For the first 39 Million odd minutes of my life, things had gone pretty smoothly. But a few minutes before 8 AM on 21 March 2021, that all changed. I stopped breathing.
While doing my usual Sunday Morning errands, I turned on the fan of my Honda Element’s ventilation system. There was a pronounced rumbling sound, and a cloud of something blasted from the vents. And then, I just stopped breathing. I could not speak, inhale, or exhale. I tried a few times, and there was nothing.
Why? I guess that my irritating long-term, seemingly minor allergy to rats had just received a massive dose of rat dander either from a dead rat in the ventilation system or the destruction of a rat’s nest there. My Honda had been parked outside in a woodsy area where rats and other critters have a frequent habit of getting into cars resulting in chewed wiring and insulation used for nesting.
Within the last month, I used the Honda but did not turn on the fan. My wife had also driven it once, used the fan, heard an odd sound, and immediately turned off the fan. An interesting history, but on that Sunday morning at that moment, it was the farthest thing from my mind.
Traffic is light at that hour, so there was little chance to flag down help. I estimated that I was about eight minutes from help and had about five minutes of effective consciousness left. Dealing with the consequences of a low oxygen level was a lesson I learned in the Air Force long ago. Respiratory emergencies are something I deal with as an anesthesiologist. Given the circumstances, even the most rapid response from emergency vehicles would be too late once I was eventually found not breathing and unconscious on the side of the road.
With no better option, I decided to find help. The help was successful: the drive, not so much. After going some distance, I crashed.
In short order, my family was summoned to the local trauma center and was seated in the same room where my wife heard her mother had died. I apparently had needed chest compressions and intubation after my truck hit some mailboxes and struck a tree. No one else was injured, but for me, things did not look too good. Then, I woke up.
Divine intervention? Some previously unknown medical problem? When everything checked out OK, I was able to give an accurate history. I think everyone was baffled at how I was still alive. Divine intervention has its proponents, but I can assure you that I am not worthy of such a blessing. I thought I survived because my body composition is equal parts hand sanitizer and antioxidants. But there may be better explanations.
I started working with Felipe Munoz at Emphatic Practice on some guided meditations and breathwork exercises two months earlier, following some readings and personal research. The results included a generalized feeling of well-being, clearer thinking, improved concentration, enhanced breath control, and better control of my heart rate.
When the critical moment hit that Sunday Morning, I used these methods. They saved my life. I immediately made a conscious effort to slow my heart rate and control my futile breathing efforts. Panicking and thrashing away in desperation would have consumed my little remaining oxygen much too quickly. It was an unconventional but critical choice. No, my life did not flash in front of me, and, no, I did not go toward the eternal light. I just lived. Felipe’s practices played a critical role.
There was another contributor. With the arrival of COVID in 2020, I visited a local pulmonologist to ensure that my Seventy plus year old respiratory system was ready for any potential challenges ahead. After initial testing, I was prescribed inhalers, including one for rescue situations. On the fateful Sunday morning, I used the prescribed maintenance steroid inhaler. As fate would have it, the rescue inhaler was not with me on this Sunday morning. It sat snuggly in my briefcase…at home.
A few days after my discharge from the hospital, I had a previously scheduled appointment with the pulmonologist. During the unremarkable check-up, he suggested that air trapping caused by the respiratory spasm had reduced the blood flow return to my heart which dramatically lower my blood pressure. My slow heart rate and low blood pressure made for a confusing clinical situation.
Exactly one week later, I retraced my steps, this time in a rat-free different SUV. I have some mailboxes to replace. The rat mobile is parked outside again, but this time at a salvage yard. It is gone, and I don’t miss it.