When I posted earlier this week about ‘threes,’ I was only halfway serious. I was poking fun at myself and the seemingly unrelated string of odd events all in rapid succession. Maybe it is my way of standing up and roaring to the ether that I am still here, still standing, and still fighting even in the silence, even as untethered and as alone as things feel.
A few hours later, my post felt eerie and prescient, frightening and surreal, and all too-familiar. I had to call 911 for a medical issue, the second time in thirty days. As I quickly pushed everything out of the way to make room for paramedics and listened to the sounds of sirens coming down my street and knowing they were for my house, I knew the ‘next’ number three was unfolding.
Did I stop and take photos as I stood barefoot in the street at the ambulance door a half hour later or from the window as I listened to the idle of the ambulance still in the street an hour later? No. That was something I thought about even later, the fact that many of you would have chronicled the event, captured the moment of dark and lights and silence and noise and shock and fear. No photo.
Today, standing in the ICU, I snapped a photo and then another. Fodder maybe. Positions and equipment and things that are familiar because they dot the landscape of recent years, but things I would never be able to draw from my head. I looked at those photos to find something to attach with this note. And I couldn’t. Instead, the shoes I am in.