I have no idea what will happen next.
Jeanette Winterson
Let me introduce myself now that I know where I am and what’s happened to me. My name is Tiffany, and I’m in a coma.
About a month or two ago, I started getting migraines and headaches. I kept telling myself to make a doctor’s appointment but never got around to it. I kept popping Tylenol pain pills to get me through the day. I wasn’t eating correctly, and sleep was not my friend.
Listening to Dad talk to the doctor makes me know he believes I did this to myself by overdoing it.
I’m sure he’s right. I work all the time. I own a business with clients who love fine clothes and have no time for mediocrity.
My dad taught us lessons about hard work paying off in the end. When my sister and I were growing up, he always said we had to work harder to be successful.
I have an older sister named Anita. We are sixteen months apart, too close for comfort. She hates my guts. How do I know? Because all my life she has told me so.
We were always in competition with each other. Never able to be friends. She has her doctorate and is a professor of economics at the university, and I’m a businesswoman; we’re on different paths, so you’d think there would be no competition. But I think it’s to see who can make our parents the proudest.
The parents say they’re proud of us both, but I know they worry more about me. They say I don’t take care of myself, that I work too hard, and that I don’t get enough rest, which is all true.
In business, you’re always asked what your “why” is. I’ve always said it was my parents, but sometimes I wonder if I’m working this hard for them or using them as an excuse to prove how generous and great I am. That sounds pretty arrogant.
I tell myself that I want enough money to do more for them. I like buying them nice things and sending them on vacations. I’ve watched my dad work hard as a plumber, and my mom is a cook at the elementary school. They say they are content. But again, I think they deserve more.
I know they appreciate everything we do for them.
I love my business of traveling the world to find and purchase select items for my clients. I believe I am a servant; they tell me what they seek, and I find it. But am I a servant?
No, I am a businesswoman who gets paid well to service my clients.
My dad is correct, and I am paying for it now.
Look at them, crying their eyes out because of me. My heart is breaking. I want to console them and let them know I’m okay. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.
Oh wow, look who just came running into the room crying. My sister Anita. She’s acting as if she cares. Those are probably fake tears she’s crying. Inside, she’s probably rejoicing to see me lying in this hospital. That sounds so cynical. She is crying so hard that my mom has to stop crying so she can console her.
Relatives and friends visit throughout the day, comforting my parents and sister. They don’t stay long. They give words of comfort, hope, and encouragement. They pray for my healing and recovery. Through their prayer, I am comforted and convicted at the same time. Praying is something I don’t often do because I am so busy. Now, I know that’s not a good excuse.
The guest has to leave the room while a nurse comes to draw blood, take my temperature, and do whatever else she does. There are tubes in my arms and wires elsewhere.
Visiting hours are finally over; everyone leaves except my parents. Anita said, “She will call tomorrow to see how I am doing.” A nurse tries to convince them to go home and get some rest because all I will be doing is resting. But my mom says she isn’t leaving. My dad is exhausted. Before getting a call to rush to the hospital, he had been working on a plumbing project for a new building complex since dawn. He says he will be back early tomorrow.
The night is quiet. All is well until it isn’t. My monitors start sounding off like crazy. I am having another seizure. My mom, scared, jumps up and begins running towards the door to find help, but nurses and doctors run in before she can leave. They have seen and heard the monitors. They ask Mom to step out of the room.
It’s so wild. My body is convulsing, and I can do nothing to make it stop. It feels like an earthquake within my body, rattling all my bones. One of the nurses rushes to get my mom. Once she enters the room, they explain that water is beginning to build on my brain, and they need her permission to operate. She is angry. She tells the nurse who tried to convince her to go home that it is a good thing she didn’t leave as she signed the consent form.
They transfer my body onto a gurney, strap me down, and rush me into the operating room. As we leave the room, my mom follows, yelling, “Tiffany, I love you.” I tell her I love her too, but she can’t hear me.
During my operation, I feel a strange sensation as my spirit separates from my body. I rise above everyone in the room and see myself as I lie on the operating table. I am having an out-of-body experience. I’ve read about this happening to others but never imagined having one.
As the nurses assist, I watch as it looks like the surgeon is drilling a hole in my head. Watching them work diligently on me with operatic music playing in the background is amazing.
I also observe a vast presence in the room, standing in white. It has the presence of an angel; his wings are spread wide, and his arms are stretched high as in worship. I watch in awe. Is he my guardian angel? The angel looks up, aware of my presence, and then returns to doing what he is doing. I feel the peace upon him which surpasses all understanding. I think that all will be well.