No, this story doesn’t involve any STDs. This is the one about the day that followed the most reckless day of my life.

While in the bathroom, I looked down at my stomach, red and bloated from dehydration and french fries. I walked out to our living room, bouncing against walls, my bad choices from the night before a scrapbook of what actually happened. Our futon was pulled out, so I rounded the corner, heading to the bathroom to check on Alice. I all of a sudden became light-headed. My arms began tingling, so I looked down at them, and witnessed a blue hue move from my shoulder down to my fingers. Then there was no blood left in my head, and I hit the floor. Coming to, I stood back up and rewitnessed the same event again. A wave of blue that flooded to my finger tips. This time, I did what anyone in my situation would have: I screamed.

“Aaaallllliiiiccceeeeee” That long, drawn out scream with undertones of fear that we’ve all experienced. The one that makes you rush into whatever room that it’s coming from, heart pounding, expecting the worst. Alice called back from the bathroom, “What?” in an annoyed, un-realizing tone. “Something is very wrong….” I called back, and laid down on the cold tile of the hotel floor. I became very cold, shaking, and short of breath. When she came out of the bathroom, confused, I explained to her that I was blue, and not in a poetic sort of way.

It gets hazy from here. I remember being very cold, being put under blankets and shivering uncontrollably. I remember looking down at my stomach, and it looking like a giant bruise. I experienced a similar situation a few years later, while wearing a pair of new blue jeans; the dye had rubbed off against the skin around my waist, producing the same effect. I was denim-colored. Where my lungs were, darker shades of blue. I was cold and shaking and felt as if someone had their hands wrapped around my throat. Alice’s mom was there, telling me it was fine, these things happened all the time. But they don’t and I knew that. I did what anyone in my situation would have. I called my dad.

He rattled off a few things, lead poisoning being the one I remember him saying. Then I told him I knew it was alcohol poisoning. I had been drinking a lot and the signs made logical sense. Restricted blood vessels, lack of oxygen sort of sense. Then Poison Control was on the line. It was alcohol poisoning, but not an appropriate moment for “I told you so”. They said I needed an IV immediately to re-hydrate my body. My parents rage was masked with worry. I was supposed to be the smart one that did things right, and this was dumb. So, I was torn. Alice’s mom kept telling me to relax, things were fine. My parents, 2,000 miles away and on the line with Poison Control were telling me to go to the nearest hospital. I told them I couldn’t stand, which was the truth. I lied and said the hotel did not have a doctor on-hand. I kept telling them everything was fine. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. It was getting harder to breath, every breath taxing my energy. I was frigidly cold, shaking and slurring my words. I kept lifting the blanket, looking at my stomach, expecting it to go away, but it was still there. And I was so tired. I was afraid to fall asleep because I didn’t think I would wake up again. Being blue wasn’t a normal thing to experience.

I genuinely thought I was going to die. I could have demanded an ambulance, but my parents had been working for themselves for a year and we didn’t have medical insurance. I didn’t want to burden them because I knew whatever care I received would be expensive. I asked for a Sprite from the refrigerator in our room. I would never have asked for a $7 can of soda otherwise, but figuring this was my last meal, I went for it. Everyone around me seemed unscathed, like I was overreacting. I could feel the life leaving me with every breath I took.

Alice was laying next to me, telling me it was fine. Her voice was fading in and out, it was getting harder to hear anything. I kept telling myself I couldn’t do this to her. I kept telling myself I had to live. She had a rough year, losing two people she cared about tremendously. I couldn’t be another. I felt like she needed me. Maybe she didn’t need me in every regard, but I know she needed me to stay alive at that moment. And so, I kept telling myself that I would stay alive. I didn’t pray, and I didn’t ask anyone for anything. I just kept telling myself not to die; I couldn’t do that to her.

My eyes finally shut and the world went away. I’m not sure what happened while I was asleep, or for how long, or any other detail of the day. I woke up, taking a brief moment to survey the room, to make sure I was still alive. My throat was tight, and I was still shivering under the blankets. I pulled them up again to look at my stomach, now fading from blue to a red color, the way a sunrise lights up the sky on a cloudy morning. That’s the analogy I used to tell myself that I was going to be okay. My stomach, the rising sun.

So we checked out the next morning, boarded a plane and made it back on the ground in Arizona. I think I had a rehearsal dinner that night for a friend’s wedding. Needless to say, I wasn’t participating in the champagne toast that night. My stomach was bloated for days and my body sore all over, exhausted from passing out and shaking and being metaphorically strangled. The physical strain that I placed on my body that night lasted for days, but the psychological trauma I inflicted lasted much longer. The first months following were the worst. I had frequent panic attacks. I would wake up my parents in the middle of the night on a regular basis because I thought I was turning blue. I remember lying in bed one night, my throat closing in on me, so I called my dad to come upstairs. I couldn’t stop crying. I knew it was irrational to relapse into alcohol poisoning from months before. But the feeling of looming death, the feelings I had on that day, flooded me every time I got nervous or if I was alone too long, or if my hands were cold. Anytime my heart rate would pick up, I would relate it to that near-death experience. I’m sure Pavlov would have something to say about all of this.

I went to Florida a few months later and had a large margarita. I lay in bed all night with that feeling, the fingers around my throat, shaking feeling, thinking that I had depleted the oxygen to my organs so long on the Vegas night that I ruined my body forever. And it went this way for months. DeJa Vu, again and again and again. Its not as if I wanted to feel this way, be this scared, have this much fear for my life all the time. I could always feel it coming on and I always begged it to go away. But, it always came.

My parents eventually got fed up with the late night death threats, so they did some research and we talked one night. I couldn’t see through my wet eyes, I couldn’t control myself from crying. I just wanted to go back to before any of this happened, back to when breathing was easy. My dad told me not to fight the feeling when it came on. He promised I wouldn’t run out of air, that I was safe, and that if that feeling started, to challenge it, to make my nerves my bitch. So I tried. I said ‘bring it on, bitch’ when the feeling cropped up. Eventually, it gave up on trying to scare me. I conquered my mind and my fear by embracing it.

I still get the feeling to this day. The feeling that my blood isn’t moving quick enough, that there isn’t enough oxygen in the air I’m breathing. I can control it now, though. I tell myself its okay to get nervous, but that I’m safe. Allowing myself to have the feelings was the solution. Running away did nothing for me. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.

***

When I was a little girl, I used to say the words, “I wonder…” the way an actress does in a movie when she all of a sudden notices the particular secret book that opens the secret door. I used to think that all of the questions that I posed the majestic “I wonder…” would be answered when I died. So whenever there was a question I would never have the answer to in this life, I saved it in my  ”I wonder…” database for when I died. If I lost a five dollar bill, where my puppy lived before I adopted him from the pound, who shot Kennedy. If my theory is right, I’ll have a lot of answers waiting for me when I die.

Vegas changed my life – it made me realize the power of my own mind. I was able to make myself literally sick for months by thinking a certain way, and I wasn’t even fully aware of those thoughts. Reflecting on it long after I conquered those feelings, I realize that my mind is much more powerful and magical than I could ever understand. If I can make my breath short, my heart race, my hands tingle, I can make myself anything. I can decide to be happy or heartbroken or lazy or anything else I set my mind, or even accidentally set my mind to. I know it’s a bit cliche. It’s not an epiphany I can accurately convey to anyone. But it’s something that I’m reminded of whenever my arm goes to sleep or whenever I drink a Bloody Russian.

Maybe I was being dramatic, but if there’s ever a time, it’s when your body turns blue. In the darkest corners of my mind, I believe that I was knocking on heaven’s door, making a deal with the devil, or whatever comes between those idioms. I’ll never know how close to death I actually was. And, I realize I won’t get to know until I do die and finally get my “I wonders” answered. By then, I have a feeling it won’t really matter anymore.

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