Locating the Hurt

Oh crap, so this is what it’s like to have a heart attack! I was still balancing a hot tuna melt in my left hand on an oversized dinner plate. My entire body was constricted. My legs were pressing my upper body into the door jamb between my kitchen and den. My right hand was clenching my left pectoral muscle with my fingers digging into the hollow of my left armpit. I had taken a gulp of air when it hit. At the moment my mind darted to, “this is it”, I stopped breathing.

It was all of that red meat, lack of daily exercise, and way too many late nights in my youth compulsively playing video games for a leader board placement or an easter egg. I thought my genetic composition would take me somewhere beyond eighty-years of age. There must be a flaw in a valve or a major artery. The fat from all those chicken wings I ate last night. The wings have gathered and congealed in every life-giving passageway leading to my heart. Those poor chickens. Nine billion a year in the U.S. alone — slaughtered, so I could eat their wings and then die. I haven’t had a physical in years. This is how it happens. Out of nowhere, heart failure.

I’m still slightly hunched over and pressed into the doorway. I’m clenching my chest, but the sharp pain has subsided. I’m breathing again. Maybe it’s just a small respite before the big collapse. In a moment, I’ll pass out from a major embolism. A tiny but critical blood vessel within my central nervous system will finally tear open. The beginning of a brain hemorrhage! I’m on the verge of a brain hemorrhage from the dry air and a lack of water. The initial shot of pain was just an early warning system kicking-in. An advance warning. Allowing me enough time to call an ambulance or write a note for friends and family to find near my dead body.

I carefully make my way to the couch with my tuna melt. I go back to the kitchen for my side of chips and a tall glass of orange juice. I have always enjoyed the orange juice and tuna fish pairing. I move slowly, as I’m still crossing over from shock to a euphoric sense of relief. I’m sitting on my couch in silence. I sit before my television, but the screen is dark. Prior to the frightening experience of almost losing my life, I was going to catch-up on some news and eat in front of the television. Everything has changed. What’s happening in the outside world means nothing to me at this moment. I’m eating very slowly. I’m listening to the sounds of my teeth chewing food and gulping the disassembled mush down my throat. It’s exhilarating. I’m alive and I’m ingesting food. I survived what may have been a heart attack.

Two days later, I’m in my doctor’s office and he’s running an EKG. After studying the electrical activity of my heartbeat, he’s certain it’s indigestion. Dr. Petcher, who in my opinion doesn’t know much, is telling me I’m healthy (for the most part) with a bit of indigestion. While he’s selling me on this notion, his office assistant and nurse, (who originally would not see me right away after my harrowing heart attack experience), she’s reinforcing Dr. Petcher’s opinions and scolding me with her body language. My body language is screaming back at her, “I have a right to my own opinion, and I completely disagree with both you and your boss!”

I turned off my capacity to listen after a while. Dr. Petcher went over the nonsensical details of his examination. I was studying the diplomas hanging on a wall behind him. I didn’t recognize the medical institutions on the larger diplomas. Another certificate was written in a foreign language. No friend or trusted family member recommended this doctor. I was only with this guy because he was listed in my health insurance provider directory. His office was nearest to my home and his medical group was in the network of my medical insurance plan. The electrocardiogram was probably not on the menu of things covered by my insurance.

At thirty-five years of age, I felt as though I had been digesting food for quite some time. I was not convinced that the life-threatening event I lived through was simply a case of indigestion. After going through the fruitless exercise of an examination, testing, and a subsequent no confidence diagnosis, my doctor of traditional Western medicine was exercising his perfunctory duty to recommend a specialist. Moving through stage one of the medical filtration process, I received contact information for the specialist.

After leaving my somewhat useless general practitioner’s office, I left a message for the recommended specialist by phone. The outgoing message I listened to was for a Dr. Bryce Filmore, specializing in gastroenterology. I was confused, because I was certain that I would be getting in touch with a cardiologist. Someone needs to take a closer look at my heart, my heart valves, and the major arteries connected to my heart. Why did I want to speak with a gastroenterologist? I think I had a heart attack. I wasn’t suffering from irritable bowel syndrome. I immediately downgraded my general practitioner from somewhat useless to completely useless.

Dr. Filmore actually had a high rating on WebMD.com and I desperately needed to talk with anyone reputable in the medical field before a second heart attack arrived. I knew he was out-of-network as far as my insurance was concerned, but at this point, I was convinced that all of the doctors in-network were quacks. I would succumb to something simple and basic in terms of testing in order to get a recommendation for a cardiologist from the gastroenterologist.

At two o’clock in the afternoon on a Friday, I awoke from a local anesthetic. Dr. Filmore snaked a tube up my ass to take a closer look at my colon. This was for something that I felt in my chest. Afterward, Dr. Filmore provided glossy color snapshots of my large intestine. He confirmed that I was in good health. There was no need to take a biopsy, but his office did accept all major credit cards. I pressed Dr. Filmore to give me a friendly recommendation for a cardiologist in my area of town. Who did he trust? Who did he refer people to with a heart condition? Dr. Filmore’s office also came complete with an unfriendly nurse-assistant. She spoke to me as if I was a prepubescent elementary school child. With an undertone of condescension, the gastroenterologist nurse-assistant told me that I did not have a heart condition, therefore they could not recommend a cardio specialist. Go back to my general practitioner was her suggestion.

I’m in the last hours of a Saturday morning as I prepare my early lunch. I’m safe and secure in my apartment with a schedule of virtually nothing to do for the balance of the afternoon. I’ve mentally committed to watching at least one college football game on television and possibly streaming my friend Alice’s live cook show. Alice has a following of six hundred viewers each week. She presents healthy choices for the culinary challenged. Simple soup recipes and baked goods targeting urban single people looking to save time, save money, and eat right. Alice’s primary principle is an inexpensive dish that can be prepared on a Sunday and then eaten throughout the week. I’m in the midst of putting together an inexpensive dish of sardines and hot mustard. This will be my pre-game food before I park myself on the couch. A container of sardines is pretty cheap, so Alice would approve. She would also appreciate the omega-3 fatty acids I was about to consume. My favorite pairing with sardines is a dark and bitter beer and a side of sharp white cheddar cheese. The cheese has been aged for at least three years.

I’ve cut the white cheddar cheese into medium sized chunks. They’re a fantastic compliment to the sardines and beer, but I’m having a hard time swallowing the bite that’s currently in my mouth. I’m sideways and on the ground. My upper torso is constricting in pain. The pain is just beneath my chest with a few shock waves flowing into my left ribcage. The chunk of cheese falls from my mouth. I’m static and curled up before my couch. It all seems very dramatic and I’m weirdly embarrassed to think that this is how the paramedics and coroner will find me in a couple days. I momentarily wonder whether my body will be moldier than the half-eaten chunk of cheese that sits inches away from my face. It’s terribly tragic. Just like those news headlines in which a neighbor smells something sour and putrid for many days. A rancid smell of something rotting that permeates everything is not enough to take action. It’s only when the neighbor realizes that no one is taking in the mail or receiving packages piling up at the door — then there’s a call to the local police.

The announcer on the television describes the kickoff to the game. I’m still on the floor, but my mind is transfixed with the running back receiving the ball. Should he leave the safety of the end zone and try to run it back, or should he just take a knee for the official touchback? I’m watching the game and I’m not dead. I’m not situated in an optimal way to view the competitive excitement developing before me, but I’m once again euphoric with the passing of an intense moment of unforeseen pain. With this second instalment of something akin to a heart attack, I’m not in shock like the first time, but I am angry. There’s something wrong with my body below my neck and above my waste. Two of my fellow citizens with the status of licensed physician have pronounced me healthy. They are both dedicated to the objective of wellbeing for their clientele, but they’re not listening and there’s no empathy for my recurring experience.

I know that Alice began the promotion of better eating after a period of chronic back pain. She radically changed her diet, and she also spoke of a doctor practicing holistic medicine. When her chronic pain dissipated and then went away altogether, she became a fervent believer in homeopathic practitioners and the benefits of radically changing what we eat. Her weekly live video streams made no money, as she had no sponsors. She spread the gospel of good eating as spiritual payback for the gift she had received. As it turned out, the gift she received from a homeopathic doctor named Lester Junger was an invoice for $2,200.

Doctor Junger had a doctorate in forensic psychology. He received his degree from a now defunct online learning institute. He was not a medical doctor, but I saw a placard on his wall from an American Institute of Homeopathy. Dr. Junger explained to me that his real advances with patients came through energy and herbal healing. He had a partner in an adjacent office who specialized in reflexology and chiropractic care. Their offices were not in a typical medical building. The practice was on the third floor of a walk-up in an ancient brick structure. This brick building was in fact a multifamily residence from the early years of the 20th century. All of the plumbing and electrical conduit was attached to the outside of the plastered walls and painted many times over to match the stained yellow interior and contrast with a tarnished tin ceiling.

After listening to my story of surviving two occurrences of what might be the precursors to a fatal heart attack, Dr. Junger attempted to analyze the degree of anxiety in my lifestyle and objects of distress in my surroundings. He hypothesized that it was the extreme anxiety and stress which may have lead me to the threshold of what could be some form of physical faux seizure or super pseudo heart attack. In other words, the pain was real, but the death of a vital organ was not imminent.

I was intrigued by Dr. Junger’s openness to consider so many possibilities. Throughout our conversation, he looked up at the dark tin ceiling above, and likewise, I looked up to stare at a large pipe riding over the threshold of a window behind Dr. Junger. He said a lot of positive things. I was a little distracted wondering why that pipe was there. Dr. Junger tried to offer perspective. And I wondered what kind of liquids flowed through that pipe. He shared an experience with his own heart arrhythmia. It occurred to me that the pipe might be attached to a rooftop water tower which was pressurizing all of the water running throughout this old structure. While I had come to appreciate the complex function of the pipe just above his head, Dr. Junger continued to sell, but I was already sold. Even though I was distracted for much of the oral evaluation and fixated on that pipe during his lengthy reflections, I was confident in his sincere desire to get to the bottom of things and help me. His evaluation was not conclusive, but he didn’t rule anything out either. In the end, Dr. Junger felt that after ten visits to his office and a strict program of prescribed pills, I’d be liberated from any future heart attacks.

I received three medium sized pill containers from Dr. Junger. The directions for dosage was hand-written on paper tape and adhered to the clear plastic. There was no child safety mechanism for the cap of the container, and there was no name for the pills. They were just generic looking tablets. The tablets within all three containers looked exactly the same. If I poured the contents of all three containers onto a table I would have no idea how to separate them and which vial they originally came from. The only way to differentiate was through the instructions. Each pill was to be taken at a different time in the day and in a different quantity. I marked the bottles A, B, and C in order to establish some reference in my head when I talked myself through the process. I was to take pill A after eating breakfast, and I was instructed to let the tablet melt beneath my tongue. I was to do this eight times each morning. I was going to suck on eight small white tablets after my breakfast as a regular morning ritual. Pill B was an even larger dosage of twelve tablets, to be take just before lunch. Pill C was for bedtime and only involved two of what seemed to be the same thing I was taking before breakfast and lunch. My mind was already wondering how long this would go on for. The tablets had a tiny groove running down the center and if I handled them too much, a powder covered the tips of my fingers. The pills reminded me of the small white saccharin tablets found within a hinged container of my grandmother’s tea set. When I was a small child, I would sneak into her formal dining room and eat the little tablets until the metallic aftertaste made me nauseous.

On my first official therapy appointment with Dr. Junger, he assured me that I was not eating saccharin three times a day. I took a seat in his portable chaise de massage. Leaning forward and placing my face against the circular cushion, I noticed Dr. Junger dimming the lights. Meditation music kicked-in and I was told to relax and place my forearms on the arm pads with my palms facing up. Dr. Junger talked me through the process of poking my palms with a probe to get read-outs on the energy array my body was transmitting in a relaxed state. He spoke of a hierarchy of magnetic fields and my unique electromagnetic signature. The doctor described my physiological resistance and attraction to the immediate surroundings I inhabited. His words caused me to slumber. I awoke twenty-minutes later to the percussion of Dr. Junger rhythmically clacking away on his keyboard behind his desk. Our first session was complete. My three plastic containers of generic white powder pills were refilled. Other take-home items from this visit were two mood bands. I was instructed to wear the disposable rubber mood bands around my wrists for the balance of the week. They glowed in the dark, and in the evening, they would somehow connect me to a comet passing through our solar system on Tuesday.

The homeopathic path was not something I shared with friends. I was not convinced it was real, but I didn’t have another direction to take. It distracted me and made me feel proactive in terms of dealing with an approaching fatal heart attack. The homeopathic doctor was listening. This meant a great deal to me, but in the end, I knew that I was role-playing as a terribly naive patient in a weekly session of theatrical meditation with an electromagnetic energy theme, supplemented by a stockpile of Sweet’N Low placebo tablets.

The second session was similar to the first session with Dr. Junger. The third session in his office was the tipping point. Maybe Dr. Junger needed a couple of sessions under his belt to loosen up. Before I sat in the upright massage chair, Dr. Junger asked me to remove my clothing but retain my briefs. I paused for a moment. He filled the silence with an explanation. It was necessary to apply some electrodes to various regions of my back along with wrist and angle bracelet monitors. I calmly explained to Dr. Junger that this all sounded great and I couldn’t wait to get started, but I should use the restroom down the hall first. I made a short pit stop in the ancient building’s third floor water closet, took a look at myself in the mirror, and quietly made a dash for the street.

The upside of my time with Dr. Junger was that I felt as though I had some control mechanism to ward off the prospect of a third heart attack. Furthermore, I didn’t’ even think about experiencing heart attacks anymore, and in the end, I didn’t die while in his care. The possibility that I was paying to participate in another man’s medical fetish was the line in the sand for me. I was also concerned with the bevy of tablets I was taking each day, and the possible long-term damage to my brain and vital organs.

When I awoke each morning with some relief that I was still in my bedroom on planet earth, I wondered whether I would double over and collapse with chest pain before I left the house. Were the two attacks forerunners to a fatal blow? Would it happen in the privacy of my home, or would I wake in the middle of the night and have one last look around?

I thought about finding another general practitioner and starting over with someone new. I considered finding a cardiologist on my own. With the thought of unknown doctors and seeking help, my fears and imagination took hold. My thoughts became flooded with visions and scenarios of invasive explorations and excessive testing. Medical procedures that would place me in compromising situations. Situations where I would be at the mercy of a medical technician or an assistant who was pushed too hard by the facility — working late night shifts and short on sleep. They would put me in a glass tube for a full-body CT scan. What if they got the machine settings wrong and I was exposed to unusually high doses of radiation. Would anyone connect the pancreatic cancer I died from two years later with what everyone believed to be a benign test? The harmless test to prove that there truly wasn’t anything wrong with my heart or my pulmonary system — just indigestion like Dr. Petcher diagnosed. What if the power went out and I was stuck in a tube? I tried to imagine wiggling out in the dark and becoming exhausted — like being buried alive!

I needed to talk with someone. I didn’t want to be a greater burden to friends who I already leaned on a lot. I definitely didn’t want to alarm anyone in my family. Dr. Junger turned out to be a freak, but I did enjoy talking with him about my heart ailment, premature hair loss, and other conditions that bothered me.

Next to my favorite non-franchise, non-chain coffee shop there was someone I might be able to talk to. This someone lived in one of the rare old homes that dotted an avenue of commercial properties. A leftover residence from the initial wave of families who left their farms over a century ago to become citizens of a fledgling city. On this day, the old craftsman style home appeared before me as a new discovery. The house was in desperate need of repair. The wood siding was deteriorating, and the entire exterior most definitely begged for a new coat of primer and paint. Still, she stood proud with her architectural lines and pristine stone pillars that endured the decades. In the hollow of the main triangular arch hung a large worn wood sign, New Day Psychics.

Coffee was usually enough. I seldom purchased baked goods from any of the coffee and tea establishments. It was all overpriced and acted as a lard infused counterweight to the stimulant coffee provided. The coffee was a gateway to the sky and the baked goods were sandbags hanging from my hips. On this particular day I had a coffee and a cranberry scone. My worries had already grounded me from flight — so, why not eat a dry scone and make the best of my misery. It was the extra time I took to lounge among the smokers on the storefront patio which took me on a psychic journey. I was chewing on the dry scone and studying a beautiful cloud formation from a storm that passed hours earlier. My eyes zoomed-out as my head tilted down. Gorgeous clouds in the distance gave way to clear blue sky below and then the edge of a tattered roof top gave way to an angular arch which held the sign. This is how New Day Psychics came into view. The sign did not promote a single person in touch with spirits, as in one psychic’s name. The sign described a fellowship of psychics. It was just like a medical group for psychics of different backgrounds and rank.

New Day Psychics was out-of-network and probably didn’t accept insurance of any kind. Still, I knocked on their door while trying to clear my mouth of the last bite of scone. A quick swig of coffee would unclog my passageway for speech. The door unlocked and opened. An older woman with a large purse and an oversized canvas tote backed her way out of the entry. She did not see me from under the dark sunglasses. My presence and knock on the door played no role in her appearance. She was in a hurry with both limbs occupied and trying to align a key to a deadbolt lock on the door. I stepped back to avoid frightening her, as she was oblivious to the possibility of my being there. My movement caught her attention in her peripheral vision, or maybe she sensed I was there all along. She was startled and quickly transitioned from flustered to friendly. “Hello, you must be here for Casey, Mistress Casey. You’ll need to call and make an appointment.” I asked her if I could find New Day Psychics or Mistress Casey on a web site. The woman paused for a moment, looked up at me, and looked at my forehead. Then she explained to me in a professorial tone, “There is no web site for you. The number is just above your head.” The woman waddled off the porch with her bags balancing on each arm. I slowly followed her path and then turned back to the house. There was a tall metal placard on one of the two center columns of the porch. Above a detailed paragraph describing terms of service, I found the number to call and the hours of operation. Sessions only took place in the evenings.

In the afternoon I left a voice message for Mistress Casey. I was looking for the first available opening. The voice of the outgoing message was definitely that of the elderly woman. The bag mule woman I met earlier in the morning on the creaky old craftsman porch. She must have responded to my message later that night while I was sleeping. The next morning, I received a brief text. Miss Wu will see you at eight o’clock this evening. I wondered why I was not going to meet with Mistress Casey. This kind of bothered me. Was I going to meet with the junior varsity psychic of the New Day Psychics fellowship? Maybe Mistress Casey was on vacation.

Mistress Casey was actually Mrs. Monica Latchford, the owner of the old house. She lived in the detached garage, which was converted into an apartment efficiency by her deceased daughter. The house was subdivided into small studio units for renters. The front parlor was walled-off from the rest of the home and served as a client meeting place for the psychics. At this time, there were two psychics. Mistress Casey worked a majority of the evening sessions and occasionally worked outside of the home as a consultant for a private detective. My psychic for Sunday night was Beverly Wu. Beverly only worked this one evening each week. At one time, she was a renter in the back of the old home. Casey came to see a rare talent in Beverly and a disposition suitable to the profession. Casey mentored Beverly and helped her develop an awareness in others. Coincidentally, Beverly was three months behind on her rent at the time of Casey’s discovery. They bartered rent for Sunday night sessions hosted by the attractive young psychic, Miss Wu.

It was a little before eight o’clock on Sunday night. I stood in front of the porch which lead to the parlor of the old craftsman. There was a yellow neon light in the window displaying a full moon with a winking face. I knocked on the door and was met by a beautiful young woman with jet black hair pulled back into a long braid. This was the first time I looked upon Beverly Wu. She led me to a tiny seating area behind a decorative room divider. The entire room was no more than two-hundred square feet. Beverly was running the prior client’s credit card and wrapping things up with some words of assurance. I couldn’t see the other patron, but I could clearly recognize the vocals of a woman’s voice. She left the house by way of creaky wooden floor boards. Then, I could overhear Beverly gently putting a number of items away on shelves and in drawers. The place smelled musty with a layer of smoky incense trying to hide the past. A moment later, Beverly came into the seating area to retrieve me. She stepped with grace and control. I thought she was skillfully moving in this way to prevent any disturbance to the noisy wood floor. As I followed in her path, the wood floor certainly did not remain quiet for me. It was how she took her seat and positioned herself that made me think, Beverly must have studied ballet.

Without much effort on Beverly’s part, I launched into the details of my anxiety and why I was here. I shared a little history of my two heart attack experiences and my distrust of traditional medicine as well as alternative medicine. I also made it clear that I was terribly distressed and worried. My feeling of impatiently wanting to know what’s going on in my body to bring about so much pain had surpassed my earlier panic related to a fear of the final heart attack that would end my life.

I provided the foundation for why I was here, and I imagine I overloaded Beverly with more information and detail than she could possibly process. Then it was quiet. There was an extended period of peaceful silence alongside ambient street noise outside the house. I reflected for a moment. She never tried to interrupt me during my excessively long rapid-fire explanation. When I was talking, a part of me thought that she was awfully quiet. Another voice in my head agreed and spoke to my internal self while my outward self was anxiously talking aloud on autopilot. An abridged transcript of the other voice in my head: “Why would she want to interrupt you? If you keep this up, you may talk through the entire thirty-minute session. She can collect her fifty dollars without saying a word.”

My brain was pickling in the brine of silence. The longer it lasted, the less I wanted to think. I was relieved to be in the presence of someone who was finally embracing my words. Someone who appeared to be sympathetic to my condition of living in fear. Not playing on my fear to peddle a commoditized solution from their trade. And then Beverly spoke. “Do you have a roommate or a friend in the building where you live? Does the person go by the name of Madeline or Mildred?” I thought for a moment, and then I told Beverly about a neighbor who lived in the unit next to mine. It was an older woman. She lived alone. She answered to the name Miss Millie. I thought she moved out of the building last year. I ran into her son and the movers when they were busy boxing her belongings and wrapping her furniture. A fussy woman freshly divorced moved into that unit the following weekend. Beverly listened intently and with an affirmative nod of her head, she introduced another moment of silence. The silence and the confidence she displayed had a powerful calming effect on me. Beverly softly explained to me, “Your Miss Millie is here. She’s standing here in this room. She never moved out of your building. She never left. She died last January.”

Apparently, Miss Millie’s spirit wanted to reside in her old apartment. When she was alive, she lived there for over twenty years. The new occupant incessantly watched old episodes of “Gilmore Girls” and any documentaries related to the British royal family. She also cried a lot. It made the spirit of Miss Millie sad and depressed — too much tragedy in the new tenant’s life. Beverly congratulated me for providing a more hospitable environment for Miss Millie’s spirit in my apartment. I watched a lot of news, but I would also watch a number of contemporary comedy series and romantic comedy feature films. Meanwhile, Miss Millie could be in close proximity to oversee the upkeep and maintenance of her old unit. I guess it was a complicated relationship between Miss Millie and I, which I was completely unaware of until this night with Beverly Wu.

I was able to talk to Miss Millie through Beverly and try to understand if she liked the types of food I prepared. I wanted to know if the different food aromas could change her temperament. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t cooking anything that would bring about an angry spirit. I pressed Beverly to ask Miss Millie if she was watching me doing mundane things like showering, washing the dishes, or texting while on the toilet. According to Beverly, Miss Millie mostly watched television and put her spiritual ear to the wall adjoining the apartment she once called home.

I asked Beverly if I was going to die soon, and would it be from a heart attack. I was wondering if Miss Millie had any thoughts on the subject matter. Beverly extended her arms and placed both of her hands in the middle of the table with her palms up. She was in a position to receive something. With her eyes closed, Beverly delivered a brief declaration of facts and directives. “You did not have a heart attack on the day you were eating a tuna melt and clutched at your chest. You did not have another incident of heart attack while you were eating sardines and sharp white cheddar before the college football game many Saturdays ago. In fact, you don’t have a heart condition. There is a void in you from too little activity and too little interaction with your surroundings. Worry less about your own beating heart. Participate in the journey of those who cross your path. Lastly, Netflix removed the movie “Lost in Translation” with Scarlett Johansson and Bill Murray, but you can rent it on Amazon. Miss Millie would appreciate it if you could stream this movie sometime tomorrow. You don’t even have to be in the room. Just rent the movie online and play it.”

There was no follow-up visit to the initial psychic evaluation. I was entertained by the notion that my deceased neighbor is my ghostly roommate and shares my taste in television programming. Whether the insights and shrewd advice were provided by a spirit or delivered by the psychic herself, there was truth and goodwill in what I received.

Two weeks to the day after I met with the psychic, I started a yoga class. I was introduced to so many interesting people who were into wellness and improving their lives. Almost every person I met in my class understood that their individual journey of self-improvement started with helping others achieve their objectives for progress and personal development. Some people sweat a lot in yoga. Some people occasionally expel short-lived squeaky farts. Others like to gasp and grunt. In a Sunday morning class, a middle-aged guy behind me was grunting and gasping with so much intensity. Everyone turned in his direction and came to realize that this was an actual moment of cardiac arrest. The yoga instructor collided with a few of us and then pounced on the very pale looking fellow. Our yogini appeared to be adept at CPR and delivered syncopated compressions along with mouth-to-mouth ventilation. A moment later, my dying classmate broke away from our yogini’s helping hands to roll over and barf.

The yoga studio reeked of a high-pitched rancid ammonia-like smell. This was on top of the pungent scent of feet, musty old sweat, and metric tons of methane that we were all breathing as a sacrifice to the tranquility we realized in this yoga setting. The resuscitated guy soaked his yoga matt and hit a few of the neighboring matts with his colors-of-the-rainbow projectile vomit. Class was over. I could identify with my imaginary roommate Miss Millie. I was looking at this revitalized, post-puke, middle-aged guy in the same way my spirit friend probably viewed me. By way of Beverly, Miss Millie was explicit in pointing out that I was not suffering from a heart condition and I was not on my way to having a fatal heart attack. I could clearly see that this poor guy just ate the wrong thing last night and once he started exerting himself, his body was overwhelmed with a need to purge.

I’ve moved around town a number of times. I doubt Miss Millie is watching over me these days. She’s probably keeping an eye on things at the old apartment complex. Possibly waiting for an agreeable tenant to take hold of her old home. I came across Beverly Wu in a large department store near the financial district. She was a stylist in the densely scented cosmetics department of the first floor. I think she spotted me as I moved through her area, but there was no recognition from our one meeting a few years back. I sampled a men’s moisturizer and watched her for a moment. Beverly appeared fulfilled and living in harmony by helping a young girl feel good about the being reflected back in an oversized salon style mirror. I caught her eye from across the glass display counters. Beverly referred to the sample product I was holding, “It’s a very soothing and relaxing light formula. It’ll awaken the spirits that surround you.”