A Day Like No Other

 I am a glass half full kind of person.  Most of the time anyway. I tend to look at the bright side of things, even when they seem pretty dark. I spent hours over the past two days trying to find something I wrote in one of my journals. I am pretty certain that I paged through every one of them in search of the elusive writing (it's a list of possible episodes for a podcast I aspire to make some day). I feel like the list was a really good start with at least a sentence or two about each episode, including people who I might possibly interview to add depth. But all my searching was fruitless. The list never showed up. Had I only imagined that I wrote it? No. I know for a fact that I wrote it and I'm pretty sure it was in one of the journals that are piling up on my writing bookshelf upstairs. I wonder if maybe I actually wrote it in some computer file, so I go through all of those as well. Here's where the glass becomes half full rather than the half empty it was seeming like most of the time. As I did through the computer files, I stumble on all these drafts that I created over the past few years. Some are fully completed short stories and others are the first few paragraphs of something that has some real potential. The story below is one of those that I particularly liked. I don't remember what made me write it, but do we ever really know the answer to that?  I hope you enjoy it. 

 

A day like no other

I had a feeling that this was going to be a rough day from the start.  After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I glance at the clock, dreading what I might see.  7 AM.  Too late to try to sleep more and my head was throbbing.  Great way to start the day.  I fumble the sheets off and on the way to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stub my toe on the weight bench I meant to move yesterday. The pain in my toe (most likely broken) jumpstarts my sleepy brain, now with overloaded pain receptors. Why did I even have this stupid weight bench. It was purely aspirational at this point.  Its main purpose seemed to be to remind me how out of shape and unmotivated I was. I flick the light on in the bathroom, squinting at the brightness of the LED bulbs.  Why did energy efficiency have to be so painful?

I look at the face looking back at me from the mirror.  Did I always have those bags under my eyes and the permanent crease between them?  I look down at the bulge of my stomach pressing on my T-shirt.  I sigh and reach for the toothbrush.  My toe had faded to a dull ache.  It was so easy to go down the rabbit hole of negative thinking.  Do you ever do that?  Envision all the terrible things that might happen every single day.  It’s amazing how often we court death, narrowly escaping what could be the final day. Of course, one death would be bad enough. What if you had a whole day of them.

I lay out my clothes for the day. As I attempt to pull my pants on, my left hip goes into a painful spasm and it’s almost impossible to stand on that leg. I feel myself losing my balance, one foot tangled inside my pants, my hands not willing to let go of the waistband. I topple through the bathroom door and my skull cracks on the hard tile.  The last thing I see before my vision fades to black is the pile of hair and dead flies in the corner by the edge of the bathtub.

After the ordeal of getting dressed has been accomplished, I head downstairs.  I remember when the kids were little and I was carrying 2-year old Isaac.  I slipped on the stairs, somehow hanging onto him in a parentally protective grip, shielding him as my body took the brunt of the fall on the back of my legs and lower back.  He cried from fear but was unscathed.  While thinking of this, I miss a step and my stockinged feet careen out of control.  My arms pinwheel and I feel my bad shoulder dislocate as it smashes off the handrail. My head and neck connect solidly with the landing, turning at an inhuman angle.  This time I see the thick layer of dust that I had meant to clean last weekend, but never got to. 

After a number of minutes reflecting on how this day has gone so far and seriously considering heading back upstairs to crawl into bed, I ratchet my ailing body to a standing position. I make my way into the kitchen, wary of what awaits me there. The dog jumps off his nighttime perch on one of the recliners, stretches in a perfect downward dog pose (mocking me since I struggle to do this) and looks up expectantly, hoping for a scratch on the head. I oblige him and he trots towards the back door. This is our morning routine.  I’m a little leery of the back door and the steps leading down to the concrete floor of the breezeway but navigate it safely to let him into the back yard.

I start the coffee, going through the motions I have performed hundreds, if not thousands, of times. The smell of the dark roast revives me a bit.  I usually make oatmeal because it is easy and quick but opt to make an omelet as a treat.  There is a plastic bag with some onion and pepper on the shelf by the eggs and I decide to make it a deluxe breakfast.  Having worked as a cook for five years means that I can pull things together quickly.  I think back to my restaurant days and have a brief vision of flames leaping up onto the long sleeves of my white chef’s coat, then lapping up my torso and into my hair (I had hair back then).  I see my body fold forward onto the burners, hair and skin blackening and fouling the air before the fire suppression system goes off. I shake off this dark reverie and get back to the task at hand.

I pull out my favorite kitchen knife from the wooden block in the corner.  I start chopping the onion when I hear the dog barking to come in.  I yell, “just wait a minute” and get back to the task at hand. Unfortunately, I lose concentration and feel the knife slice through my wrist, catching the artery.  The bleeding is too heavy for me to staunch it with anything.  As the blood flows freely, my vision narrows to a pin prick. I crumple to the floor, bleeding out on the hard cold surface.  My last vision is of the forgotten carrot pieces, breadcrumbs and other dust stuck under the edge of the cupboards.

After breakfast, I decide to get out for a bike ride.  What could go wrong?  Most of the routes that I enjoy involve long climbs on dirt roads leading out of the village.  After climbing you are rewarded with a view of distant hills, then a nice fast descent back home.  I enjoy the challenge of the climb, feeling my heart and breathing increase as the miles are consumed by my own power.  After a brief traverse across a ridge, the downhill approaches.  This one is quite steep in parts and braking is essential to avoid total disaster.  I tuck down over the handlebars, enjoying the speed and the pull of gravity.  As I approach my comfort level, I pull back on the levers.  The disc brakes on my bake are incredibly powerful.  Too much on the brakes and you could be launched over the handlebars.  This time though, I feel first one and then the other of the brake cable snap.  Every so often I had contemplated what I would do if this happens.  My speed increases, the roughness and grade of the road conspiring to dump me.  I click my foot out of one pedal and try dragging it on the ground to rub off some speed.  All this does is angle me towards the ditch.  I’m probably going about 40 as I hit the ditch and am jettisoned off the bike and into the nearest tree.  I slump down to the base of the tree and the last thing I see is a pile of McDonald’s trash and several crumpled Bud Light cans.

Later that day I’m at home having some lunch.  I reach for my sandwich, which is on thick slices of wheat bread with a healthy pile of turkey in the middle.  It’s one of my favorites.  The lettuce and tomato add a nice bit of crunch to each bite.  I’m in a little bit of hurry because I have a long to-do list for the afternoon.  I take a big bite of the sandwich, hearing my wife’s voice in the back of my head admonishing me to chew.  I feel the soggy bread and turkey lodge into the back of my throat.  Nothing is coming out.  Not a scream, no cough, no air.  I scrabble around the table, knocking the plate and remaining sandwich to the floor with a crash.  The room is shrinking in and lights flash behind my eyelids.  I drop to my knees, hands on my throat as the last of the light is winking out.  I look over to see a pile of dog food, dust bunnies and other detritus under the edge of the cupboards as the last of my vision closes down to nothingness.

It’s been a busy day and the afternoon is no different.  I have several things to do downtown.  I cautiously ride my bike into town, with a backpack for various things that I need to pick up and drop off.  I lock my bike to a signpost in the middle of town, planning to walk to my errands. I’m feeling sanctimonious about the small carbon footprint I am leaving with this trip.  After a quick duck into the post office to get postage on an Amazon return and a book of stamps, I head back to Main Street.  I need to get to the bank before it closes with a question about one of my accounts.  Main Street is busier than usual.  I spy a gap in traffic and dash across the street.  I hear and smell brakes locking up and tires skidding as the car I misjudged tries to avoid me.  Those are my last senses before I am catapulted up over the hood, bounce off the windshield and onto the hard pavement.  My last sight is a pathetic pile of cigarette butts and old leaves in the gutter.

Well, it’s been quite a day and I’m ready for bed.  After watching a little TV, with the dog nestled under my arm, I feel my eyes growing heavy and realize I need to head upstairs.  I always sleep better with cooler air and even though the temperatures tonight are predicted to be quite cold, I crack open the bedroom windows.  A couple of years ago, I invested in an electric bed warmer, which has been heaven.  I turn on the warmer for a little pre-heat while I brush my teeth.  I bring a glass of water to the nightstand, so I don’t have to get up in the night if I am thirsty.  I snuggle into the now warm covers and reach over to confirm tomorrow’s alarm. My hand knocks into the glass of water and watch helplessly as it pours down onto the power strip behind the bed.  I’m glad that I don’t feel anything and can’t smell the burning flesh and blankets.

I wake up the next morning, wondering what the day will bring.  I remember Sargeant Esterhaus from the old TV show “Hill Street Blues”.  In each episode, as he was dismissing the officers to hit the streets, he would admonish them to “be careful out there.”