One November afternoon I decided I was going to hook the little utility trailer to my ATV. It is a fairly simple operation using a sort of pin-type hitch. I anticipated no problems. Except the trailer was buried deep in snow. That wasn't a problem in itself either -- the ATV was fully capable of plowing through the deep snow and extricating the buried trailer. The problem was, I would have to flounder through the knee-deep snow to perform the hitching up, which normally I could do almost without thinking about it, but just out from rehab after Thanksgiving, and starting over again at PT, I wasn't feeling especially confident.
I remember hitching up the trailer okay, but something happened after that that I cannot remember at all, and I just remember laying alongside the ATV on the snow, seems like a long time later, listening to the exhaust of the ATV motor. I don't remember why I was laying on the snow, or how long I was there. It could have been as much as an hour. People in the house could not see me in the position I was in. They did not know I was running the ATV or hitching the trailer, and had no reason to be looking. But I knew something was wrong, and I tried getting up. I had a pretty hard time, because I felt sick and weak, but I got on the ATV and drove it with trailer near my bedroom and went to bed. Note that my private bedroom is in the garage separate from the house, so I still talked to no one, asked no one for help, just went in to my bed and started the nightmare of lone, private suffering.
At this point, I started having a series of "shark attacks", pretty much alone, and convinced that they were going to kill me. After a few of them, I honestly wanted to die, and I prayed between attacks that I would die. I implored Heavenly Father to release me from this anguish, because I feared the attacks and the pain, and could not stand another minute of hurting so badly. I just wanted it to end. But it continued. My body was racked with spasms. I cried out, and I think I fainted many times because I could not tolerate such agony. Passing out was surcease and relief. I hoped I would never wake up. But each time, eventually, the gray would begin to clear a bit, and I would begin to realize the pain anew.
I vaguely remember trying to talk to my dad Friday night. We had a discussion about hospitals. I resisted. I implored him to let me wait until after the weekend, convinced that I would die before then, and that it would spare me the indignity of doctors again telling me there was nothing wrong with me, or that I am too young to be having strokes, or something equally useless and offensive to me. I ended up convincing my dad, and I turned my face to the wall, and again made my most honest effort to make my life stop. I willed my breath to stop, my heart to stop beating, and my lungs to stop taking breath, but beneath it all, my God-given will to live continued to burn, in spite of the agony of the attacks of pain that continued to rack my body with uncontrollable spasms, leading to blackouts and blissful unconsciousness, and long periods of unawareness. Every time, lucid thought would come floating back, with the miserable realization that I was still alive.
I whimpered. I panted. I moaned. I groaned. I breathed heavy, and light. I held my breath. I screamed and shouted. I whispered prayers. I demanded from nobody. I implored. I surrendered. I made bargains. I tried rationales. I tried everything.
Nothing helped. The attacks continued, seemingly without mercy,through Wednesday, into Thursday and Friday and Saturday, and I was exhausted.
Finally, Sunday.
The attacks mostly stopped. A few occasionally, but not fast and furious like through Wednesday and Thursday.
People were scheming secret things. I lay in my bed, none the wiser. I thought we were going back to UVMC on Monday. My sister Ruth and her family were coming for Sunday dinner. I should have been suspicious then, but was too tired.
Ruth and Darrin arrived, Ruth cooked a great meal for all of us, and all had lots of fun.
Then they started springing the conspiracy.
Darrin and dad administered a priesthood blessing. In his blessing, Darrin stated clearly, and by the authority of Jesus Christ, that I would live for a number of YEARS to complete my mission here on earth. This was significant because it was rather a dramatic contrast to what I had been asking for from similar sources. I think the latter answer has proven to be more definitive, given other compelling evidence.
The next development of the secret conspiracy was Ruth's announcement that I was accompanying her to the U of U hospital NOW, so go pack a suitcase. It was not presented as an arguable option. I packed a suitcase, and we prepared to drive away.
Thus began Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.
Snail Hollow, where I reside, is on US 89 south of the junction with U6. We travelled north toward the junction of US 89 with US 6, but unbeknownst to us, there had been a serious traffic accident at the bottom of Spanish Fork Canyon, where the highway runs down out of the mountains, and traffic had been backing up in the canyon for more than two hours.
We got to the junction prepared to make the westward turn, and found a solid line of cars, lined up all the way down the canyon, as far as you could see, over five miles long. And not moving an inch.
I wanted to just turn around and go home, but Ruth had other notions. She drove up next to a big rig truck driver and climbed out to talk to him. I heard none of the conversation, but when she got back in the car, she had a look of steel determination. She said the truck driver told her there was a fatal accident blocking traffic at the mouth of the canyon, but if she needed to get her brother with a stroke to the hospital right away, just drive down the wrong side lanes, and get through any way she could.
She took him at his word, and started down the wrong side of US 89. I wanted to crawl under the seat. People were screaming obscenities and trying to step in front of the car as we weaved through the obstacle course on that wild ride down the canyon. They waved at us, they yelled, they made every rude and obscene gesture. Mind, most of them had been waiting for hours for the line of cars to start moving, and many of them were growing furiously angry. They took license to express every frustration at us.
My dad was following us in his truck, but he soon abandoned the wild ride and ducked back into the lanes of marginally sane traffic, to wait for the accident to clear. But not intrepid Ruth. She forged ahead, ignoring insults and dodging the attempted roadblocks.
Finally we reached an impenetrable Jam of emergency engines and police vehicles, all obviously responding to the wreck. Ruth pulled up just short, and with firm resolve, and baring plenty of cleavage, she climbed up onto the step of the nearest engine to beg for mercy from one of the heroic firefighters. It was an inspired approach. The emergency crew was galvanized into action, engines and rigs were moved, and within minutes we were following a police escort out of the canyon toward the I 15 freeway. I still wanted to climb under the seat, but I was very proud of Ruth, and glad to be riding with someone so bold.
A short time later, we arrived at the ER at the U of U hospital.
Next instalment: Doctors Let Me In The Door
