The first thing I remember was the urgent sound of a woman's voice. "I'm not getting a pulse!" she said. "I'm not getting a pulse." Though I don't remember actually seeing her, I turned in her direction and said, with some irritation, "Of course you're getting a pulse or I wouldn't be speaking!" But she ignored me and continued to talk about my pulse.
This made no sense. Again, speaking very slowly for emphasis, I corrected her, "You must be getting a pulse or I wouldn't be speaking." In fact, I said, I felt fine. Really good. Come to think of it, I'd never felt better, or more alive. I was healthy and whole, calm and together for the very first time in my life. Though I still couldn't see, I could hear everything - mostly the scramble of many voices talking all at once - but especially the tone of worry in the woman's voice. It didn't bother me.
Nor was I offended by everyone's refusal to listen to me or notice that I was OK. I let it go. I let everything go. It was easy to give up and be quiet, easy to surrender. I just slipped away, as if I was falling asleep without being drowsy first. I had no fear, no sense of alarm or panic. It was like being carried someplace that was inviting, comfortable, and safe - like my warmest childhood memories of being carried to bed by one of my parents.
There was that same sense of security, of being taken to a place where I could rest, and be cared for. Where I would be...