About two months ago I thought I was dying. I was in the local Subway when all of the sudden I had trouble clearly seeing the fast food menu on the wall; now while in separate circumstances this may be a good thing, in this particular case it was not. I started seeing bright flashing lights and a substantial loss of peripheral vision. The possibilities ran through my mind. A stroke? Retinal detachment? Had I unknowingly but forcefully collided with a wayward disco ball? The sudden realization that the individual behind the glass counter was not a DJ but instead a second shift manager named Ranjit quickly discounted the third possibility.



While the attack was going on I was actually having lunch with a friend of mine who is a Lutheran pastor (good company to have when you think you are dying) so he was able to drive me to the hospital (as my sight was affected), during which time I did the usual actions when one thinks he is facing dire mortal circumstances (making my peace with God, thinking of Kansas lyrics, and bizarrely wondering if I fed the cats). Unfortunately, my friend does not know how to drive a stick very well (I had picked him up) and we exited the parking lot at 50 mph in second gear. It was a bit disconcerting to realize that the sweet sound of descending angels would be preceded by the grate and whine of an over worked four cylinder Toyota engine. I was able to call my wife (amid exhortations to "switch into third") and let her know what was happening. We reached the hospital in less time than it took for me to sing "Dust in the Wind" and I was met by a plump nurse who proceeded to question me with pneumatic regularity about every medication I have taken since the fifth grade. At this point I began hallucinating, imagining myself strangling her with thick battery cables, testament to my annoyance at filling out a questionnaire that seemed only slightly shorter in length than that of the "Brothers Karamazov."

My wife, who is about as subtle as the Berlin Wall, burst through a barricade of protesting nurses and found me being evaluated deep within the confines of some trauma center. Her sudden appearance startled, ever so briefly, the ER doctor; her penchant for wearing all black (in accordance with some long forgotten Soviet protocol concerning Gulag interrogators) coupled with a semi-explosive entrance into the ER, caused him to momentarily fumble with his sphygmomanometer. For a brief second I imagined that he was prepared to confess to my wife a lengthy list of crimes against the state as well as implicating half of the medical staff present within the building.

I, of course, know how deeply sensitive my wife can be, and I had to assure the Doctor that her comment that the nurses were "loathsome vermin fit only for extermination" was meant in only a loving and caring manner.

Now while I may jest now, it was not so jovial then. It took awhile for the tests to get done and the prognosis made, only then did I relax. So, the end result was that I had a simple aural migraine. My first one apparently; later that night I had a headache that would not allow me to sleep for the duration of most of the night. I took enough Nyquil and aspirin to drop a rhino, but it still felt as if I was being randomly beaten with a ball ping hammer. But as the night progressed, it subsided.

So I am happy for two reasons. The first, that everything is ok, and the second, that I have finally found justification to use the word "sphygmomanometer" in conversation within mixed company.