The day I thought I was dying began like any other day of my second grade year. I rode the bus to school, as always, and the day plodded along, like it always did, until the blessed reprieve of recess. The only thing out of the ordinary was that we had a substitute teacher that day, though I’ve long since forgotten her name.
I went out on the playground as I always did. I usually played on the monkey bars, or slid down the slides, over and over again. There was a large wooden play structure that I especially loved. It was tall, and had the best slide, and a fireman’s pole to boot. That day we were playing some sort of chasing game, and I hopped on the fireman’s pole, like I had hundreds of times before. I overestimated the distance, or maybe my momentum made me slightly overshoot. Either way, when I landed on the pole my temple knocked against it. I slid down and continued the chase when I reached the ground.
After a bit, I started to feel off. I was walking along, and then for no reason at all, I fell down. At first, I thought I had tripped on something. I got up and continued to walk, but I fell over and over again. I wondered if I was somehow making myself do it on purpose. It seemed so absurd. It kept happening, so I went up to the substitute and explained what was going on. She told me to go a get a wet paper towel and put it on my forehead. I made my way inside, got the paper towel, wet it down, and then returned to the playground. I dutifully held the soggy brown folded thing to my temple, even though it smelled like wet cardboard. I continued to walk around and occasionally fall.
I saw my class lining up to go inside, and I started to feel weirder. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just followed in line as we made our way inside and down the hallway. I remember looking at the white concrete block wall, and watching helplessly as my body fell straight towards it. My body went completely numb and tingly. My vision was gone. There was only blackness. I could hear a chaotic scene unfolding. Teachers were shouting for someone to call 911. Kids were asking what was happening. I tried desperately to cry out the only question that mattered to me, Am I dying? I had lost total control of my body. I was telling my brain to use my voice, but despite my effort, I couldn’t hear myself saying anything. I could only hear a confusion of voices, and none seemed to be talking directly to me.
I willed my eyes to open as wide as I could make them go, but still there was only darkness. I tried with everything that I had to move my arms and legs, but I could only feel the horrible tingling sensation throughout my body. Am I going to die? I tried to cry out again, but I still couldn’t hear my own voice.
I heard sirens, and then a man’s voice. “We’re going to stick”-“in your arm”-“a pole”. Why are they going to put a pole in my arm? I wondered. I couldn’t feel it, whatever he was doing. Later I understood that they had put an IV in my arm, and the teacher was explaining I had hit my head on the pole.
“Can you squeeze my hand?” he asked. I tried to make my hand work, but still I could feel nothing. “You’re going to be okay,” he said. The EMTs had me on a stretcher now. I could hear the wheels go clickety clack as they pushed me out of the school building and down the covered walkway towards the lunchroom. I opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of the ceiling, and then it faded to black.
I was in the ambulance now. I tried asking again, “Am I dying?” This time the words came out. “No, you’re going to be fine,” said the EMT. I didn’t believe him. I figured he had to say that, even if I was dying. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, there was my daddy. I have never been happier to see him in my life. He told me I was going to be okay, and in that instant, I knew he was right.
The ambulance sped off for the hospital. “Where’s Mama?” I asked. My dad pointed towards the back of the ambulance. “She’s right behind us.” She was riding in a cop car. My mom later told me that as they were going down the highway she looked over at the speedometer. It read 115 mph. They let me sit up to see if I could see her, and I could. I relaxed.
We reached the hospital, and the excitement died down. My parents sat with me as the doctor explained what had happened. When I hit my head on the fireman’s pole, it caused a concussion. This concussion caused a seizure, which is what I experienced in the hallway on the way in from recess. He told us it would likely never happen to me again.
It’s strange how something that happened decades ago can still feel fresh. I’ve gone long stretches of time without even thinking about that day, and rarely do I ever feel emotional about it. But as I sat here and wrote this down, I was flooded with all the things I felt that day. So many little details elude me- the friend who I think accompanied me to get the wet paper towel, the name of the substitute we had that day, or how long it took me to get up the nerve to go down the fireman’s pole again.
I’m quite thankful I never had another experience like that day, a time where I truly thought I was dying. But I’m also glad I had that terrifying experience. Though I wasn’t in much real danger, it felt that way, and it gave me a chance to gain a perspective not everyone has the opportunity to get. I learned what a truly bad day was like, which I think has helped me to appreciate life generally. I learned just how much I loved and appreciated my parents, and understood a little better how much they loved me. It probably did make me a bit more of a worrier than I already was. And to this day, I hate feeling numbness and prefer to feel pain instead. I’d rather have my cavities drilled while I breathe nitrous oxide and pass on the novocaine; I tried my best to avoid epidurals when giving birth for the same reason. But on the whole, I think the net result has been positive. Regardless, I’ve never had another seizure, and for that I’m grateful.