Absolute Peace Amid Relative Chaos: Awakeness Goes for an Ambulance Ride
Betsy was scheduled for some minor wrist surgery today in the outpatient clinic run by our orthopedic group. It’s a very good practice, and Betsy had more serious surgery done at this same clinic about 18 months ago, without incident. Although that too was an out-patient, arthroscopic procedure, it was more like full-blown surgery, where you’re knocked out longer, it takes longer to recover, and then you’re bed-bound for a couple of days just shaking the whole anesthesia thing off.
This procedure, however, was to be simple and clean. It’s a standard deal usually taking about half an hour under moderate anesthesia, an hour in recovery, and then you go home. Nothing to it. So when they called Betsy to pre-op neither she nor I had much in the way of concern. After all, what could happen?
They invited me back a few minutes later, and I shook hands with the surgeon who was generally acknowledged to be uber-competent at what he does.
He told me, “Tiny incision, one stitch and some butterfly bandages, and I’ll put her in a cast for a week.” Then he left to attend some other business while Betsy got properly drugged out.
And then the alarms started going off.
I looked up to see where they were coming from, and I could tell by the rush that it was Betsy’s cubicle. I moved in closely enough to where I could see what was going on, but staying well out of the way. Her blood pressure was shooting, as one of the doctor’s said, “sky high.”
I edged in more closely. I looked at the BP machine. When it hit 200 over 120. I instantly Googled that number, and here’s what I found:
What a blood pressure reading of 200/120 means
Readings above 180 systolic pressure (the upper number) or above 110 diastolic pressure (the lower number usually indicate a hypertensive crisis — putting you in the highest risk category for heart attack, stroke, and other acute life-threatening problems — and requiring emergency care.
Clearly we had a very serious problem. There was an enormous amount of organized activity. The language was short and sharp. I kept hearing the word “dangerous” being used. You could see that the anesthesiologist, a woman in her late 50’s, was rather stunned, although she was not still. She was busy giving injections.
It all happened so fast. One moment I’m talking to a nonchalant doctor, and in the next my wife is maybe dying.
More doctors appeared, a woman in scrubs among them, who exuded authority. The air filled with questions. What medications had she taken that morning at home, what had she been given before the alarms, and what was she being given now? What medications did she normally take?
I started getting hit with questions about her medical history, previous surgeries and conditions, all of that. Betsy could rattle off my prescriptions by name, dosage, and frequency. That type of thing is her forte. That’s why she does all of it, and I do none of it. I was completely calm, even relaxed, but I noticed the Fred unit wasn’t thinking very clearly, and didn’t have all the answers they wanted.
Nonetheless, everything was fine.
Doctors and nurses came up several times asking me how I was doing. They recommended I not look at her blood pressure any longer because it would only make mine go up.
“She’ll be fine, Mr. Davis, try not to worry.” I told them I was fine, but I knew they wouldn’t understand if I told them I didn’t know how to worry, so I kept that information to myself.
Let me be clear. There was deep concern, and my heart was overflowing with love. But I had already “manually” flipped the “View” toggle switch to Full-On-Oneness, and of course I could see that everything was going along quite smoothly. All was right in the world. Oneness was not under threat.
The anesthesiologist gave Betsy injection after injection–a whole bottle of something that should have brought her pressure down. But it didn’t. “That’s three,” she called. “I can go five, give me another.”
Betsy’s blood pressure would go down a bit after an injection, and then after a short pause, it would go back up again. They let me in beside the head of her bed so that I could touch Betsy and speak to her. She looked awful.
Pale. Strained. Garbled words.
And then her skin started breaking out in angry red splotches.
Great. Not only was she about to have a stroke or a heart attack, but she was now having additional allergic reactions. They started talking about her airways. A doctor pulled back her gown and showed me her chest. That doctor looked at me with what I can only describe as horrific wonderment.
I touched Betsy’s shoulder, then leaned down and calmly told her the truth. “Don’t fret, my love. There’s an awful lot of activity happening, so it may seem to you like the situation is worse than it is. You’re going to be just fine.”
I had no clue as to what “just fine” was going to look like, but I could see that Oneness was okay even though the Betsy unit seemed to be failing. She was trying to talk, but the combination of the drugs and the hypertension was making that difficult.
I caught that she wanted to whisper in my ear, so I put my ear next to her mouth. I thought she was going to tell me goodbye. She apologized instead. Classic Betsy.
I assured her that she didn’t need to to apologize. “I’m just here doing my job,” I told her. “Now you do yours and rest. Everything’s going to be fine.”
They cancelled her surgery, of course. And then they told me they were transferring her to hospital, so she could be close to an expert heart unit. A nurse called 911. The ambulance was there in a flash.
A few minutes later I talked to the nurse who called 911. She said when she called 911 that the operator told her there was a unit about a block away, so it was all slick as a whistle., one-two-three.
One of the ambulance drivers pulled me aside and asked, “Are you going to follow us to the Emergency Room?” he asked.
“No,” I told him. “I’m going to get some medical records and let our dogs out. I’ll meet you at the ER.”
“We’ll be using our lights when we leave here,” he said. “It’s standard procedure, it doesn’t mean she’s dying or anything.” I nodded okay. Then I look at her blood pressure. The top number was still 193. The bottom was 116.
Yeah, use the lights.
I told Betsy what was going on, and that while there was obviously a problem or there wouldn’t be paramedics with a gurney, she needn’t be alarmed. I kissed her. They moved her from bed to gurney, and started taking her away. I left.
I drove to Betsy’s little place behind her parents’ house that she uses as an office and a closet. On the way there it again came to me that she might die. What would that mean? I found that I couldn’t project a future. Good. There was plenty already going on.
It will likely one day be my studio. When you walk into that space it’s like walking into the living room here. There’s enormous presence. When I went through her perfectly organized file drawer I thought, “If she dies, you’re going to have to become intimately familiar with all of this stuff.” It was just a notation.
Then I drove to our apartment. I let the dogs out, then fed them and the cats. I grabbed my iPad charger, because I thought I might be looking at a long day and night. I drove to the hospital.
It noticed that it was such a pretty day–blue sky, low 70’s, a nice breeze. Perfect.
I spoke to the person behind the ER desk, and she buzzed me into a hallway after she gave me Betsy’s room number. I was vitally interested, but not worried. I noticed again that I didn’t know how to worry. How nice.
If that makes me sounds cold or distant, or has you thinking I’m not absolutely crazy about my wife, then you’ve misunderstood. It doesn’t work like that. I actually can’t tell you how it works; you just have to be there.
I opened the door to Betsy’s room, and there was The Queen, sitting up straight in bed drinking ice water from a Styrofoam cup. “Hey honey!” she said. “I’m a lot better now.”
The half-life of the drug she was allergic to is quite short, and thus it was quickly disappearing from her body. The heart unit doctor had only monitored her, given that her blood pressure was falling on its own. The red blotches were turning yellow and fading away.
Unbelievably, an hour later Betsy and I walked out of that ER, got in our car, and came home. Just another day at the office.
Betsy told me later that she knew she was dying, she could sense it. The drugs kept trying to pull her into sleep, but she knew if she slept she would not wake back up. She thought about me and the boys (one giant cat and two miniature dogs) making do on our own and she made up her mind, “I am not going to die.”
And of course she was right. Thank goodness.
She never felt any fear. She wasn’t upset over the prospect of dying, only of leaving me and the boys to fend for ourselves. There is a good reason our little furry family has a loving, doting, supremely competent and organized mother. She keeps us from living like bears with furniture. There hasn’t been a riot or a murder here in quite some time.
After we got home and bathed in doggie love, I drove to get us a couple of submarine sandwiches. A few minutes later we sat at the table eating and looking at each other in total disbelief. I said, “Have you ever seen a clearer demonstration that this is a dream?” She hadn’t.
We watched a video and then she went to sleep. I came in here — into the newly redecorated Micro-Studio that you haven’t seen yet, and started writing. I wanted to share this.
Let me share a secret. All is well. Still. Always.
Perfect.
March 30, 2016 @ 1:30 am
Any movie has quite a few scenes, some quiet, some dramatic, some adventurous, some thrilling/scary, and one or two climactic. And all with lots of music to provide appropriate background to the scene. Seems like you did some Indiana Jones scenes here. Glad things have settled. It’s the in-between scenes that hold the movie together. I hope your leading lady is well and improving. Thanks for sharing, Fred.
March 30, 2016 @ 8:04 am
Love you and your units. Please give Betsy a hug for me. Quite a ride
March 30, 2016 @ 2:16 pm
Thank you, Rob! I’ve heard your group has grown large! 🙂
Love,
Fred
March 30, 2016 @ 11:16 am
Again, I am SO glad Betsy is fine, although we know it couldn’t be any other way. It’s quite fascinating that she chose to live. Oneness truly is all powerful.
March 30, 2016 @ 2:16 pm
Yes, there was a sense of choice, a sense of agency. Did really it make any difference? What does “really” mean?
Not from the Absolute view. How about from the relative view? Yeah, it did–within the dream of existence; within the dream of relativity, that is the dream experience. Ignoring our experience is not skillful living. Everything counts. Nothing matters.
This is the Full Circle, the Zen ox herder returning to the village atop the ox to lend both practical and spiritual aid.
March 30, 2016 @ 2:08 pm
Big hugs and lots of love to you, to your precious Betsy, to your boys, and also to your units!! What a rollercoaster ride Oneness gave your units, and no screaming!!!
March 30, 2016 @ 2:11 pm
Hey, Patti! Thank you! It’s all grist for the mill. It’s the most popular post I’ve written in a long, long time, so every cloud has a silver lining!
I wonder how you could post and so many could not????? There’s some glitch. I see three other comments below. Don’t know what’s going on everybody, but Roland will soon be on it and fix it. Or not! 🙂
March 30, 2016 @ 2:28 pm
So glad Betsy is ok! Awesome how Oneness walked through this!
March 31, 2016 @ 12:24 pm
Thanks Chris! Yes, my hat is off to Oneness! 🙂
March 30, 2016 @ 4:47 pm
Glad y’all are ok! Your timing is impeccable as usual Fredness…really needed this one.
Hugs,
Bryan
March 31, 2016 @ 12:23 pm
Hey, Bryan! Hugs back to you!
March 30, 2016 @ 9:03 pm
Hugs to you and Betsy.I was touched by Love. Thank you for sharing
March 31, 2016 @ 12:23 pm
Hey, Mira! Thank you!
March 30, 2016 @ 10:43 pm
Thanks so much for sharing this. It is very moving. A rare insight and a good reminder of our snowflake-like human being mode. Love to all.
March 31, 2016 @ 12:22 pm
Hey, Robbin! Thank you! Love from us to you two!
March 31, 2016 @ 10:48 am
Thank you again for sharing this, Fred. It speaks eloquently of the depth of your (and Betsy’s) realization.
March 31, 2016 @ 10:54 am
Thank you, Keiichi!
March 31, 2016 @ 6:07 pm
Wow! What an experience! But whose experience? As usual, all is well. Thanks for sharing your life with us…love, Jane
March 31, 2016 @ 6:32 pm
Hey, Jane! Good to hear from you!
March 31, 2016 @ 8:25 pm
An amazing example of the fragility of units and the inexplicable strength and depth of the One. Wishing all of you well with warmest thoughts. Gabriella
April 1, 2016 @ 11:36 am
Thank you, Fred, for sharing this post. I believe we learn from other’s experiences also. So glad Betsy is doing well! Hugs to you both!
April 1, 2016 @ 12:35 pm
_()_
April 1, 2016 @ 5:10 pm
Will try again to post a comment – having difficulty getting thru lately – oh well – all is well
Stuff has occurred, lots of supposed ups and downs – and then here I am – all is well here
And then there you are – And all is well there – with You and Betsy and the Boys
Doesn’t get any better than that / this
Xox
Lana
April 2, 2016 @ 10:51 pm
Hey, Lana! I’ve been thinking about you! For a little while there was a glitch that kept people outside of the US from leaving comments, but as you can see, that’s all fixed now. Come to satsang! 🙂
All love,
Fred.ness
April 1, 2016 @ 10:34 pm
Wow! ….I’d love to hear about not knowing how to worry. I am glad Betsy decided not to transition into the non physical.
April 2, 2016 @ 10:52 pm
Yes, that apparent decision is something I want to talk about tomorrow. We’ll probably talk about not worrying as well. Hope you can join us 🙂