I Died When I Was 24

11:59 pm: My palms and feet are cold. Each hair on my skin is erect and I feel them brushing against my clothes. My eyes are bloodshot. I don’t know how long I have been sitting here.

12:00 am: I close my eyes and let the darkness swallow me.

I have on occasion thought that there was a story in me that was dying to be told. When I had a near-death experience I thought that might be it. Over and over again I tried to transcribe the event into words, and every time I grew increasingly frustrated that I repeatedly encountered a dead end. As it turned out, the effect wasn’t profound enough so the event didn’t stick as “the story to be told.”

It was alarming at first to come to that realization because I didn’t understand why that story wasn’t creating the impression I was sure it would. The story was emotionally charged, it was unique and nearly tragic but I lived to tell the tale. What was the missing piece? It took me a couple of years to resolve that dissonance and accept that that wasn’t “the story to be told.” When I think back to it now, I understand why.

My friends used to joke that I was never single long enough to enjoy my youth. So when my second long-term relationship ended at the beginning of that year, I decided to let loose and have fun. It was uncomfortable. I didn’t like coming home to a dark empty house and always having to order takeouts. I started drinking to cope with the discomfort. I went as far as two bottles and too much rum a night that year.

[skipped]

“Have you tried golden kiwis?” he asked.

“No, I’ve never even heard of them,” I replied. And with that, we made our way to the grocery store to pick up some golden kiwis.

When we returned from our exhibition, we decided to split a golden kiwi. He cut it in an even half and gave me one half.

I usually get a prickly sensation from some fruits and I had vague memories of experiencing that sensation for normal kiwis before. Although I couldn’t be sure because I haven’t had any kiwis since my grandmother moved back to Viet Nam and that was almost twenty years prior to this incident. In any event, I casually brought up my allergies and shrugged them off before taking a spoonful of golden kiwi.

I remembered that he mentioned that we should probably wait a bit to see if I react to it before I finish the remainder of the half. But I was young and reckless and really wanted to share the enjoyment of the fruit that this man appeared to love so much (and frankly, it was very delicious. It was a subtle kind of sweetness that danced euphorically on my tastebuds. Had it not been for my adverse reaction to it I dare say it was one of the most satisfying fruits I ate), so within seconds, I devoured my half of the fruit. What happened next is a buzz and a blur, a hazy recollection of what I believed to have occurred.

I was happy. I was really happy after I had the golden kiwi. It was a delicious fruit and I was in great company, him and his roommate. But happiness is so fleeting. It escapes you as quickly as it comes. A couple of minutes later I felt a prickly sensation at the back of my throat. This was a typical allergic reaction that I wasn’t alarmed by and have gotten used to given the number of allergic reactions I have had previously.

A few seconds later I felt a lump forming in my throat making it hard to swallow. This was also a typical allergic reaction that I have gotten used to and knew how to manage. When this happened I can usually drink some carbonated drink to wash away the sensation. I figured I just need to ask him to grab me some coke and I would be fine. So I did just that.

Within seconds my chest seized, my body cramped, and I started regurgitating. Repeatedly. I couldn’t stop the regurgitation no matter how much I fought it. I remembered feeling overwhelmingly embarrassed and guilty while simultaneously trying to manage my discomfort and regulate my breathing. At one point, my face started feeling swollen. I tried to touch my swollen face but I couldn’t feel my skin. My body was numb to any and every touch. In between my repeated regurgitation I wanted to tell them that I couldn’t feel my face and that I needed to go to the hospital right away. But when I tried to talk, my entire heart sank.

When I parted my lips to ask for help, horror hung over me like a veil I could not lift. I couldn’t talk. My larynx didn’t produce any vibrations and when I tried to talk all that escaped my lips were huffs and puffs of air. That was a novel reaction that I had never experienced. But I tried to stay calm and tried to find other ways to communicate my needs. I don’t remember how my friends knew what I was trying to convey but I’m thankful that they understood quickly. A few seconds late and I wouldn’t be sitting here going down memory lane today.

As we approached the emergency doors at the hospital, I remember jumping out of the moving car to regurgitate on the grass. To my recollection, I threw up a lot but to my surprise, his roommate told me afterward that he felt awfully bad because even though my body was violently regurgitating there was nothing left in me. My other friend ran into the hospital to get help and was denied help. Apparently, the dying patient needed to make their own way to the doors.

I kneeled on the lawn. I remembered that I was so tired. I have never been that tired before. Half my organs were in flux there were two left that I had some autonomy over: my audition and my vision. My friend ran back to me and told me they won’t come to get me and that I needed to get there myself. Being in the state I was in I remembered I still had a little fight in me.

“These mother fuckers,” I thought. My friend picked me up and carried me to the emergency doors. I saw the lights at the door and I knew that I was safe so I closed my eyes to rest a little. After all, I was so tired of fighting my body for so long.

At the doors, they put me in a wheelchair. I couldn’t feel pain but I knew that at least one of my ankles was stuck between the floor and the wheelchair. Someone kept pushing despite the resistance. In hindsight, I wonder if that’s why my shoes don’t fit properly anymore. Eventually, someone realized the problem and repositioned my feet so they were properly on the footrests.

Someone was talking to me. They were asking me to look somewhere. I can feel that they were opening my eyes and I knew they were checking my pupils. At that point, I fell apart. I remember panicking frantically crying that I couldn’t see. For the first time that night, I felt scared. My vision was taken away from me and I think that was when I stopped trying.

When I woke up I was on the table with bright lights shining on top of me. I didn’t understand what was happening. I was in and out of consciousness. I have no recollection of the order of events of the below:

I heard: “We’re losing her… We need to… Now!” And my clothes were taken off and I was out again. “Again” “...Too high… One more…” “Blood pressure… Third shot” “No more”

Then I remembered that I wanted to say hi to the doctor. I wondered who it was. So I tried really hard to wake up to say hi and ask who the doctor was. When I looked up he popped out behind a nurse and waved hi to me. He had a bright smile on his face and I was so glad he was my doctor. He seemed like a nice guy. I tried to say sorry to the nurses too for making them work so hard to save one person. I should have been more responsible.

I remembered thinking it was time to go to sleep. I should sleep for a bit. I’ve been so so tired I just really wanted to sleep. Maybe this will all end, I thought facetiously. Will I be okay with that? For a brief moment, I thought so. Until I thought of my motorcycle that I haven’t gotten the chance to buy yet. Every since I was 12 seeing a rider on a red bike pop a wheelie, I told myself one day I'd ride one. I wanted to do that before I called it quits here.

I jolted awake at that point. I was less hazy and more frantic at that point. I was so tired of being in the hospital. All I wanted to do was be discharged and go home.

More beeping. More people. So many people. I can’t read all their names. Some of them don’t have name tags. Sorry, I’m doing my best to remember everyone’s names. It’s just hard right now.

This would be the end of my hazy recollection.

When I was finally awake, I remember that the head nurse appeared at the end of whatever I was laying on, with both hands firmly grasping the rails she demanded of me, “Do you understand the severity of the situation you were just in?”

My first thought was absolutely not. I thought it was just another anaphylactic allergic reaction. I didn’t understand why she was so serious. Over the next few days, I had the event narrated to me as if I were just an observer. I couldn’t relate to this person they kept telling me was me. They told me I stopped breathing and that they were seconds away from calling my time of death. They told me they thought I was overdosing and that there was only one doctor who heard “kiwi” and thought that was oddly specific to be disregarded. And based on that differential he treated me as an anaphylactic case while everyone else was sure it was an overdose. To that doctor that didn’t let his profession jade him when I met him, thank you for saving my life. Because without him, I would have died when I was 24.

I later found out that the incident was an atypical anaphylactic allergic reaction that I had less than ¼ chance of surviving. An anaphylactic reaction that presented itself in every way the exact same as an overdose. Apparently, it was an oddity, one that the doctor looked further into and one that the nurses still discuss. One of the nurses went so far as to claim that he will remember this case even if he gets dementia. I couldn’t relate to any of that despite being the focal point, which made sense since I wasn't awake or conscious enough to live the tumultuous resuscitation myself.

I spent the next few days trying to fit a square into a circle. I remember that at night in the hospital unit I was incredibly confused thinking, “They’re all saying that was me. That I was the one who died. But I don’t remember nor believe any of this folklore that they’re telling me. It doesn’t feel real. It wasn’t me.” That displacement actually persisted even months after I got discharged. Months eventually became a year and a year became two.

It is clear from this standpoint that the story is indeed emotionally charged, it is unique and so nearly tragic and it’s a miracle that I am alive and well enough to tell the story. But that’s just it. There lies the problem. The story is too unique that no one else can relate to it. I can tell the story a million different ways and the story cannot reach another person’s heart unless they endured a similar experience. The story was emotionally charged with two opposite effects of equal magnitude, a tragedy, and a miracle, that amounted to no effect. Now I understand why the story has no effect on anyone else but me.

5:25 am: I open my eyes and bask in the warmth of the morning light

That wasn't "the story to be told" because that story is "my story to keep." There is another story out there and one day I will tell it.