea, I will, with all sincerity, carry this honor with me always.)
The medical report indicated the appendix had started to, well, fester and become necrotic, zombified, if you will. Bacteria was able to slip through the dead tissue, making my blood septic. Let the record show, one never wants to be described as “septic,” if for no other reason than that it makes one think of septic tanks. So, in that moment, if I had been conscious, I would have told you that I had never felt so shitty in my entire life. Why wasn’t I conscious? It could have been for a variety of reasons. Reasons that you are able to be clued in on. Read on, audience!
I’m not entirely clear on the timeline. I actually lost consciousness shortly after I was admitted to the hospital. My doctor posits I went into shock around that time. I do remember laying in that hospital bed in that empty room, shaking violently the night before the operation; like every inch of me was freezing, yet I did not feel cold. From there, the dark part of my soul took over, my evil twin. I became belligerent and combative and was promptly restrained. Bea thought I became a sort of super villain, simply looking a person up and down and reducing them to a hysterical, sobbing mess with the utterance of a single, cutting, and acidic word.
If only…
If only I was that devious. If only my dark side was the real problem. There’s a bit more to the story.
Here’s what the fragments of the medical report and my doctor have helped me piece together. Since I went septic, my body’s temperature shot up to 106 ˚F. As Biff, my dear friend who has experience in this department, shared, I moved into a realm where Death was very real. Unbeknownst to me, your body can’t really handle being that hot for too long. To complicate matters, my heart does this thing where it regurgitates blood. Blood moving from the atrium to the ventricle and then from the ventricle to the lungs splashes back. In a non-life-threatening scenario, my heart’s special kind of acid reflux is actually nothing to worry about. I’m not sure why it does this. Perhaps because I was born with a heart murmur? But that closed up years ago.
Sorry. Back to it. I could have waved back to Death, if I wasn’t busy hallucinating from the fever and the bacteria that might have penetrated the blood brain barrier, making nurses cry whilst speaking in tongues, trying my hand at bondage, and tripping on the opiates the doctors had given me for the pain. I never do things easily, and as you can see, I wasn’t going to go quietly.
“Take a number, Death,” I’m sure I said at some point, past whatever images were casting themselves on my eyeballs. “Uh-huh. I get it, you have ‘dark” and ‘mysterious’ locked down…all cool in that shredded hooded cloak thingy. Is that Hot Topic? There’s no way those tatters weren’t deliberate. Yeah—I see it. Lord knows we can’t forget about that scythe you’re brandishing. What are you compensating for?
“Tell you what, why don’t you pop on over to the terminal ward for a beat or two. I’m not going anywhere. I am literally tied up at the moment.”
When I came to, I was rather unhappy…is how I would describe it if I were a less cynical person. In truth, I felt murky and fuzzy and cheated. I came back from a war that I almost lost, and, it seemed no one, including me, knew how close I had come to losing my footing from the edge of that proverbial cliff we all affectionately know as human existence.
I wish I could tell you that I came back from this stronger and wiser. I wish that I could tell you I came back with super powers or a spoiler regarding if and what is on the other side. (Never gonna let that grudge go, by the way. Something? Anything for my troubles? Mind Reading? The gift of foresight? No?) If anything, I think I came back more broken or turned around. My mind, and maybe even my spirit, were mangled and badly banged up. We won’t even get into what shape my physical state was. I was fucked up, y’all. Until I finally requested the medical report, I lived with this gap in my life, specifically August 31, 2016, the day I lay in a hospital bed nonresponsive and questionably all there, for about ten months.
While some questions have had some light shed on them, others still whisper from the corners of the dark recesses of my mind.
“What if…” one voice trails off.
“Why didn’t you die?” another wonders.
“Does this mean you’re meant to do something big?” a third queries.
“Is that cheesy?” the first voice questions the third. “I mean, can we believe fate is actually a thing. I know we used to…”
I’m still on the fence about fate. I want to believe in that sort of magic and serendipity. I’m truly trying. I’ve decided to look for a silver lining. (You all should be proud. I don’t usually buy into this positivity stuff.) Whether or not I ever left or came back, I am still here. I was engulfed in a heat that could have evaporated the very soul from my meat shell, yet most, if not all of me, held firm. Let’s say I was reborn that August 31st. Let’s say that was the day I became a Phoenix.
And just like a newborn, mythological creature or baby of the regular variety, I came back disoriented and confused. I had to reorient myself in what the hell life is. Should I continue to live it in the same way I always have? Should I make some edits? This potentially dying thing seems like a really big note to me. I have, for these past few months, been collecting myself, spinning my wheels, clearing away my confusion, getting really angry at times, and, again, establishing who I am in this, often annoying, yet sometimes pretty okay existence.
Maybe I am still here because Life wants to show me something amazing. Maybe I’m meant to do something awesome with this person you all know as Neurdotically. (Ahem—publish a novel. Cough. Cough. Hack. Wheeze. Excuse me.) Maybe I’m here because I still have a role to play in the lives of others. Perhaps it’s someone close to me. Perhaps it’s someone who has yet to cross my path. Maybe I still have a lesson or twenty to learn.
I don’t know. All of this conjecture could just boil down to a simple, you were saved in time and that is that. Nothing special. Nothing to see here. Just go exist somewhere in a corner…
I do intend to move forward and find out, or maybe I’ll just say, “Fuck it,” and live my life on my terms.
Just know this: When I do die, I’m coming for your job, Death. (Eats slice of apple off of switchblade, and gives Death the hairy, twitchy, mad eyeball.)