I laughed and joked with the anesthetist as he and his assistant wheeled me from a small curtained-off section of the clinic to the examination room. The hallway was bright and cool, and I could hear the other patients behind their respective curtains talking to their doctor or family members. The wheels of the gurney swept smoothly over the tile floor.
But the examination room was dark, lit only by a dim light and the glow from a monitor on which would soon be images of the inside of my colon. A place as foreign to me as outer space. A strange thought: someone would soon be looking around inside of me.
But I was comfortable and relaxed. They took my pulse, checked my blood pressure. The cuff tightened. He asked me a few last questions.
“Okay,” he said in a kind voice. “We’re going to take care of you. Just roll onto your side. There you go. Now, we’re going to get started, and you won’t remember the procedure at all. See you in a few minutes.”
The oxygen they were directing into my nose went slightly sour. My eyes drifted shut, suddenly heavy. The inside of my eyelids seemed to shift into a deeper black.
Is this what it’s like to die?
The next thing I knew, I was waking up back in the small, curtained-off room, bright light shining through the windows, Maile sitting beside me.
* * * * *
The eggs Benedict my anesthetist had jokingly offered before I went under never materialized—only a few graham cracker cookies in a tiny box. When I finished them, my head still heavy, I gazed longingly into the container, considered asking for another box, but the whole thing seemed too exhausting and, for some reason, farcical. I felt like my brain was wrapped in gauze, my words coming out two seconds slow.
I was discharged, still a bit unsteady, and once we got outside, Maile and I decided to grab some lunch at one of our favorite places: Hudson Botanical.
Side note: Hudson Botanical is amazing (in case you haven’t been there). It’s run by a couple of Aussies who have become my friends. Two of my daughters work there. The food is astonishing, and I say that for many reasons: first and foremost, it’s delicious; second, they’re located in a very nondescript building along an unremarkable road; third, it’s Australian food located in the middle of Amish country.
Hudson Botanical is chock full of plants (thus, the “Botanical”), and inside, everything is green and sunlight and wonderful smells. Maile and I ordered and sat by the windows. I sighed heavily after every bite—I hadn’t eaten any real food for around 36 hours, and I was hungry.
Then, a disturbance. An elderly woman at a neighboring table passed out, face down. A woman sitting beside her tried to help her sit up, but when they finally got her straight again, her eyes were unblinking, staring into the void. A chill went through me. She was definitely not in there. I thought she might be dead.
Her limp body weighed her friends down. A group of them helped her onto the floor. The owner of the restaurant brought out a pillow for her and a cold cloth. She was breathing. A nurse who happened to be at the next table got down on the floor with her. They called the ambulance.
I couldn’t eat anymore—all I could do was sit there and try not to stare at this poor woman, lying down in the middle of a restaurant. Those surrounding her watched intently, hoping she would be okay. But at the far corners of the restaurant, the unaware kept eating and talking and laughing, as if nothing was going on.
As if someone’s life wasn’t flickering, sputtering, threatening to go out.
Is this what it’s like to die?
* * * * *
This is only our second fall at the house on Conestoga Avenue, and it is beautiful. The leaves on the trees in the forest behind our house are making subtle shifts—the reds seem to be showing up first, growing in splotchy patches in random tree corners. The yellows come next, burning the edges of the leaves. The oranges and purples and browns are yet to come.
And then the trees will be bare. We will be able to see the river. Everything will lie still and dormant and cold.
For a time.
And then spring will come and life will return. The air will grow warmer. The days longer. All those dormant and dead seeds will resurrect.
Is this what it’s like to die?
Don’t miss the newest episode of our podcast, out today: The Practice that Makes All the Difference
Lovely.
Beautiful.