How to say something hard.

911. “Not getting enough oxygen.” First 911 call. Flurry of uniforms. Stickers. EKG. o2 sats. Low. Firefighter lead: “Nothing physically wrong. Faulty o2 concentrators.”

“Oh.” Mutual. No need for an ambulance ride. They didn’t want to go, neither did I.

Mistake. Down the hill four hours later. Head down, breathing hard. Arjan driving.

E.R. Wheeled in, registered. Exam room. Folks rushing about. This wire, that wire. Confusing. Various things stuck in my face. Resistance. No. I don’t want that. You need it. Felt claustrophobic.

After that I don’t remember much. Woke up in the ICU. Ah, alive. The beautiful Gina cared for me. Kind, quick, confident.

So weak. Hands fluttering. Still hard to breathe. Disoriented. Extra people. That dog. Strange.  A place between.

Step down room. New nurses, more needles. lV’s set. A fog in my mind, the room, my bed. Alone, on a pier of existence distant from home.

Later, a return to the mountains strapped in a wheelchair, head drooping. The Life Care Center of Evergreen. Room 103. Physical therapy, occupational therapy.

Question? What comes next? Joe. Rich. Mary. My team. My job. Work hard on strength, balance. Eat. Rest.

Placid. Neither up nor down. Excited nor anxious. Naps, brief reveries. Seeing maybe a different path. Or a new version of an old path.