In the Ash We Fall - The Story of Meeting Elspeth

At first, no one really noticed the strange ash falling from the sky. It fell as isolated flakes, tiny collections of soft dust and dirt. They stood out no more than, say, an emergency flare floating lazily into the flames of a raging forest fire. And then, the ash came down thicker and thicker, resembling a thousand cherry trees stacked on a thousand more and letting loose their blossoms in steady, floating waves.

It was alarmingly beautiful in the beginning.

And then . . . it just became alarming.

Yes, oh yes. When the ash really began to fall, people flocked from their homes to gawk at the dark, grey sky. They left their front doors unlocked. They abandoned their late-morning brunch plates. They stopped their bickering and their merry-making. The registers were left unattended. All conversations, no matter how insipid or deeply-trained, stopped abruptly and trailed off into hushed murmurs and awestruck silence. People thronged the streets; we flooded schoolyards and ran to rooftops. Shoulder to shoulder, we packed open baseball fields and the balconies of every apartment building.

Everyone shoved their way around like sheep in a herd and held their palms up, open to the falling ash. At first, they did it out of whimsical curiosity – as if their bright eyes looked upon nothing more than a charming, yet untimely snow shower in the month of May. But the moment of charm fell on its face and the onlookers’ eyes widened and their jaws slackened. While holding out hope for a freakish snow, their hands instead came up smudged with grey. Many tried to wipe it away on their jackets and their pant legs, but it only smeared deeper into the lines of their hands and the swirling prints of their fingertips. Everything they touched turned grey.

This is what I saw in Seattle. This is precisely what happened all over the world. Angry, storm-like clouds suddenly materialized in all directions, covered the earth, and began spewing ash.  It looked like snow. It fell like snow. It began to accumulate just like snow.

The first ash flake in my hand.

I was one of those people standing in the street. I held my bike in one hand and outstretched the other in front of me. I caught a flake of ash. It was a cluster of soft, vein-like soot resting on my palm. I inspected it. It looked like a tiny root ball. I blew a swift puff of air on it. I expected it to take flight from my open hand, but it disintegrated and a plume of dust burst forth and settled at my feet.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye an older man standing next to me. He was a fella who often asked for spare change on the street, a man who people avoided as he yelled at imaginary ghosts. He wore an oversized, wool coat that was so dirty that it miraculously seemed cleaner as more ash fell on it – just like how when snow covers the land and it makes everything look uniformly white.

The man turned to me and said, “I hope you know how to love, man, ‘cause this world’s gonna need it to get through what’s comin'.”

“What’s coming?” I asked him pensively.

“There's gon' be blood comin',” he answered. “You gon’ need love when you see that blood.”

The man walked away, muttering to himself about how he was going to get ready. “Ready for what?” I thought to myself. “Ready . . . for what?”

Considering the region, we all thought Mt. Rainier had finally blown, but no earthquakes had rumbled, no colossal blast occurred, no pyro-clastic clouds formed. We glued ourselves to TVs and radios. No reports made sense of the ash. Earlier that morning, with nothing seemingly amiss, we ambled along with clouds overhead, which was, of course, nothing new to Seattle. But, by the time evening had descended, everything was covered in three inches of dark, grey soot.

And the ash kept falling.

Sure, people panicked eventually, but most everyone simply went about their day. It seemed to me most folks were in denial of the phenomenon; they claimed they were too busy to give it any thought. Some people, however, hid indoors, fearful something more terrible would fall from the sky. Religious zealots ranted furiously, saying the fire and brimstone would come next. Government officials and public figures made statements to assuage the masses . . . and it almost worked. A sort of organized chaos ensued and then it escalated.

I knew what to do, though.

I was built for this kind of event, like how I’m innately talented at talking about my feelings or how I’m particularly inclined to date women with armpit hair. Certainly, I reckon these are odd quirks for a man, but we are all born with some uncanny and unusual tendencies. And me, I was given the gift of managing and surviving bizarre emergencies. Although, until the ash came, this talent had never really been tested.

Nevertheless, in a matter of 20 minutes after the first ash-flake fell in my open hand, I had bolted to the nearest grocery store to buy supplies. I had made nearly half a dozen trips for food and water before other people started doing the same thing. I managed to fit in 6 more trips before the grocery store became mostly empty of rations and full of frantic people. I left when a man got stabbed for a handful of candy bars. I returned to my apartment. I locked the door and installed a heavy chain over it, from jamb to jamb. I called my family and friends . . . and waited.

The first few weeks were wretched. I didn't leave my apartment. Dumbstruck, I listened to reports of murders and looting on the radio. The first week snowplows desperately tried to clear roads so more supplies could get through, but even with open roads most trucks were raided by even more desperate people, hunting for food. So many people died that week.

The ash kept falling.

At the end of the second week, a man attempted to break into my apartment through a ground floor window in the middle of the night. When getting my door open didn't work, I yelled at him to leave, but he busted out the window with a crowbar anyway and began climbing a ladder into my apartment. I turned all the lights off. Two flashlights switched on behind the man. At least two people were ready to help him.

“We’re coming in! Give us some food or we’ll kill you and take it all!” he hollered.

I decided to remain quiet so as to not alert him of my position. I darted out of the flashlight beams and tip-toed in the dark to the side of the window and waited patiently for him to place a hand on the sill, which I promptly smashed with a hammer. I heard a crunch. He screamed and fell from the ladder. I followed my initial assault with projectiles launched from a sling shot I made from large rubber bands I used for physical therapy on my shoulder. I hit one flashlight man and all three of them bolted. I spent the rest of the night removing all the closet doors in my apartment and screwing them to the frames of my windows.

The temperature had noticeably dropped by the third week with highs in the low 40s. The temperature would continue to fall with the ash clouds completely blotting out the sun. People began worrying about a forthcoming ice age. Several feet of ash had fallen and most of the city had become impassable.

And then, the ash suddenly stopped. Though, the strange, thick clouds remained.

New reports started coming in and I watched them on the internet, which surprisingly still worked. In fact, with only a few brief interruptions here and there, electricity, water, and gas had all remained constant. People organized and community militias formed to protect utility workers and civic personnel. For days on end I helped teams of people armed with shovels to dig out nearby hospitals. While doing that I had the misfortune of uncovering a man buried in the ash. I found him crumpled next to a fire hydrant with the contents of his skull ejected nearby. His wallet was gone. In light of the terror, heroes literally rose from the ashes and the horror stories eventually gave way to ones of triumph and compassion.

Some places suffered more than others, but, all in all, about 46 million people died, which is a small number really, considering the population of the planet. Many people took this as a sign that not all was lost, that we weren't such a bad species after all. I think, in some sense, they were right.

Even though the dark clouds did not break, the sun could sometimes be seen through the eerie veil. The temperature held and scientists noticed a strange, yet positive side effect – our world's glaciers were no longer receding. After a month of difficult work, order was eventually restored. Supplies started getting to their destinations. Businesses began re-opening.

This semblance of normalcy had hiccups, though, when the ash would occasionally return. All productivity halted the moment the vein-like balls starting floating to the ground again. People feared the return of anarchy, but the ash would stop after only a few hours. And then it disappeared for a week and returned again for a day. This became the new normal, constant cloud cover with occasional ash fall. It remained this way for months and people, more or less, went back to their lives.

New jobs and trends developed over the next few years. Ash removal. Ash insurance – if the “big one” hits again. Cars came equipped with ash plows, winches, and special windshield wipers. If it rained, everything turned to mud and rubber boots couldn't be made fast enough. Handkerchiefs and goggles had also become fashionable – as they would often be used to cover one’s mouth and eyes while traveling outside. People began installing state-of-the art ventilation systems to keep ash out of buildings. Construction standards even changed and “dust rooms” were built at the entrances of every house and building. These dust rooms blew forced air onto the people inside and then vacuumed ash from their clothes before actually entering a structure. People even started naming their newborns Ash and Dusty to commemorate the cataclysm.

Dressed in ash, ready to see the blood, ready to give the love it needs.

There were a lot of theories about why the ash had come, but nobody really knew the cause for sure. Some insisted it could be explained by science and others believed the fire and brimstone was still on its way. As for me, I thought about the ash a lot. It occurred to me that each of us would find our own personal reasons for the ash and we’d learn them when the time was right. I had no epiphany about this until three years after that first ash-flake had fallen onto my hand.

This one evening, the ash was falling hard; the little root balls stuck together and fell as soft, amorphous shapes, some as big as baseballs. I had a crush on this gal I knew, and for a man who had struggled for years to find a partner worth keeping, this one seemed to hit the mark like no other. Her name was Tess. I was smitten. In fact, it might be more appropriate to say I was driven. I had to know her and it was unclear if she had similar feelings. Well, actually, I’m pretty sure she didn't even know my name.

I was late, on my way to see her at an art show, an installment of her photography at a local gallery. The show was called “Under the Ash,” which explored the aftermath of the initial storm. One of her pictures was of the man I found near the hospital by the fire hydrant. The back of my leg and the shovel I used were in the foreground. I remember when she took that picture, but my back was facing her. By the time I turned around she had her camera poised in the opposite direction and she walked away. I planned to tell her the story of uncovering the man’s body, while pointing out my leg in her picture. Getting her phone number seemed imminent.

As I said, I was late. I ran out the door and in a matter of seconds clumps of ash had covered my goggles. I smeared the ash away with the back of my hand and kept jogging through the heavy ash. I left puffs of dust in my tracks. My goggles had nearly gone opaque again. I reached up to wipe them off once more, but didn't succeed. Instead, I suddenly collided head-long into another person. We smashed together and spun off in different directions. I landed head-first into a low hedge and the other person sprawled out flat on their back on the sidewalk. I was clearly heavier than them.

I pulled myself from the shrubbery and staggered over to the other person. My goggles were lost and I tasted blood in my mouth. I knelt next to the person, who was finally rousing from the impact and had the shape of a tall woman. Blood matted her handkerchief.

“Damn, I’m sorry. You ok?” I asked as I helped her sit up.

She shook her head to scatter the stars that must have been circling her head.

“Yeah, I think so. And you?” she returned.

Her voice was deep, but it sang a handful of notches above baritone.

“I think I split my lip open on your forehead.”

She chuckled and said, “Sorry, I shouldn't have been running in this shit weather.”

“Oh, no need to apologize. I was running too.”

“Oh,” she said and then paused to pull her goggles up to her forehead. “My nose is bleeding.”

“Do you think it’s broken?”

She gingerly squeezed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and announced, “No, just a little bloody. Ack, I need to get cleaned up. I’m late for a show.”

“I have a place nearby. You can get cleaned up there.”

“Wha- . . . oh, sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”

I helped her to her feet. She stood nearly as tall as me and had a shape to behold. We walked back to my apartment. The dust room outside cleaned us up – mostly. Upon entering, my cat greeted us, as if to say “Back so soon?” I chirped back at her. She stared at me with big, green eyes, mewed once, and then walked over to my bleeding guest to rub her tiny face on her ankles.

“Welcome. That’s my cat, Eva. The bathroom is this way.”

“Thanks,” she said through a pinched nose. The bleeding was already subsiding.

We walked together. The woman wore all black and she had on petite boots that clunked on my hardwood floor. I flicked on the light and she walked past me to the sink. I joined her. We pulled our handkerchiefs down simultaneously. We both had blood on our mouths and chins. She had three black rings in her septum. My lip was definitely split open, but not too bad. We smiled at each other in the mirror.

“We’re  hilarious,” I said and she issued a quick, amused puff of air from her nose, which resulted in blood spatter on the mirror.

We laughed.

“Yeah, fucking hilarious,” she returned. “Sorry about that. First aid supplies?”

“Don't worry about it. And, yeah, in the drawer at your feet.”

Our blood touching in the sink.

Together, we stood side-by-side tending to our wounds and giving each other funny, sideways glances. Her eyes were brilliant, ice blue and her hair was shoulder-length, straight with short bangs, and the color of a raven. We introduced ourselves and shook hands between the exchange of warm, wet washcloths and taking turns to spit blood in the sink. The sink was where our blood touched for the first time. 

Her name was Elspeth.

“What show are you going to?” I asked.

“Ash Fall.”

“Oh, is that the space metal band whose members all lost somebody in the ash storm?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“I saw them play last year.”

“Yeah . . . actually, I’m not really going to see them. I kinda have a crush on a fella who works the venue.”

I smiled and barely remembered I was going to a show myself. I told Elspeth about my crush. She shook her head and looked amused.

“Would you like a whiskey before you go?” I offered.

“Sure. Yeah, I would like that".

We relocated to my kitchen and I poured the drinks. In the end, neither one of us made it to our shows. And how we met, falling in ash, became one of our favorite stories.

A Hunter in My Ear

She called herself Hunter. And, with a name like that you’d think I was chatting with a stripper in Portland – and it just so happens I was.

Hunter was cheerful, not like some of the other dancers whose eyes had glazed over long ago from one too many bored, gyrating hip thrusts in the direction of wolf eyes. No, when Hunter got on stage she smiled almost to the point of laughter. She clearly loved to dance or maybe she simply enjoyed all the attention. She had long, brown wavy hair, a pixie nose, and hips that would have commanded lustful attention even at the Jamestown colony. Puritanical convention be damned.

It was the first time I had been to a strip club. From the stories I had heard, Portland seemed like a good place to see what all the fuss was about. And, try not to be shocked, but I was 35-years-old and it isn't a mystery why I waited so long to visit one. I was frightened. For starters, I was scared of trying something new and, for me, going into a strip club yielded a discomfort very similar to having sex for the first time. With that said, I worried more about what others would think of me. I worried they would believe I didn't respect women, that my blend of feminism had a backbone no stronger than the hard dick in my pants, which (let’s face it men) isn't very strong on its own. Like me, I know most of you dudes have hung a “heavy” bath towel from your penis just to see if it can also operate like a strong coat hook. Be that as it may, I seriously doubt you or I can carry the plight of women on our dicks. And, shamefully, so many men seem to think this. What’s more, despite the argument that sex work can sometimes be empowering for women or even a marker of feminism, I was still uncomfortable because of the respect question.

In the end, however, my curiosity got the best of me and I found myself listening to advice my father once gave me:  “Sometimes you just gotta put your dick in the wind.” His words often still resonate in my life. And, surprisingly, I was also listening to the advice of my partner at the time. She implored me to have fun because, as a woman who primarily identified as a lesbian, she understandably struggled to completely fulfill my needs. Love is quite strange sometimes, isn't it? But, all of that is quite another story.

I ended up enjoying my time at the Portland strip club. It was known for its “high contact” and Hunter did not belie this notion in the least. She put her boobs in my face and even spent some time “sitting” in my lap. She also whispered a lot of sweet nothings in my ear like, “You’re cute,” or “I love your hair,” or “Your tattoos are interesting.” We made a bit of small talk. We spoke about art. We talked about ballet, which I studied for a couple years as an adult. I had recognized a dance move she made, which was something like a rond de jambe en l’air. And if you know anything about ballet or French for that matter, then you’d know how sexy that would look, especially when executed by a stripper. I liked Hunter. She seemed stand-up. She was smart and confident.

Hunter asked several times that evening if I wanted a “real” dance, but I declined respectfully each time. Truth be told, I was too unnerved by the notion of a lap dance. Besides, having a naked woman sit in my lap, off-and-on, all evening was enough. Plus, I had frittered away all of my money on the stage. I said goodnight, wished her well, and left for my hotel.

Almost two years later and back home in Seattle, I visited my best friend Alex at the Hideout. She worked the bar for several years and had a deeply resounding presence there. Alex was that kind of bartender, warm and responsible, but also up for anything. I visited her often at the Hideout. She and many of the other folks there made it a safe watering hole.

It was the last Sunday of the month, which called for the style and grace of Ivan and his karaoke machine “Baby Ketten.” These Sundays were cacophonous! Many people waited with bated breath the entire month just to sing their favorite anthem at the Hideout.

The crowd was especially mirthful and debaucherous that evening. Alex, as she was wont to do, would briefly step away from her mixology duties and sing a song or two. And when she took the microphone in her hand she would always bashfully say, “Hi, this . . . this is my first time.” The people who knew Alex loved this comment and even waited for it. We all laughed heartily whenever she joked.

The folks were particularly talented that night. I recall some wonderful performances, but there was one gal who stood out. She had a voice that soared. It seemed belting out love ballads were no more difficult for her than drinking a glass of water. She hit every note just right, every time. This woman sang only a couple times really, but I found her quite interesting – in a confusing sort of way. You see, I thought I recognized her, but I simply couldn't place where I had previously seen her. The name Ivan used to call her to the stage didn't help at all. He’d yell, “It’s time for Kelly to come on up to the stage! Where’s Kelly!?” I’m pretty certain I shrugged my shoulders over her name while sipping bourbon.

Last call.

Then, the lights came on. The music stopped. Everyone squinted through the bright blur and shuffled out the door. As was customary, for Alex’s safety and my own, I stayed until the last patron had left. The last person, as you likely guessed, was the woman named Kelly. She closed out her bill and between writing the tip and signing her name she gave me a cheerful grin. I returned the smile, still unable to think of where I had met her. After she politely thanked Alex, Kelly walked right up to me, put her arms around me, and whispered in my ear.

She said, “You’re cute.”

Before I could say anything, she left my side and bolted out the door. I hollered after her, but she didn’t return. And, suddenly, it occurred to me why I didn't recognize her.

She was wearing clothes.

An Anniversary of Shaking Hands with Death

In the beginning, my brain bacterial infection had remained wholly inconspicuous. My body was keeping a secret, one that ironically rested directly on top of the single organ whose main job is to notice when things go wrong. I had no idea I would be shaking hands with Death in the coming weeks, an event that would summarily derail my old outlook on life and deliver me to a wiser, new beginning. As I said, the symptoms and their clandestine operations hid themselves from view. In fact, prior to my hospital stay in March of 2003, the only remarkable indicator of my waning health manifested itself only as a couple of extra nose colds, which I simply blamed on bad luck or not washing my hands enough during winter. In the end, the common cold wasn't the culprit at all. Instead, a far more insidious affliction worked inside of me, possibly stemming from something like Death carelessly sneezing in my face and then exclaiming how he couldn't be bothered with the formality of saying "Gesundheit."

And so, a lesion began growing in my head.

My affliction seemed to surprise everyone. Even the doctors were astonished; they called my situation "anomalous" or "unusual." It made no sense. An infection of this magnitude was largely inconsistent with my youthful constitution and lack of auto-immune disorders. My body, at 28 years, resembled prime health and lean strength. I rode my bike everywhere and if you know anything of the hills in Seattle, then it should be clear how sinewy my body looked. Also, try not to laugh, but the woman I dated back then even called me her "Adonis." And, realizing the hubris this must show, I find it pertinent to mention I believe most of us, especially in our younger years, had the bodies of Adonis and Aphrodite - or some version of beauty in between. And, not surprisingly, the beauty of youth slips away. Eleven years later, my supposed body of Adonis is now ornamented with multitudes of scars, burgeoning dark circles under my eyes, a former busted ankle that clicks all the time when I walk, a muscle tear in one shoulder, a slight bowling-ball belly that I suck in all the time, and . . . and a history of brain surgery.

Illness or affliction?

I prefer to call my brain event an affliction rather than an illness. The word "illness" would be accurate I suppose and it isn't a far cry from the definition of "affliction," but after reading the book "Mortality" by the
late renowned journalist, Christopher Hitchens, I changed my mind about using "illness" as a descriptor. In Hitchens' final book he details his decline in health and eventual death from esophageal cancer and he does it with unforgiving acuity, mindful wit, and relentless accuracy. It's a short, worthwhile read if you want to know more about the struggle of cancer and a hand shake with Death that, under the common propensity for hope, you would believe ends in an eventual recovery. Instead, the book displays several sentiments of life abruptly terminating with the grim reaper going in for a gentle, "there-there-everything-is-gonna-be-alright" hug while secretly wielding a scythe point behind the recipient's back.

And then, as any well-meaning atheist - like Christopher Hitchens - would say, you helplessly spiral into nothingness, never to return.

Getting to the point, I stopped using the word "illness" because Mr. Hitchens used it in his book. I don't feel justified using the same word he did, just because I happened to be lucky enough to have the grim reaper's hand reluctantly pull away from mine. What's more, it feels inappropriate to liken an illness such as stage-4 cancer with my brain bacterial abscess. Even though my affliction was most-assuredly dangerous and life-threatening, I had a significantly greater chance for survival compared to Christopher Hitchens and others with similar diagnoses.

At the mere mention of my left craniotomy, which I sometimes do with equal measures of hidden excitement and nonchalance, people invariably ask me how it all began, how I knew my health had taken an abrupt turn for the worse. Oftentimes, the short answer is that I don't know the precise moment. I woke up on the morning of March 16th, 2003 and I had no idea what the hell was wrong. I only had a hunch that something grave loomed over me.

It went something like this:

Pieces of my tongue chewed off.

Alone, I awoke, groggy and lightheaded, which doesn't seem all that unusual. But, to be more accurate, you ought to multiply your average morning grogginess by about 100, and then add the feeling of getting hit by a truck in the middle of a wicked hangover. I could barely deal with consciousness. My spine and all the muscles between my shoulder blades hurt like I had slept on the sharp edge of an axe blade. And somehow this pain extended through my body to my sternum, making it excruciating to breathe. The taste of iron filled my mouth and when I pressed my fingertips to my lips they came away wet with blood. My tongue throbbed with each pump of my heart and the sides felt as though I had sucked on a white-hot, u-shaped brand all night. A baby pacifier for Satan's offspring.

Deciding all these sensations were alien, I gathered myself from my bed with immense effort and walked to the bathroom. At first glance, I looked fine. Just tired. I stuck out my tongue in the mirror. Both sides were mangled and chewed-up. They looked like hamburger meat. To this day my tongue never regained its original shape. It has waves bitten into the flesh - all in the shape of my molars.

"That can't be good," I thought.

I wish I could say I thought nimbly to arrive at a plan of action, but, as you might know, brains are actually quite cumbersome after a supposed marathon of drinking and "making out" with speeding trucks. After several minutes, I finally decided to go to the hospital. At the time, Harborview Medical Center was only 4 blocks from where I lived. I called a friend and cancelled brunch. Plus, my work shift at Barnes & Noble would start later that afternoon. So, I called in sick, which wasn't met with the magnanimous support I was hoping for . . . because, at the time, I didn't like working for the chain bookstore. The corporate mentality often fell dreadfully short of showing actual human support for me and my dear co-workers. Plus, I was currently at arms with the store manager for her less-than-stellar business ethics . . . but my staunch refusal to follow poor leaders is quite another story.

Anyway, I seem to recall the assistant manager on the other line, trying to negotiate with me to still come in for work despite my, admittedly, vague symptoms. Her reaction to my ailment seemed heartfelt, albeit a tad misguided . . . probably because of the poor training she had received from the aforementioned cut-throat store manager. Clearly, the ambiguity of my affliction must have put the assistant manager in a tough position.

Nevertheless, I believe I replied, "I don't think you understand. Something is really wrong and I'm going to the hospital."

Barnes not so noble I guess.

I ate a snack, which I believe consisted of eating a handful of salty, tortilla chips and drinking a glass of milk. If I had known I was going to spend 12 days in the hospital, I would have eaten a larger breakfast. I got dressed slowly and deliberately. I had to think twice as much to execute something as simple as putting on a t-shirt. And carefully, around my injured tongue, I brushed my teeth - because, really, who in their right mind would show up to an emergency room without good oral hygiene?!

A long walk up 9th Avenue.

Two weeks prior to that morning, my health insurance card arrived in the mail. Outside of what my parents offered me as a child and a young man, I had never had health insurance on my own. On a whim, months previously, I had decided to take the resentful pay-cut from my meager Barnes & Noble paychecks so I could have health insurance. I cannot overstate the unbelievable foresight I had in this decision. I hadn't even yet removed the insurance card from the perforated envelope in which it had arrived. I tore it out, stuck it in my wallet, and began my walk to the hospital.

It's difficult to say how long it actually took me to get to the emergency room. It should have taken me no longer than, maybe, 5 minutes. There were several moments when it occurred to me I might have been standing still for a half an hour. My body would suddenly jerk into motion as if I had just woken up from a spontaneous onset of narcolepsy. At the time, because I had never smoked weed, I didn't know to liken it to the "time-loss" effects often experienced by folks who smoke the ganja.

I also recall the strain of each step. I experienced the sensation of forging a trail through a field of thick, wet cotton up to my chest. Because of the exertion and confusion, it was easily the third most difficult walk of my life, a short journey trumped only by two occasions when I carried coffins to graves.

Yeah, one foot in front of the other, like a stoned pall bearer.

When I finally arrived, the chaos of the emergency room only added to the haze. Like some hospitals, Harborview is widely known for its bizarre, almost schizophrenic, blend of cacophony and, because of my faulty memory some version of the following happened. An offensive morning news entertainment show wailed on one TV; the "actual" news screamed on the opposite wall. And, nearby, at least two potential patients spoke to imaginary friends. Another person, as if by a miracle - but probably from sedation - slept soundly draped through the armrests of three chairs. Other folks, with furrowed brows, paced back-and-forth, presumably worried about loved ones. Plus, one corner of the room resembled a frenzied day care with one woman scolding a handful of giggling, errant children throwing magazines across the room. And who could forget the creepy fella sitting on the linoleum floor with the thousand-mile stare and eyes so wide I thought I might fall into them and be forced to join him in oblivion.

One could safely say it was the kind of emergency room where everyone wants to talk to you . . . everyone, except the triage nurse.

So, I waited in line.

And . . . I waited.

Finally, the nurse waved me forward. I sat down in front of her and neatly placed my shiny, new insurance card on the counter between us. She was unimpressed, but took it anyway. While a copy machine clunked and whirred at the wall behind her station, an inquisition of my complaints ensued. I scrawled on forms and spoke at length about back hurting really bad and how I had chewed up my tongue. After describing these symptoms, she simply shrugged her shoulders and said she didn't know what was wrong with me. She then hastily pointed back toward the waiting room and asked me to take a seat. I did as I was told.

What occurred next is oddly very clear in my memory. I spotted an open seat made of olive green leather and silver, aluminum arms. It reclined slightly and I recall being thankful for this because it somewhat assuaged the pain in my spine. The chair faced perpendicular to one of the TVs, the one with the "actual" news. I looked up at it and saw a straight-faced newscaster reporting on the pending invasion of Iraq . . .

. . . and then I blacked out. No warning. Everything suddenly just went dark.

I could be wrong, but looking back on that moment, it occurs to me that this sudden loss of consciousness might be what it's like to die. One moment you're there, cognitive functions humming away, and then your brain goes COMPLETELY FUCKING BLANK. Think on that for a minute.

No, think on it for five minutes.

I dare you.

Imagine your moment of death as a certain measure of awareness and then . . . sudden emptiness, sudden nothingness. If that doesn't send shivers up your spine, then maybe you ought to carry a coffin or hold a hand at dying sometime. Hell, you could listen to bullets whizzing past your body. You can take on the weight of a serious diagnosis you never thought would be yours to hold. You can have your foot crammed between two logs in a riverbed and not be able to come up for air. In some way, you can shake hands with DEATH.

11 years later, I still occasionally relive the memory of going blank. It's deeply unsettling. There, in the waiting room, I had my second grand mal seizure of the day. Although, because of the brain crash, I didn't know it. The first grand mal woke me earlier that morning while I lay safely in bed. Any number of things could have gone wrong that morning. I might have been caught without health insurance. My seizure could have happened while riding my bike in traffic. Ugh, I could have been swimming! To this day and even though my last neurologist said, "You're in the clear," I still have to psych myself up to take a damn bath because I'm afraid I might seize and drown. And what about my second seizure? If it hadn't happened in the emergency room, I might still be waiting to see a doctor.

When I finally stopped shaking hands with Death, I regained consciousness and found myself lying on a gurney with a team of doctors screaming all around me . . . and what happened next is another story.