Five Seconds

I lost five seconds of my life last night.

Literally, I lost them.

Colleen and I were sitting on the sofa watching the last scene of the 2001 movie Memento for the second time so we could figure out a few details.   Suddenly, just after I exhaled some air, I erupted into a terrible fit of coughing.

I have been battling with a summer cold for a week now.

I could not stop coughing—as if something mechanically driven had invaded my chest and was overpowering any of my efforts to draw in another speck of air.

The next thing I know, I felt myself rather floating down to sit on the steps that lower into my sunken living room.  Light expanded aground me and I leaned against the wall, recognizing my surroundings.  I looked over at the Sofa and saw Colleen staring at me.

“Something is wrong here,” I said.  “Something is wrong...how did I get here?”  I certain weight came back into my body.  My arms felt the cold wall.  My bare toes felt the carpet.

“You were coughing and you jumped up off the sofa,” Colleen said.  “I thought you were going to run to the bathroom.”

A vague memory appeared in my mind, expanded a little.  “Okay, now I remember that.”  I squeezed my hands, testing my body.  “I feel fine now…but I don’t remember getting off the sofa and coming over here.  I just remember floating down onto the steps.”

Following my episode, Colleen and I went outside to take in fresh air on the sunset deck.  “I have to tell you, something,” I told her as two nighthawks flickered across the last blush of light in the sky, “…the fading away…that whole experience was not unpleasant.  I did not mind it at all.”    

--Mitchell Hegman