Shadowlands

I'm fine, don't worry, I'm fine.

I called to my wife from the top of the stairs, “Honey? Call 911.”

She was on the phone with her Mom. Her voice sounds calm and controlled as she tells her Mom she’ll call her back.

“You want me to call 911?” She was approaching the foot of the stairs now, immediately focused, phone in hand, ready to hit those three numbers.

Call 911

I stood at the top of the stairs and assessed my situation. It was evening, around 10. I’d smoked a little weed in the basement, not an unusual amount, and then headed up the stairs toward bed. I’d undressed partially, and then felt a wave of dizziness. The world around me dimmed, and I recall a sort of buzzing in the air. It felt a little like I’d stood up too fast, and the odds were, I just needed to sit down and let the world settle around me.

But. I’d been dizzy before. Some new aspect of this experience I couldn’t quite name gave me pause. My arms and legs felt thick, like an over-inflated balloon. My heartbeat was skittery. I’d never really felt like this before.

“Yeah. 911. I think so.”

She made the call from the bottom of the stairs. My clothes were for the most part off, so I thought I’d test my condition by gathering my clothes and putting them back on, before the EMTs got there. Every object I looked at seemed very far away. I got my pants on, but came downstairs with my shirt in hand and plopped myself into the first chair I could fine, downstairs, shirt discarded.

My wife was still on the phone with the 911 operator. The operator asked my wife questions, who relayed them to me. I don’t remember most of them.

At one point the operator asked my wife to find my pulse, and count it off to her out loud. She did this for 15 seconds, then the operator said she could stop. It was kind of exciting! My pulse felt like it was pounding, and I wondered if that were true. I remember trying to do the math, to take the last number my wife had given the operator, and multiply by four to get the number of heartbeats per minute. But I couldn’t remember the last number my wife gave the operator, nor could I summon the ability to multiply a number, any number, by four.

The operator assured my wife that EMTs were on the way. My wife assured me. The operator stayed on for awhile, and asked her to open the front door, then told my wife to call back if the situation changed.

My wife hung up. I stared at the front door, knowing that’s where the EMTs would be coming from. I vacillated between thinking I’d over-reacted, and worrying that the already grey world would fade to black before the EMTs entered the doorway.

I took stock. I thought my heart was racing, but I didn’t know. I asked my wife, and she thought maybe, but didn’t really know either. Only the people coming through the front door would know. The world around me still seemed dim and still, held at a distance. But the room didn’t seem to be getting any darker, and my heart still pumped away at a steady (if heightened) pace. My wife stood next to me, calmly, and held my hand.

We waited, together. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to die. Beyond that, nothing.

I realized my Dad had been in this same mental and physical moment, many times. This is what it felt like to be on the other side of it, experiencing it. A shadowland. Not so much a shadowland between life and death, although that dimming of the world and that buzz in the air pointed spookily in that direction. I’m talking about the shadows of waiting, the shadows of not knowing, eyes glued to the front door, waiting for the EMTs. I’d waited with my dad, just as my wife now waited with me, for the crunch of the tires as the ambulance pulled up the driveway, and the medical professionals piling through the door to assess things.

We waited, the world in the distance, behind glass. Eventually we heard the crunch of tires and saw the flash of headlights heading up the drive. My wife went outside to lead them in.

They all looked like they were twelve years old. They gathered around the chair I sat in, leaning in. They asked me questions as they took my pulse blood pressure.

I told them the short version: I’d gotten high about twenty minutes ago, not an unusual activity. I’d walked up two sets of stairs to go to bed and the world tilted slightly sideways. My heart felt skittery, and my arms and legs felt like meat, balky and heavy. I didn’t know if those were signs of something serious or not.

At one point, while answering questions, I told them this: “I’ve never been 65 years old before. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

The youngest one leaned closer, looking into my eyes. “Have you smoked marijuana before?” he asked. He sounded like he was mentally adding the word “Grandpa” to the end of that question with a smirk, but perhaps I was just feeling old. I assured him I’d smoked before, I’d not smoked an unusual amount, or a different strand than normal.

I won’t go through the whole ordeal. I’ll cut to the chase: they said I was probably fine. They cautioned that only I knew my own body, and what I was experiencing.

I assured them I had a doctor’s appointment next week, and I’d just had an appointment with my cardiologist. They handed me a wavier, I signed it, and they left.

I’m pretty sure I’m fine. I saw a doctor, who was also pretty sure I’m fine. So please don’t worry.

I am realizing I’ll be back in the shadowlands again, perhaps many times. My Dad was there a bunch, and survived all but the very last visit. It’s important to make a passing acquaintance with that space. I want to be able to sit peacefully inside the shadowlands of doubt, and face my uncertainties unafraid, waiting with my wife for the sound of the ambulance turning into the drive, the twelve-year-old EMTs entering the doorway, ready to pull us back to safety.

Peace.