Dr. Strangedeath

It’s hard to tell for sure about these things and perhaps if someone was waving a gun in my face it would be different, but I am not moved by a great fear of death. The early exit sign has flashed a few times to little effect.

Take a typical example: two months ago in Bellingham, a large truck turned the wrong way down a one-way street and charged my tiny Subaru. Had I slammed on the brakes instead of swerving, or had a car been in the lane I swerved into, that would have the end of the road.

The normal response after a close brush like that is a sort of mild shock. You pulse races, then you catch your breath. You steady yourself and try to find equilibrium as you come down from your body’s normal chemical responses. None of that happened to me. I saw, swerved and was mildly annoyed by the whole diversion. No sleep was lost that night over the fact that I was a fraction of a second away from over.

In fact, the only thing disturbing about that incident and the dozen or so times I’ve come close to death, quick or slow, was my lack of fear. It struck me that this was not bravery, it was simply unnatural. People facing death usually fear it for good reason, and that’s part of how they stay alive. That I didn’t worry over it — and couldn’t, really — seemed a real problem.

So I’m still trying to figure out what to make of these two bald spots on both sides of my chest, about an inch apart. A nurse from the doctor’s office made them with a razor Tuesday to make room for EKG sensors. She was apologetic about it. Some patients are just “fluffier” than others, she said, and that can be a problem for getting a good reading. It’s a constant reminder. When I am shirtless, this looks odd; when clothed, the stubble catches.

The tests were not routine. Last Saturday my heart took off at a gallop for no known reason. It felt like it was going to beat right out of my chest, and continued on like that, unrelenting, for hours. Deep breathing exercises finally calmed my ticker, but it felt thrashed from the overwork and, I speculated, perhaps worse.

Doctors as a whole are fine people, yet I usually avoid them professionally. I would have done so this time too but for the reason that I kept violating the no cellphone policy when doctors and nurses weren’t looking: that same day, my new niece was born in Dallas, Texas.

My brother Andrew was texting related news to family in Oregon and Washington. He and wife Laura had been on the fence between two names. On the way to the doctor’s office, I wrote in with a preference. There, I learned that Laura was recovering OK after some post-delivery complications and that they had named the baby Laney Grace Lott.

The familial pride was full to bursting. I became for once a little bit apprehensive the doctor might deliver bad news. He didn’t, but in that moment I got a visceral idea how the fear of death must taste.