Last night I fidgeted in bed, my arm throbbing from shoulder to fingertips in a cross between bee stings and tickling. Unable to sleep, I got up to worry.
I sat in the dark on the stairs. Maybe it's a heart attack. I should go to the emergency room, but what a hassle and so expensive. Probably pulled a muscle in yoga. Or it's another old-age pain. On the other hand, a throbbing right arm really is a female heart attack symptom. Isn't it?
As the edge of the step behind me pressed into my back, the mental clamor quieted into a simple question. Which was I willing to do: go to the emergency room or die in the bedroom?
The latter possibility became absolutely acceptable, because everything I'd known a second earlier fizzled into a stunningly calm No-thing. Devoid of the bedlam I'd labeled "concerns," "desires," "loves," and "fears." The preference for life melted away, since there was no knowledge that the thing-called-life had ever existed. Neither was there a preference for this unexpected hush. No-thing felt like ease.
How easy to die. How easy to go back to bed, which I did. Heads, I'll wake up. Tails, I won't.
I woke up this morning. Surprised by the toss of the coin.