“I was now so far removed that I thought this must be what dying feels like. ”

The day was unremarkable in every way, nondescript, routine, until it wasn’t. That’s how it happens, suddenly and without warning. One minute, I was standing on firm ground, the next it seemed to liquify under my feet. Destiny had arrived.

I was at the bank, the kind of bank that calls itself a boutique, a café, a neighborhood hangout, but still has high counters, and tellers, and a great big vault. This dichotomy always amuses me, and this morning was no different. I was in a hurry, leaving for Barcelona the next day. My mission, driven by a logistically planned list, wrap up the to-do’s before departure. I hastily greeted two friends, no time for chit chat. I felt good, better than good, excited and energized. It was a beautiful day, fresh and the kind of clean only Spring delivers. But it would feel even better touching down in Spain. It was a win-win day.

Invited forward, I put my purse and iPhone on the counter and announced that I had three transactions. In the space between the particulars, my world changed, instantly, eerily, irrefutably. My voice, outside of my head, my words heard as if spoken from far away by someone else. The world, all of it, inside and out, closed in on me. Numbness enveloped my hands and arms and face. A terrible dread filled all the spaces in my mind, my ability to speak, gone. I wondered who was standing in the space I occupied just a moment ago. I was gone and still present, in a terrifying suspended animation, frozen and deeply afraid.

Returning with my cash and receipt, the teller glanced at me, casually at first, and then with an intensity that some part of me recognized as not good but processed as a curiosity. Who could she be looking at and why did she appear so worried? She was puzzled, tilting her head back and forth, as if to try and understand, like me, who it was that stood before her. She searched my face for a long time, staring really, and then quietly asked, “Are you OK?”. I heard her words, and one by one processed them. Then, and only then, did a response unfurl in my head, no, emphatically no, I was not OK. I heard the question, but I could not speak the answer. I was now so far removed that I thought this must be what dying feels like.

It’s called a Transient Ischemic Attack, TIA, a small stoke, passing quickly. Quickly being a reference to those strokes that go on for hours, but not nearly a valid time reference when each second is disorienting and frightening. Time lost relevance, so did space and reality. I prefer to think of my TIA as an ambush. And, as ambushes often do, it rendered me defenseless.

Minutes passed, her asking, me mute. Did I want to sit down? Did I want a glass of water? Could she call someone? I could only stand, frozen, for what seemed like forever. Finally, glancing down, I saw my iPhone. If only I knew how to use it, I thought, I could call for help. Then, my purse came into view. That’s it, I thought, I should leave, now. A sudden surge of energy and purpose filled me. Not like the “to-do” list dash of earlier, but a “save my life” kind of urgency. I had to get out of the bank. I could see my car. If I could only get to it, I would be OK. I picked up my purse and dropped it, not able to feel it in my hands. Driven now by a powerful need to escape, I picked it up again. Determination held it tight and I took a step.

As I moved, the attack began to dissipate. I had two distinct thoughts – under no circumstances should I leave and, if I could leave, maybe I could speak. I felt myself returning to my body, fragile and confused, but coming out of the darkness. I turned around, and slowly said, “Call an ambulance”.

Weeks later I returned to the bank to tell the young woman with whom I shared this experience, how much I appreciated her concern. I also wanted to see the attack through her eyes. She said the whole of it transpired in seven, maybe eight minutes. She said I didn’t look ill, no drooling, no drooping, no slurred speech, no speech at all. But, she said, I seemed to be slowly disappearing into a trance, my eyes glazed, terror creeping across my face. She said I looked out the window just beyond her. She glanced over her shoulder, bracing for a shocking scene, but the beautiful spring day was all the view held. She was sorry, she said, for not acting sooner, for her confusion, as if she had been caught in the ambush as well.

Ambulance ride, CAT scans, EKG, Echo, blood tests, eye tests, specialists, talented and dedicated teams for whom my gratitude is limitless. In the end, the why a mystery. No pre-disposition to this, no red flags, no clear identifying cause. It just happened. An ambush, one clear morning in a bank. No trip to Barcelona, rest, recovery. I was cleared to go back to my life, to pick up where I left off, no limitations.

But PTSD is real after every attack, especially after an ambush. I walked into the bank that day one person, and I left another. I have always known that I would die one day, but death has never left me a calling card. This time it reached deep into my life, suspending it, and just as instantaneously, returned it to me.

My recovery will be measured not in physical metrics, like the taking of a baby aspirin, but in the slow release of the fear that filled me so completely that at first, I saw danger in the mere act of living. I gauged my activities by how much damage another attack would bring, driving, biking, traveling, hiking, all potential catastrophes should I be robbed of the ability to think, to speak, to move.

But slowly my eyes widened enough for darkness to yield to light. Time heals, love heals, knowledge heals. And for the Irish, laughter heals. Each experience brings a wealth of stories hidden in the details, and thru those stories I found my way back to solid ground.

I am more grateful. I have a vivid appreciation of each hour of every day, no longer calling the ordinary unremarkable. I am living more fully and more passionately. My heart is softer, my thoughts are kinder, my body is more precious. And my soul is more at home because on the threshold of what I believed was death, I met life.