706 Days Ago – Notes From a Breathless Moment
I wrote this almost two years ago.
I’m not sure what was going on physically, but it hasn’t repeated—
so I’m thinking it was some kind of transitory thing.
What interests me today is the thought process.
“Can’t catch my breath. Not processing oxygen? Thinking this is a strange way to go, gasping for each breath. Trying to relax, find ways to reduce my need. Standing next to the bus stop was a bad idea. Not nearly enough oxygen for normal, let alone immediate need.”
I remember—
the girls were shopping and I thought I’d wait outside.
Just moments before, I had a hard time climbing the last few steps of the subway.
And now, focused on trying to breathe.
Standing next to a diesel bus. Not smart.
“I wonder what the deal is, not breathing deep enough? Trying to force everything out to see if I get a good intake. Seems okay. Trying to hold my breath for a minute. 45 sec at best. Try again. Nope, 45 sec.”
At the time, I treated it like a stress test.
And maybe it was something—a baseline.
Today I can hold for 1:30. That’s double.
Maybe it said something.
“Well, can I make it back home? I guess it depends if the bulge backs off the spinal cord. The skin tingling sensation seems better but the pressure on my sternum is worse. Clearly relaxing is good but perhaps walking more is better in terms of strength.”
Five months earlier, I had hurt my back—
lifting drinks into a cart at Costco.
Middle of the back. Not lumbar, but T9.
An MRI later showed pressure on the spinal cord.
Result: transferred sensations. Tingling skin.
Contracted diaphragm. Hard to breathe deeply.
“I suppose it could get suddenly worse and by tonight I’m in a NYC hospital from a heart attack based on lack of oxygen. In which case this might be my last written communication.”
I did go to the hospital the next day.
They treated me as a heart attack patient.
But the EKG was clean.
They found… nothing.
I went home in the evening.
Still—curious that I thought this might be my last writing.
Some foreshadowing mixed with ego?
“I wonder how long it will take for someone to read this. Am I still here or long gone?”
Okay, now that’s weird.
Dark—and just a little self-centered.
As if what mattered was being read.
“This is a sobering thought. I should be more erudite, more pensive, more humble. Let me just get it out there. Sherry, I love you and I’m sorry I haven’t been a better husband. And to all the kids—I could have been a better father. Room for improvement but no time. Man, that is the tragedy of most of mankind. I guess that’s why we clutch so hard to forgiveness.”
There it is: guilt.
The first thoughts were selfish—
then a pivot toward doing the right thing.
But it’s weak. Sorry, but it is.
Nobody says the opposite on their deathbed—
“Yep, this looks like my time, and honestly, I nailed it.”
“Best advice I can give is to remember the best things, even if they were small and few between.”
A little bitter, are we?
What’s this now? A parting gift of pessimism?
This is not how I want to go out.
Which gives me an idea:
Why not spend some time composing a better product?
This impromptu stuff?
Sad. Pathetic, really.
If I actually think someone will want to hear my last words,
then I’d better get to work. Well ahead of deadline. (No pun intended.)
“How to remember me? Read everything I wrote, save everything I made, keep everything I thought was important. Gosh, what a burden that would be. I wrote so much that was crap and created even more crap.”
False humility dressed up in self-deprecation.
Hard to be humble when you’re asking people to read your stuff because it’s “important.”
“I never did put a sticker under the objects I really liked. Sorry, just because I kept it for years doesn’t mean I even liked it. Weird, I’m breathing easier. Let me test the holding breath trick. Wow, one minute—that’s better.”
I’m so glad I didn’t die then.
Because if I had, my spirit would never rest
knowing this was what I left behind.
They say Archimedes’ last words were
“Don’t mess with my circles.”
Now that’s honest.
A dying man still focused on his work.
I wonder if there’s a book of last words?
Don’t look it up.
It’ll steal hours off your life.
