I don’t know how long I had been staring at the clock, but it felt like hours. Strangely, it also felt like minutes. I was having trouble figuring out the difference.
My eyes strayed from the clock to the room — a sterile room with white walls, beeping machines and an uncomfortable bed. I was lying in the bed with my neck procured in a bracing and my wrists tied loosely to the siderails. I could feel tubings in my nostrils, chest and skull — though I couldn’t see or touch them. I would later learn that my arms were tied down so that I wouldn’t pull those tubes out.
I knew I was in the hospital, but it would take a while to remember what happened. I wiggled my toes. They moved. Well, that’s a good start, I thought.
I turned my attention back to the clock. No matter how long a stared at it, I couldn’t tell the time. I could read the numbers, but I didn’t recollect which hand told the hours and which one told the minutes. Come on, I thought. You knew this yesterday.
I looked at the date written down the whiteboard next to the clock: Sept. 22. Clearly the last day I recollected wasn’t yesterday. In fact, 12 days had passed.
The World Went Dark
Just “yesterday” I was doing yoga and power walking through my Denver neighborhood. I was 30 years old and had just moved to the city to start an evening law-school program.
It was a warm night, and I had stopped to buy a bottle of wine on my way home from class. I planned to open it when I got home to celebrate the completion of my first month of school. Regrettably , not everyone on the road that night waited until they got home to imbibe.