Suddenly my mind was doing handstands. Eggs and bacon bounced on my breakfast plate. I gripped the restaurant table not to topple. Jane’s lips were talking but I wasn’t listening. “Something’s wrong,” I whispered harshly. (My words at least were still working.) “What’s the – ” Jane halted. “Dizzy,” I blubbed. “Hold my arm,” she stood. Did the other diners with their coffee and cellphones notice me tottering.

                  I slumped onto the heaped bed. “Let me call nine-one-one.” “No, Dave,” I insisted. Dave is our longtime doc. “It’s early,” said Jane. “Call Dave,” I repeated – “on his cell.” 

                  Dave said what we knew he would. “Get yourself to an ER. Can you make it into a cab – it may be quicker. If not…” Yes, I could make it, I nodded, having no idea.

                  Say “dizzy” in an E.R. and expect a polite reception. “Say “slurred words,” and it’s open sesame. (Was that spelled “sesame” or “says me”?) As jackpots for traders and error for thinkers, urgent crises are to healers: the climactic clashes for which they’ve trained, the thrill of their work.

                  A stern handsome boyish neurologist chided me to stare at his nose and follow his finger. Was he closer to son Peter’s or grandson Dion’s age? Could I walk? (He and a burly nurse would be there to catch me.) My symptoms didn’t quite present as stroke, not for sure anyway. “What were they then?” my thickened tongue clambered over my teeth. “I’m here for stroke,” my neurologist explained, exiting the “Resuscitation Room” in a cloud of awe 

                  So I was not dying – not yet. The dizziness grudgingly receded. I grew less interesting to my care team. Yes, tests, to rule out diagnoses, but no mortal grapple.

                  Tests and more tests. CT-scan, X-ray, MRI, bloodwork, my name and birthday (for the umpteenth time). Dr. Dave on the cellphone said the news was promising – so far. (Everybody in the ER – docs, nurses, technicians, cleaners, bean-counters – quick-walks with a cellphone pressed to their ear.) What was wrong then? Dr. Dave said something about viral and peripheral which interested me about as much as eczema. A wondrous pill slowed the swirl of the world, leaving me agreeably loopy. When might I head home? In an hour? There was no telling. The bellicose patient beside me roared ungratefully he’d been here more than twenty-four hours 

                  Ten hours later backpack and I trudged into the dark to join Jane for dinner. What had happened? Nothing known – a scare. Dozens of attractive, young, caregivers had poked, prodded, placated me, commencing each colloquy with my name and birthdate. An exceptionally young doctor blushed after uttering “age appropriate.” Would he think of telling his grandfather he was old!

                  Folks my contemporaries are likely to have recently passed blank weary hours in the ER, awaiting diagnoses that turn out equivocal, observing others wincing or shrimped onto gurneys as they’re wheeled to Lord knows where. Patients are all bodies here – and caregivers givers of life. I’d packed my journal in my backpack – to take notes – but I could only doomscroll. Any of you who emailed me during that period, bless you for the reminder I still mattered a little to a few.

                  At seventy-five, though I know I’ll soon leave my chair empty – even twenty years seem soon – my eventual absence is incredible. Our worlds exist in our consciousness; what remains when consciousness departs? So much happened to us and now we’ve become a fact, as inert as a pebble, for all our trouble. Bless those fingers prodding my still sentient body. Bless my young neurologist’s nose.