The Flog – The Fabry Log

I thought I was going to die last night. Scenes from my uncle’s last moments flashed through my mind. He died in his early 60s. Heart attack. I heard he was sitting in a lawn chair out by the pump house. The paramedics couldn’t save him. I can still see his gnarled hands, the smashed fingernails from years of working construction and carpentry. He was a gentle soul that no animal could resist. The meanest dog in the world would run to him with tail wagging.

The pain in my chest was so great I couldn’t do much but think about it. Standing didn’t help. Sitting made it worse. We drove to a park and watched the kids whiz by on their scooters. I know the symptoms of a heart attack and though this seemed close, I could tell it was more a stomach issue. I was in charge of the main course for dinner last night.

Enough said.

I woke up at four this morning with the strange sensation of my rear on the tile floor and my head above me on a hill. I thought I was dreaming, then realized something was amiss with the air mattress. I had used the pump to raise it to a comfortable level before we collapsed, but something happened in the night. It was tipped up like the Titanic's last moments.

Andrea rolled over and looked at me in the dark. It’s cold at night and she wraps herself in the covers like a corn dog in batter. I don’t have a chance at the top sheet or the cover, but I don’t mind. I like the night chill.

“What happened?”

“Air leak,” I said.

“It feels like I’m sleeping on concrete,” she whispered, trying not to wake the others.

“Wait till you see what it feels like when I get up,” I said.

My girth had given her at least a little buoyancy.

It’s like that in life. Even when the air has gone out of your life’s mattress, it’s helpful to have somebody with more mass. Someone who’s bigger than you are.