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My Death and Resurrection

IrvingKrebb

TMF Expert
Joined
Apr 3, 2010
Messages
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NOTE: I've posted this a few places, it's been therapeutic writing it...if this is not relevant feel free to delete. No hard feelings. Thanks


It was a stressful morning to begin with, one of those days you wake up knowing you have something you’d rather not do but have no choice but to suck it up and get it done. My father was over in New Haven having his brain operated on by some schmuck neurologist who had so far only made everything worse. I had to go and visit him and bring the usual necessities like his glasses, his Kindle, clothes, and a newspaper because New Haven probably didn’t carry his local. New Haven is an hour away by train so I bought the ticket the night before, got up early, gathered my shit and arranged for a car to take me to the train station.

I wasn’t feeling good but I chalked it up to the stress of having to travel down to New Haven and back without knowing exactly how I was going to pull it off. Getting there wasn’t going to be a problem except for the mile walk from the train station to the hospital. I’d mapped it out on my phone but never actually walked it. The trip back was what worried me. There aren’t as many trains running back to New London and if I missed the afternoon run I’d be there till six or seven at night waiting for the next one. But since anxiety is a condition I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to, I wasn’t bothered all that much. The car was only a few minutes away and I knew the driver; a guy I call, Newman, will help me out with last minute rides for straight cash. He arrived, as usual, ahead of schedule.

I started feeling worse in the car. The knot in my chest that usually accompanies anxiety felt different, tighter, and I was having trouble swallowing. Before I’d left the house I popped a Clonodine out of desperation. It’s the only drug I’m allowed to have to treat anxiety. Clonodine is actually a blood pressure pill that also helps slow down your pulse, but some asshole in some lopsided drug trial said he felt less anxious after taking it and it became yet another, “off brand” sensation for the drug company that manufactures it: a chance to re-brand it as an alternative to benzos. (The real reality? It doesn’t do shit.) It was becoming clear that pretty soon a monster panic attack was about to hit with the force of a fucking semi and I was definitely going to lose my shit. I called my sister and told her what was happening and that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get to the hospital.

Something was wrong, I told her, and I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening but I was getting scared. My sister, Amanda, who is infinitely smarter than she gives herself credit for, told me to go to the ER and get checked out. “You have to take care of yourself before you can take care of anyone else,” she said. It was exactly what I needed to hear. I was already feeling guilty about being a hypochondriac and I’ve always been more than a little ashamed that what are usually figments of my overactive imagination sometimes render me useless.

A block from the train station I couldn’t sit still any longer. I dropped a twenty on the front seat and jumped out yelling to Newman that I’d be okay, but I had to go. I ran up the block and directly into the train station, up to the ticket booth and asked the agent to call an ambulance because I was having chest pains. The agent was an angel, he told me sit down, stay calm, got me a bottle of water and called one of the Amtrak cops to come over and sit with me until the ambulance arrived. Whatever was happening to me was getting worse but I still thought it was a panic attack, just a really bad panic attack. I told the cop I needed a smoke and he followed me outside and sat on the steps with me while we waited. Two minutes later the ambulance showed up and the routine I’ve written about a dozen times already sprang into action.

L&M Hospital is only about two miles from the train station. When I got there I was angry and scared, but mostly angry. A male nurse who reminded me of fucking Dane Cook was trying to get me to put on scrubs and I refused. I wanted to see a doctor, immediately, and have him tell me I was alright. There was a lot of screaming and cursing and pretty soon I was surrounded by three or four large interns speaking softly but carrying big biceps, big hands, and big threats. I finally agreed to put on the fucking scrubs. They sat me on a gurney and told me to wait until someone could come and take a look at me.

Panic was coming in waves, alternating between feeling calm and outright terror every twenty-minutes or so which convinced me that it was, really, just a panic attack. I’ve had plenty of them and I know how it works, they come in waves and eventually you settle down, usually exhausted. Dane Cook was making dumb comments any time I demanded to see a doctor and I was cruelly mocking his haircut and his sarcastic, yet wholly unoriginal come-backs. I told him he sounded like one of those assholes in some hip, binge-worthy Netflix show he’d probably been beating off to every night after work. Some people become compliant when they’re scared; I get belligerent.
I was sitting cross-legged on the gurney despite being told several times to lie down. It was the only position that relieved the tension in my chest so I told him to fuck off and deal with it. After a bit, I started to feel better and I even apologized to Dane Cook, who wasn’t really fazed anyway. The last thing I said to him was: I think I’m feeling better now.

What happened next I can only speculate, but from the enormous bruise above my right eye, I figure I dropped dead, literally, off the gurney and landed on my head. Someone started CPR and then hit me with the paddles. Six times they hit me with the paddles. I woke up a week later looking at my mother and a nurse who were both telling me to stay calm, that I’d had a heart attack, but everything was okay now, everything was okay.

Okay?

Everything was red. The CPR or the paddles, I don’t know which, broke all the blood vessels in my eyes. Whatever I looked at was tinged red like I was looking through rose-colored glasses. My mother looked tired but relieved and I felt sorry for her and guilty, immensely guilty for putting her through all this. The nurse was cheerfully mopping my forehead with a cool cloth and letting me suck on a wet sponge thing on a stick. My mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Later she gave me a cup full of ice chips. My mother was telling me what happened and I was trying to talk to her but it was difficult getting words out. She said, “You’ve been asleep for a while but you’re okay, honey, (her hand was on my forehead,) you’re okay.”

I didn’t understand any of it. How could I have had a heart attack? The blood tests I’d had only a few months prior said I was healthy - cholesterol good, good fats, bad fats, all the numbers were where they ought to be. Besides being a bit over weight, I was told I was in good shape. My first thought, which I couldn’t verbalize at the time, was that L&M had done this to me, given me something that had caused all this, and I was angry that they’d actually fucking killed me and had to bring me back to life.

The medically induced coma lasted a week. There were problems getting my heart to maintain a steady rhythm and the arteries going to my heart had to be held open with tubes that were still sticking out of my neck when I woke up. I’d had a bad reaction to the anesthesia causing me to vomit, putting too much pressure on my heart. They’d shaved my face and cut me just above my lip; my face was so swollen my eyes were like slits. One of the first things I noticed was the excruciating pain that felt like every bone in my body was either broken or bruised. I managed to groan out the words when the nurse asked me how I was doing. She said it was caused by the CPR and immediately shot me up with morphine. The morphine filled me with that familiar warm feeling I used to get with heroin, only stronger, better, and without the fear of overdose. I lingered in a sort of dream state watching the red walls and what looked like hairy creatures crawling down them, millions of them tangled together crawling down the walls. Turns out those hairy creatures were my own eyelashes but being all drugged up like I was, the image was slightly terrifying. So were the dreams I was having as I dipped in and out of consciousness. Strange places and creatures surrounded me and then they were gone and I was back in the room, lying in a bed, alone, with all kinds of wires sticking out of me.

After a couple of days I was able to speak again. My mother visited every day and brought me a Chunky or two - my favorite candy bar. Both my sisters, Brooke and Amanda, had been with me while I was in the coma but they had lives to get back to and had already sacrificed nearly a week making sure I was going to live, always by my side as I lay there unconscious. Once it was clear that I’d be okay, they could breathe again, but they still checked on me regularly. My father was still in the hospital in New Haven. No one told him what had happened until well after I was out of the hospital. My niece, thankfully, was also spared any unnecessary worry. It was until I was able to speak clearly that my sister put her on the phone so I could tell her myself that I was okay. I’ve never in my life been so happy to deliver good news, even if my speech was still a little stunted.

The rest of the story includes a small psychotic break which led to an unplanned, early discharge that nearly killed me a few days later. Luckily, I recognized the signs and got to the ER in time for them to set me straight again. This time I listened and spent another three days in a hospital bed as penance for my psychotically induced stupidity. The small, chromium alloy thing near my heart keeps me living and the medicine I now have to take keeps it working. So far so good. I still walk a mile everyday carrying groceries. I got an e-cigarette thing designed to wean me off that terrible habit. Funny - I didn’t smoke for three weeks in the hospital or for three days after I got home; fear is a great motivator. It was smoking and some bad DNA that caused the heart attack in the first place. But once the anxiety set in, the sleepless nights, the pain, the inability to get this experience out of my head or stop thinking about it every minute of every day, I bought a pack. Stupid, I know, but a few days later I got the e-cigarette and that seems to be working pretty well. I’m about to switch to the three percent cartridges in a couple days.

What scared me, and still scares me the most is the finality of it, of death. There was no bright light, no tunnel, no dead relatives waiting to receive me...just nothing. Every day I wake up happy to be alive. The depression and anxiety are still a problem and will be, I’m told, for a while. But I’m doing what I’m told and talking to the people I need to talk to. And the people I love, I’ve told them I love them. Good advice I think, no matter what shape you’re in because your loved ones...well...it’s a good bet they already know but it’s not a bad idea to tell them once in a while. I promise you they’ll be glad to hear it.
 
What scared me, and still scares me the most is the finality of it, of death. There was no bright light, no tunnel, no dead relatives waiting to receive me...just nothing.

Perhaps it wasn't your time yet dude. Either way, I'm glad your in a much better state. We're all friends here after all. Stay healthy, stay safe, and stay happy. :D
 
A world without Krebb would be poorer for it. I am glad you're here my friend.
 
This is well written but absolutely gutting to read. It's amazing how strong you are to get through all that and inspiring for others dealing with anything similar. Glad to hear you are listening to yourself and doing what you can to take care of yourself.

I hope things continue to improve.
 
Thanks, all of you, for the kind words and comments. I deeply appreciate the feedback and apologize if this seems like some kind of weird thirst-trap (I just learned that term.) Also, and I was going to say this privately to Chicago, but she deserves the recognition because a "well written" comment from you is a compliment I take very seriously. Because I've read all the stuff you've posted and know you can write with the best of them - thank you for that, it means a lot. Sorry for the unintentional gutting.

I kinda missed NEST because of this, not that I was 100% set to go, but I have a friend who lives in Lancaster and I was going to try to show up for some fun, hoping I could get in, instead of getting a room like last time. I heard it was a good time, but then again, i always hear it's a good time.
 
Thanks, all of you, for the kind words and comments. I deeply appreciate the feedback and apologize if this seems like some kind of weird thirst-trap (I just learned that term.) Also, and I was going to say this privately to Chicago, but she deserves the recognition because a "well written" comment from you is a compliment I take very seriously. Because I've read all the stuff you've posted and know you can write with the best of them - thank you for that, it means a lot. Sorry for the unintentional gutting.

I kinda missed NEST because of this, not that I was 100% set to go, but I have a friend who lives in Lancaster and I was going to try to show up for some fun, hoping I could get in, instead of getting a room like last time. I heard it was a good time, but then again, i always hear it's a good time.

Thanks for the compliments. There will always be another event. Take care of you first. Community will still be here :)
 
Glad you're still with us, my friend.
 
Difficult to know what to say to something like this - other than: hope you're doing well, and look after yourself!
 
Chicago said it best, gut-wrenching to read but glad your ok. Glad your still with us and take care of yourself.

Barbershopman
 
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