I was just starting to read a submission to SAR about war. It was around 7:30 or 8 AM on Friday, I was outside under my carport sitting on teal fold-down seats rescued years ago from defunct community theatre. Looking at the adjectives and trying to figure out where commas and hyphens should go in his opening paragraph describing Vietnam, I got sort of confused and blurry and went back inside to my computer. I half-joked in a message to my long-time friend and SAR’s new fiction editor, Ash, that I thought I’d gotten PTSD from reading it. I still wasn’t feeling too hot, so I went to try and read it on the couch in our living room. On the way, a mere ten steps, my mind just went dark.
I sat on the couch and I wondered if I’d fainted or what exactly had happened. I knew I hadn’t because I’d walked and not had to get up off the floor. That’s when I sort of felt like I was outside of my body, and I started yelling for my wife, Misty. I yelled loudly and at least five times. She didn’t wake up. My voice sounded like it was coming from below me — like, undoubtedly my mouth, my organ, but there was a distance.
I guess I sat there and recovered a little and — honestly, this is the first time I’ve really closely analyzed it step by step the way one does when writing (I’ve probably been a little scared to and I think there may be some kind of block, too, we’ll see as we move through writing this recollection) — some time passed. I considered the possibilities: stroke, aneurysm, who knows. It was frightening and worrying, to say the least.
Misty got up a little later — early for her, maybe 8:30 — and I told her about it.