Giving Birth I Floated to the Ceiling and Nearly Stayed
A hemorrhage after my daughter was born nearly took me. I rose to the ceiling and watched them fight for me, then a tunnel of light offered peace -- but I could not leave her behind.
A hemorrhage after my daughter was born nearly took me. I rose to the ceiling and watched them fight for me, then a tunnel of light offered peace -- but I could not leave her behind.
My father's old bedside radio only came on during the attacks, hissing static in a dark room, while I lay frozen listening for the voice I was sure was hidden inside it.
A gut feeling had kept me home from work. Then the sparrows came at the glass, a dozen of them, throwing themselves at the pane over and over. Then the phone rang about my son.
The old textile mill has had no power for forty years. So none of us could explain why, deep in the basement, one of the great dyeing drums was slowly turning, or why the water in it was still warm.
I worked a furniture chain's returns hotline, and one gray afternoon a man called and calmly said he needed to return his wife. It was not the call I was trained for.
Dale sat with us every Friday for a year. Friendly, funny, part of the team. Then we realized none of us had ever seen him Monday through Thursday, and it got very strange.
A wave of grief hit me in a grocery aisle and I could not stop crying. It was not my sorrow. It belonged to my twin, mourning a dog I had never met, at that exact hour.
Our barn cat had never once come inside the house. The afternoon the sky turned green, she scratched at the door like she was possessed, and led us straight to the cellar.
My manager fired me by text at 5 p.m. Friday to avoid a conversation. He did not realize I was the only person who knew how to run the payroll system. Monday morning was educational.
The old trunk had been in our family for a century and everyone said it was empty. It was not empty. Under a false floor were letters that explained the thing we never spoke about.
Six couples, one wine-soaked Thursday a month, and a stack of novels nobody ever opened. It took me two years and one dropped phone to understand what the book club was really for.
Recovering from pneumonia, my heart went into an arrest at 3 a.m. I rose to the corner of the ward, watched them work, moved through a tunnel of light, and saw the whole shape of my life.
I had a bad night, a few too many drinks, and a phone. I woke up to forty pizzas arriving at my door in waves and a very confused, very patient delivery driver.
I woke at 4am to the handle turning and the door easing open in the dark. A shape stood in the gap. What saved me was a chair, a lie, and a hitched ride out of that town before the sun was even up.
My daughter has a cluster of pale marks on her ankle she calls where the weeds held me. She talks about a green lake, a red boat, and going under, and she named the summer it happened before we told her anything.
My grandmother swore he was a tall young doctor. The man at the steakhouse was seventy, a retired dentist, and the scrubs photo was from a costume party. At least the steak was excellent.
It fell into step at the end of my street, a big black dog with no collar, and stayed at my heel the whole mile home. It vanished at my gate. My brother had gone an hour before.
I chalked up the chest pressure to indigestion and went to bed. My cat clawed at me, knocked things off the nightstand, and yowled until I finally called for help.
To prove to myself the night attacks were only in my head, I set up a camera. The footage showed me lying perfectly still. And then it showed my lips moving.