Urgent Serenity

We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.

~Jane Austen

Staring upward through a thin pane of 1890s glass, I saw white pastel wisps against a cobalt backdrop. Fluttering leaves along the periphery confirmed it was blue sky. In this tranquil place, I felt a sense of wholeness.

A slight surprise occurred when a ripple disrupted the view, and I thought, “This is not glass. I’m looking through water.”

I was immobile a few feet below a pond’s surface, looking upward, suspended, but I felt indifferent about it. The fact I wasn’t facing downward or swimming through water with arms pumping and legs kicking did not faze me.

The water temperature was not warm or cold. There were no thoughts, sensations, or need for air. It felt as if time stood still.

I heard a gentle whisper: “Up.”

“What?”

It became clearer. “Up!”

“It’s nice here. I am staying here,” I thought, wanting the whisper to go away so I could continue to enjoy this serene environment.

Charcoal clouds began to edge into view.

The voice came through more demanding now. “Get up now!”

“Get up? Swim?” I said. “No, I like it here. It is peaceful. I am staying.” There was no rising or shift in my body. My arms and legs did not move as I faced the sky. I felt serene, and inert.

“Get — up — now!”

I started to feel a need to breathe and I heard the command more insistently: “GET UP NOW!” I still didn’t want to leave.

I wanted to go back to that calm pond, but I couldn’t find it. “Where’s the pond? Can I go back to the pond?”

And then it was over. My eyes opened to a hospital room. I wondered why it was so hard to breathe. I was bathed in sweat and my heart was racing. I was awake and I was in distress.

I slowly pulled on the bedrail to half-turn myself toward my dad. He slept in a reclining chair-bed to the left of my hospital bed during my surgical recovery. It was three in the morning. With great effort, I hoarsely said, “Dad, I think I have to be up.”

Then I heard an authoritative voice say desperately, NOW! Get up. SIT UP! UP! UP!

My dad woke and leaned toward me as he righted his recliner.

“Something is telling me to be up,” I whispered to him. My movement was slow, but the urgency inside my soul felt frantic.

My dad helped me to a sitting position in the bed and said, “Are you okay? Can I get you something? Would you like some water?”

I nodded.

I felt weak and shaky. Breathing was laborious, and there was a new pain in my chest.

Call for help, now — NOW! Press the nurse button!

This direction was not coming from my dad. I was looking right at him. He was pouring the water in silence.

I paused. If I press the button, the medical team is going to tell me I’m already receiving treatment and to relax.

The voice shrieked, PRESS THE BUTTON!

Winded, I managed to say, “Dad, something’s not right. I just pressed the nurse button.”

I stared at a nature picture on the wall above the foot of my bed while waiting for the nurse to come. I counted shallow breaths in silence, “1, 2, 3…” While I did this, a confident knowing blanketed me. You’re going to be okay. And I believed it.

Help arrived and chaos erupted. Liquid coming from my kidneys was creeping up and around my heart. What if I hadn’t listened, if I hadn’t sat up, if I hadn’t called for help…

— Sheri Lynn —