This Week

I don't know if I ever told you about this:

Years ago when I was still at uni, I was sitting in an English class when I started to feel sick. I was so sick that I thought I might throw up. I thought I was going to have to bolt to the restroom, the thought of which made me really uncomfortable because I never, ever got up to leave class. I never got up from my seat in class because I felt it was rude to the teacher and was disruptive besides (and since I weighed about 370 pounds at the time, it seemed especially disruptive). But that day I felt sick enough that I actually did get up and leave the classroom.

I thought it might help if I got some fresh air so I went and sat outside on a bench (near a trashcan in case I really did end up vomiting). After a minute, I felt like I was going to pass out so I leaned sideways and put my head down on the bench. I think I passed out. (It was the second time I passed out at school that year; the first time was during a blood drive in early summer. I gave blood, walked across campus in the heat, and passed out at a table in the McDonald's in the student union building.)


When I came to I went back to the classroom, gathered my stuff, and went to the student health center to talk to a doctor.

That visit led to an appointment with a neurologist which in turn led to lots of tests. Lots and lots of tests. And a sleep study. And an MRI. (The MRI was awful. They said I wouldn't feel anything but I did. Toward the end of the MRI, I suddenly became very sick to my stomach and I felt a sharp, metallic pain deep in my head.)

The neurologist came to the conclusion that I had likely had a transient ischemic attack (TIA).

I don't know why I'm telling you this story now. It was years ago and I haven't had anything remotely similar happen since (with the exception of almost passing out in a veterinary oncologist's office about three years ago).  Maybe what happened last night dredged up some memory of it.

What happened was that I asked the normally monosyllabic, teenage cashier at the pool who was going to be teaching water aerobics. He told me the girl's name, then he said, "You heard what happened to Nick." I said I hadn't. He explained that Nick, our usual teacher (Samoan-ish, 17-ish, dorky haircut, bad taste in 80's music), had injured himself diving two nights before. I didn't get the whole story, just the aftermath rundown. Nick smashed half his face, lost two teeth, and is going to have to have reconstructive surgery.

These are awful stories, aren't they?

I guess I could look around for something happier.

I could tell you about the tiny yellow and black orb weaver that has taken up residence in our tiny container garden. She's set up a web between the sage and the blue basil and she's been extraordinarily successful at catching prey.

I could tell you about the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party that Dave and I are going to on Saturday. The happy (?) couple is the studio director where we work, Martin, and his real-estate agent wife, Willy. We're going to buy them a digital photo frame as a gift.

I could tell you about coffee with Judi and Crunch this week. Some tool on a cell phone walked by and petted Crunch without asking and I said, "Crunch, KILL!" and "Crunch, ATTACK!" and Crunch just looked at me with big, soulful brown eyes. Judi laughed.

I could tell you that in six days I'll turn 39, which is as incomprehensible an age as any I've reached thus far.