The Twilight Zone

My body appears to be on a mission to assert itself to me. It reminds me of my 3-year-old nephew that way. (His mother says he loves to announce to her, "I'm not going to do it! I'm not," even when she hasn't told him to do anything at all.) I no longer have any illusion whatsoever that I have control of my body.

I went for an eye exam today and passed out cold. Yes -- an eye exam. Why did it happen? Because the doctor told me what she was looking at and what she was seeing as she went along: lovely information about my optic nerves, the pressure in my eyes, the spacing of the blood vessels, and so forth. My brain said, "Oh! Good to know!" The rest of my body said, "....unnnnghhh...." and fainted.

Now, I've become an expert at fainting. I know exactly when it's going to happen to me, what needs to be done, and what the various experiences of coming out of it can be like, depending on the position my body is in and so forth. But there are two things about fainting: first, it's a tremendous annoyance. It seems I can't go anywhere these days without feeling that catastrophic dizziness and racing pulse at the slightest mention of blood or injury. Second: it's extremely unpleasant and very frightening, even when you know exactly what's happening. On the occasions when I come around very slowly, it's particularly disturbing; my consciousness starts out as just a tiny center of awareness surrounded by sights and sounds that don't make any sense. I'm physically very uncomfortable, but don't have any sense of having a body at all, so the physical sensations are completely unintelligible. I often wonder if that's what newborn babies feel like.

On the other hand, there are really some interesting things about it. This seems like a pretty dumb, navel-gazing excuse for a post, but really, it's kind of intriguing. Anyway, it's the closest thing I've had to an out-of-body experience, so bear with me.

First, I've dreamt while in a faint. I've had this habit of fainting at the sight of blood since I was a kid; the first time I have a clear memory of fainting was when I was about six years old. My older sister and I had been bouncing around on her bed when I tripped over the footboard and landed on something sharp on the floor. Mom sat me down on the toilet seat lid while she bandaged my knee, and over I went. But this is the cool part: I had an extremely vivid dream that I was back in the Old West. I was standing on the front porch of a saloon looking out into the dusty street at two gunfighters who were about to face off. Mom, complete with prairie gown and bonnet, didn't want me to witness the impending violence, so she began calling me in to lunch. (Did we live in the saloon? I have no idea. Who said dreams make sense?) I ignored her for a while, riveted by the gunslingers who seemed frozen in the street, but she wouldn't quit calling me. Finally I began to come to and realized Mom had been calling my name the whole time. Since then, I don't think I've ever remembered a dream as such. But I always have the feeling that I've been thinking or experiencing something important, and that coming around has just knocked it from my memory.

Alright. Now here's the really fascinating part, and I'd be really interested to see if anyone has ever had the same experience, whether from fainting or from coming out of anesthesia (I've experienced it both ways): in that window between complete unconsciousness and full consciousness, when I'm first beginning to come around, I very often have a feeling of sadness. It seems to me that I've been somewhere wonderful, and my first reaction on realizing where I am is deep disappointment. I have the distinct feeling of crossing dimensions, and going from somewhere solid and meaningful to somewhere very thin and trivial; the real world feels less "real" than wherever I've been. In fact, mixed in with my disappointment is almost always surprise as I realize where I am: "You're kidding. I'm actually here? People are actually doing these things? Why?" Ironically, I always have the added thought, "...I thought all of this was just a dream I had!"

So. What does it mean? Well, it would be lovely to say it's some kind of foretaste of the spiritual dimension. It would fit our theology, after all: more real, beautiful, and meaningful, compared with which our present existence would feel thin and trivial. It would fit with the experiences of people who have reportedly died and been resuscitated, including a few saints. But the one time that would have been the most plausible (aside from the general implausibility of it due to my own lack of holiness) was the one time I don't recall having this feeling. When I was being tested by my cardiologist for this tendency to faint, the fainting spell they induced in me caused my heart to stop for 30 seconds. During what was the most difficult and bewildering waking-up process I've ever had, I didn't have the sense of having been somewhere else. Which makes sense, I suppose -- it's plausible that my brain activity stopped with my heart. As "Mrs. Barry" likes to say, with some black humor, "You were dead for half a minute!"

Well, I have to admit to having no visions of lights at the end of the tunnel or the sense of being blissfully happy or of seeing the faces of deceased friends and family members. There was just profound nothingness, which I became aware of only as I slowly crawled out of it. So I regretfully conclude that my experiences of being "in a better place" on other occasions (when my heart and brain are still working just fine) are probably not actual experiences. My brain synapses are just firing strangely, due to lack of oxygen. How sad.

And yet... I don't know. Intriguing, isn't it?

Anybody have any clue what I'm talking about? Have you had similar experiences?