Glitching Through the Eclipse
When bodies betray
“See you at 9.”
My last lucid moment, and then my hand glitched, typing a prophetic stream of numbers that I didn’t have the wherewithal to save.
Numbers that may have been a winning lottery ticket. Or the phone number of a wise oracle. Or the answer to whether our world will finally find peace anytime soon.
It’s a Monaco country code, my husband says. Poof. There can be nothing for me in Monaco, I think, picturing myself in a Casino Royale-esque gown, stepping out of a limousine to play whatever the high rollers play in Monaco. In the movies, it’s roulette. Yes, definitely picturing throwing some dice.
My hand glitches, and I don’t know what I saw. Flashes? An image of myself glitching, as I stand in my bedroom looking at my phone. My body and mind flashing in and out, in and out, like a pulsating precursor to the eclipse that my area would soon see a few hours later.
My hand goes up to my face. It’s frozen, it’s numb.
I walk slowly, ponderously to the mirror. I know what I will see. I can’t move my face.
Yes, it’s drooping. The right side is not right. My body is flashing, in and out. I arrive at the mirror. I can’t meet my own eyes.
My mouth will not move, refuses to move. The right corner stubbornly droops down, like I’ve always been told will happen if you frown too much. “Your face will freeze that way,” adults said.
A lifetime of good-natured smiling has not prevented this. Also, the left side looks perfectly normal. The mismatch is disorienting.
I fall to the ground. Am I lightheaded? I have no other template to use, so I put my head between my knees, folded under me on the floor.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
One, two, three.
Stop.
It’s over.
I’m too young and healthy for this. Two days of hospital tests. I had no plans for watching the eclipse, and the universe chose for me. My husband angles his phone around the window’s edge in my private (glorious!) hospital room. He shows me the image.
Nice, I say.
I’m more focused on the IV in one arm and the blood draw in the other, as I zen out to my music.
All clear: brain, lungs, heart — that one is a surprise. I’ve been suspicious of it for years.
No answers, just a Monday-morning glitch on the day of the eclipse.
Having a near-death experience should cause reflection.
Reflection is all that I do. Reflection is the reality that I inhabit. I am an introvert’s introvert. I know every mote of every thought, my preternatural awareness of every sensation in my body a constant awareness. I and me, my conscious mind meets bodily sensation. How, then, could my body sneak this one past me?
Add it to the line of betrayals I’ve experienced lately, which probably are the real triggers of my body’s betrayal. “Still,” I plead with myself, “You couldn’t keep it together? I feel calm. How unfair that you, my body, felt otherwise.”
How much worse is it to have one’s body betray you compared to a friend’s betrayal?
Well, it’s just different. Both uncontrollable, but somehow I think it feels more uncontrollable.
I didn’t have a high expectation of control to begin with. I get this. I’ve been around illness. I’m the mom of a daughter with cancer. I know the drill. We are not in control. I get this.
This, however, feels like a cosmic uncontrollability. “Do you think it had anything to do with the eclipse?” someone asks me. “Because I’ve seen some strange articles…” I’d normally laugh this off, but, honestly, I don’t know anymore. Who knows? Who knows the intersections between the reality we think we live in and the reality that is or the realities that are?
I call it a glitch because I’ve been reading philosophical theories that say we’re all living in a computer simulation. I call it a glitch because I think that’s exactly what it looked like I was doing. I call it a glitch because that’s what it felt like. Flash in, flash out, hands typing, face numbing and drooping.
Where did I go in those flashes? Who knows. I certainly don’t. I don’t have the answers.
I’ve heard the phrase, “in my mind’s eye” my whole life, but now I think I’ve lived it. The physical eyes that couldn’t meet the eyes in the looking glass could not possibly have seen the glitch itself. Yet somehow, I can picture my body standing on the floor of bedroom, cell phone in hand, typing numbers with flashes of light beaming in and out, in and out. I can’t see what I’m doing or what numbers I’m typing, but my mind’s eye sees the whole episode.
Reflect. What did I learn? How am I different?
I was ticked. Definitely more irritable than normal. I will not suffer fools.
I think I could survive this life if I perpetually had headphones on or earbuds in, listening to my constant stream of peaceful folk music. In graduate school while taking the bus, I saw men on the autistic spectrum coping this way. Best idea in the world. I see Gen Zers today living like this. Brilliant.
My hospital room was a monastic oasis. I had my husband bypass the “sus” (nod to Gen Z) hospital near our house for the posh one near our old house. Stone exterior, peaceful, and the nurses treat everyone with respect, like they’re not expecting you to do something stupid. I’ve been thinking about checking myself into a monastic cell for years, and it has now been provided, compliments of the glitch.
After the first round of tests slow down, I start up my spiritual folk Spotify playlists. I have my books, decent hospital food, and an upcoming eclipse to watch or not watch. I want my computer. No, not to do work but to take a free class on spiritual theology. Calm, peace.
Reflect. What did I learn? My overly analytical mind’s got nothing.
Heal. I have no deeper message, no insight from beyond. It’s that simple. Slow down. You have problems; see past the problems. Acknowledge their presence, their reality, and move past them. Align body and mind, nurture the body. It’s like a neglected pet that’s been yipping at your heel, desperately trying to get your attention and now it did what it needed to do to get it. It pooped on your shoe. Now what are you going to do?
Clean it up of course. Slowly, quietly, peacefully. I’m still ticked, I’m not sure at what. Lots of things. But my breath is deeper and slower than it’s been in a while. Sit, breathe, stay present in this reality, using what aids I need to do this.
Make peace with my body. I imagine a good-natured handshake. “You betrayed me,” I say. “You ignored me,” it responds. We hug.
This is how friendships repair, even with oneself.
