My girlfriend Margaret and her son Woody are convinced beyond a specter of a doubt that I died Monday night , when I had an episode of syncope and fell flat on my back on the kitchen floor.
“I think I know why I fainted Monday,” I said this morning over coffee and MSNBC on mute. Trump was trumpeting, the Colorado River was yellow, and Joe Scarborough was annoying me even though I could only see his lips move.
“You mean died,” she snapped.
“For chrissakes people don’t come back from the dead, “ I said.
“Jesus did. “ Margaret is a Christian of the Catholic variety.
“Wellll, that’s true, and there are a lot of similarities in character and outlook between us, “ I mused.
I looked up ‘syncope’ on my dying computer. Its blinking black . Uh oh.
Syncope (/ˈsɪŋkəpi/ SING-kə-pee), also known as fainting, passing out and swooning, is defined as a short loss of consciousness and muscle strength, characterized by a fast onset, short duration, and spontaneous recovery. It is due to a decrease in blood flow to the entire brain usually from low blood pressure.
“Funny, I never noticed many. I mean, he was a homeless bum who freeloaded on his family spouting gibberish until the authorities locked him up and got him the help he needed.”
“Uh…that fits me to a t”
“Except you have me. And Woody. And the family. To protect you from yourself. “
“Yes, right. Thanks for your TLC, Mother.”
“Do NOT call me Mother”
I am only now starting to realize what a horrendous letdown to our little (10 month old) domestic adventure the sight of me dead on the floor was to her. It was all going so well. She buried a husband 15 yrs ago and waited, with waning hope, celibately,for a fellow as good as her Keith to come along , then he died...then he died.
Oddly enough, Keith died on Easter.
If I go along with their silliness, and admit I died, I guess I had a bit of an Easter of my own?