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"How Close the Grim Reaper?"

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I nearly died last night.

No joke. I was minutes, perhaps only seconds away from cashing in my chips. And this has happened to me more than once. Not something a newly avowed agnostic wants to think about, nor certainly do. Anyone who doesn't believe in life after death will claw like hell to stay with the living. Count me among them.

This isn't one of those "I just missed driving off the road" stories. I'm not talking about contemplating suicide or an "I could have been on that plane" story or nearly swallowing rat poison instead of brown sugar. This was for real.

I couldn't breathe. It happened in the middle of the night. Something, something evil, something insidious, something far more powerful than I had blocked up my windpipe, had starved all precious air from me. I was very conscious of trying to breathe, it's a strange act to have to concentrate on. I made those terrible wheezing sounds you hear in asthmatics who have heavy duty attacks. I knew I wasn't breathing and I had to do something about it. I ran around the room naked (my usual sleeping state), trying to find a way to make me breathe, to jump start my lungs.

I gasped, I coughed, I wheezed. I fought it with every fiber in my body. I tried to pound the evil force out of my lungs with my fist. I drank water. I concentrated very, very hard on my chest, my lungs, my throat. I tried to believe it was all a dream or maybe just psychosomatic. Dammit, I wanted to live. This was a first. I have the lust for life and it was desire at its most basic.

Let this be in writing for all to see--I was scared. I was scared because, I had no power, I had no control. I knew what was wrong, but I couldn't fix it. Perhaps my greatest fear in life is surrendering control to others, probably why I hate the thought of skydiving, bungee jumping, even riding roller coasters. It's all for fun, I know, but most of the work is done by people bored with their jobs and careless about details. Don't pull me out of the audience to be your stooge, don't ask me to make an impromptu presentation on a topic I know little about, don't ask me to learn a new dance in front of others. It will be ugly, I guarantee.

Yeah, Joe was out of control, or at least under the control of something more powerful, and I hated it, probably more than the thought of dying itself. I always expected to have some prolonged illness where I could live a heroically brave struggle befitting a TV movie of the week and could get all the ones I loved to admit they loved me, too. Alas, I have lived too long to be much for dying young and I'm quite a miserable patient.

No flashbacks or visions of God or tunnels of light for me, no sir. No, I had unsightly thoughts of me, found after 3 or 4 days, naked, stiff, decomposed, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen floor. No one thought it strange I wasn't at work for a few days. Must have gone off for some important meeting somewhere, a few might say, finally noticing my absence.

As my breathing returned, first as torturing gasps, with little real satisfaction for my body, I calmed down little by little. It's over, I think. I've survived another one. How many does this make? Two? Three? Could it be four? How long since the last attack? Should I go to the Emergency Room? Call my doctor? A priest, a rabbi, a Buddhist monk? Would they believe me or find nothing and send me home with an educational pamphlet and some simple breathing exercises or a few Hail Marys?

I'm now breathing normally. I drink another glass of water, take an aspirin and a decongestant-- just in case. What can I do now, what should I do? Can I go to sleep? Does death await me in the night? Should I give it another chance? How do I scare it off?

It's very dark outside, only a street light almost a block away provides any light at all. When I turn out my lights and breathe in deeply and reassuringly, I feel calm and composed, at least as calm as one can under the circumstances. I will wake up in the morning, I assure myself, just like the other times. I hear that same voice that I use to lie to myself when I need a boost of self-confidence. I usually employ it to tell myself I will have a good time at this party or perhaps it reminds me I will find true love someday. I know it's a lie, I always know it’s a lie, but I need to hear it anyway. It's my mother voice, my father voice, the one that keeps me going at the tough times. I trust it, but I know it can't know the future with any certainty. It's just as powerless as the rest of us.

In my blanket cocoon, I feel every breath intensely; I can feel even the capillaries expand with life force. I feel the oxygen enriched blood surge through my arteries to wherever it's needed. I'm okay, but I need comfort, reassurance, love. I need to be held, I need to know I real.

I don't want to die alone. I don't want to die…yet.

ã 1998, Joseph Goss.

Write Joe at: joseph.goss@sap-ag.de