32 Miles From Fat

The Emergency Room Wednesday, May 28, 2008 Yesterday morning, I decided to test out my new sprinter's parachute. I arrived at work early and strapped in, ready for a very intense workout. Using our small office parking lot, a 120-yard loop, I turned on the music and took off. I'd sprint as hard as I could, and once I reached full speed, I'd throw the parachute off to the side and push through till the end of the loop. It was incredibly motivating. I felt very strong. It reminded me that my roots really go back to being a sprinter. My mother always said that when I was a baby I ran before I walked; a tradition that carried on all the way through the school years, when I would race anyone who challenged me. Older kids, stronger kids, it didn't matter to me. For example, even at 228 pounds, I was recently challenged by a friend at work. He was about 185 pounds of lean muscle and had arrogantly proclaimed he could obliterate me in a sprint race, obviously wanting to demonstrate how out-of-shape I'd become. Regardless, I didn't back down and accepted anyway. Several co-workers decided to come and witness the slaughter of what little pride and self-confidence I'd had before that. They grouped outside while my challenger and I decided on a distance of about 100 yards. We lined up and I remembered thinking, “I should ask him to let me win, just so I can maintain some level of dignity here.” But I decided against it. A co-worker at the finish line threw an arm up and yelled, “Go!” Simultaneously, like racehorses behind the gate, we took off, every muscle in our bodies forcing maximum performance. Leaning forward I could barely feel the ground underfoot. It all came back in a moment, feeling that rush of adrenaline when you realize that you are at the point of no return; everything you do in the next second will make or break you. I remember seeing my competitor beside me as I pushed as hard as I could for what seemed like forever. I thought to myself, “He's going to humiliate me. I'm giving it everything I have and he's not budging.” But then something happened. Even though I was pushing with everything I had, it seemed as though I instantly received a burst of power and I blew past him. I threw my shoulders back and kicked as hard as possible. I took such a lead that he finally just gave up. Everyone who witnessed it was in shock, but not nearly as much as I was. Months later, the moment of glory gone, here I was in the parking lot running like a madman; a parachute on my back and my body begging me to stop. After ten laps of this crushing workout, I began to feel nauseous. I grabbed my gear and went inside the building to prepare for the day. Heading into the bathroom, I became desperate for some cold water on my face. A headache suddenly joined the equation as I stuck my head into the sink and prayed that this cold water would magically heal me. Standing up, the dizziness set in. Immediately I moved over to the toilet to just sit and wait out the vertigo. I sat there, my head hanging, and completely lost my grasp of reality. Everything became distorted and time was still. The next thing I remember, I woke up on the floor across the small bathroom. As I slowly lifted my head, the migraine made its powerful presence known; as did the blood dripping from my head. Slowly, I stood up. There was blood on the floor, on the sink, and I pieced together fairly quickly that I must've tried to stand and then collapsed, slamming my head against the porcelain sink. I don't know how long I was out for, but it couldn't have been too long judging by the amount of blood on the floor. Looking in the mirror, my theory was confirmed; I had cracked my forehead clean open. Still disoriented, I left the bathroom and nearly crawled to the nearest office where I saw a friend. “I need help,” I muttered while leaning against a doorframe and sitting on the floor. I was pale and confused; another friend came over quickly to lend assistance. He cleaned the blood from my head while someone else ran to get a medic. Within a couple of moments, the medic was with me. He asked me a few questions I don't remember answering, all while he checked my vitals and sized up the situation. At one point, I somehow ended up lying on the floor again and didn't realize it until he woke me up. A co-worker who was nearby asked the medic, “Do you want me to call 911?” “Not yet.” The medic replied. It wasn't but a matter of seconds after this reply that I apparently blacked out again and began to have a seizure. “Okay, now you can call 911.”