The Day I Died Before I Died - Part II
By Fede Lozano
I spent the first night out of the hospital with Hlin at her parents’ sea-side apartment. My in-laws were taking care of our daughter, Emma, and offered us their place so I wouldn’t have to struggle climbing the long stairs at home. I woke up and could smell a croissant baking in the oven. With my favorite pastry clearly in mind, I lifted myself slowly out of bed trying to avoid bringing any pressure to my cracked ribs. Several of them had been broken during the back-to-back CPR sessions the week earlier. I hobbled gracelessly into the kitchen. I could feel a painful throb in my groin from a deep incision sutured by what looked like thick blue fishing line. I gave my wife a kiss on the forehead and sat down at the breakfast table near a large sliding glass door. The sun was out early, blazing through the crisp skies with some sporadic thin clouds hanging in the distance—a highly unusual scene for Western Norway. To top it off, I could even sense some of the sun’s warmth on my skin. I stared out into the North Sea.
Hlin placed the warm croissant on a plate, spread some butter and strawberry jam on it, and slid it over with her beautiful, customary smile. My mouth started to water. I spent an awkwardly long period of time gawking at this peculiar French pastry sitting in front of me. I noticed that I was inexplicably taking much more of my time. I was moving slower. Thinking less. And appreciating more. Instead of wolfing the croissant down as I usually did, I gazed intently at it. I had this deep desire to appreciate its every nook and cranny, so I got closer to inspect it meticulously. As I did, the smell of the melting butter and sweet jam permeated every corner of my nose. I could follow the sugary sent through my nostrils and down through the back of my throat. By then I was salivating like Pavlov’s dogs. The experience was both bizarre and beautiful. Sensual even.
The weirdness continued to spiral. Before picking it up, I decided to request the croissant for permission to eat it. I was so utterly grateful for its existence. I closed my eyes, lifted it tenderly towards my mouth, and began to chew as respectfully as I could. Don’t ask me what a respectful chew looks like. I just felt obliged to honor the croissant for all the sensory pleasure it was providing me. Time seemed to stand still as I continued to chew, and smell, and taste. A spontaneous tear rolled down my cheek. And then another, and another. As I cried softly next to my startled wife, I picked up the remaining crumbs and nibbled peacefully.
“We need to go outside and walk,” she said. “It’s the doctor’s orders.” My Norwegian wife, always ready for a stroll in nature, took me firmly by the arm as we ventured outdoors. I’ve been an unusually fast walker as far back as I can remember. My close friends make fun of me for my frantic pacing. This time, however, my weak heart was forcing me to slow down. A speed that once would have felt excruciatingly slow, now felt surprisingly liberating. The ambitious goal for the day was a one kilometer walk to Solstrand, an iconic hotel located near my in-law’s apartment. I wrapped my arm around my wife’s shoulders leaning heavily on her as we walked next to the uncommonly calm, crystal-clear water.
My senses were abuzz. I knew something highly unusual was taking place. It was much more than simply being happy to be alive, which of course I was. It felt as if I was experiencing the birth of something new inside me—a kind of reawakening of the senses. Something deeply visceral. I felt everything so much. I felt the solidity of gravity. I felt the cool air drying my eyes still moist from the croissant-fueled sobfest. I felt my lungs struggling to take in air. I felt my wife’s slim frame supporting my arm. I just felt.
As we made our way through the coast, we came across a couple of huge Araucaria trees. These strangely beautiful towering giants with rugged, razor-sharp leaves seemed to be calling out to me. I stood underneath the largest one and looked up at its wild lofty branches. I considered how long it must have taken this great plant to grow to its current looming heights. Wonderful childhood memories of visiting my uncle in Pucón, Chile, where Araucarias originate, came into my thoughts. I approached the uneven trunk with some veneration and placed my right hand gently on it. The minute or so that I stood there touching the coarse bark felt like a solemn, mini-religious experience. Like with the croissant, I was so grateful for the tree’s existence.
Hlin and I continued our steady stroll. As she walked closer to the water, I noticed in the distance a tiny dark cave with a collection of thick, intertwined tree roots hanging from the top. Curiosity getting the best of me, I walked in hunched over. I stood there for a while inspecting the dangling roots. They reminded me of images from Norse mythology of the large twisting knots in Yggdrasil, the tree of life. I took in a deep breath of moist ocean air. It smelled like pungent wet soil. I heard my wife calling my name in the distance, her voice serene and melodic this time, and left the cave behind to join her.
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My parents are in their 70s and live near Mexico City. They were unable to travel to Norway to see me post-operation due to the coronavirus pandemic, so we arranged a video call while I was still at the ICU. I recall seeing their troubled, affectionate faces on the screen, as my mom fumbled with her phone nervously and my dad struggled to get his wrinkled face in the frame. As the three of us sat there staring intently at each other, my wife, who was sitting on the opposite side of the hospital room, realized the importance of the moment and whipped out her phone to record it.
I was completely lost for words—something extremely uncommon, as those who know me can attest to. I just sat there holding my phone up to my face awkwardly, smiling ear to ear, while crying uncontrollably. The scene could have served as enviable fodder for a tacky telecom ad. In all its cheesy glory, it was probably the happiest call of my life. I regained composure after a couple of minutes. In between sniffles, all I managed to articulate was: “We are all made of pure and absolute love.” I said it again, slower this time. “We are all made of pure and absolute love.” Then I repeated it once more. To this day, I don’t really know exactly what I meant by that or where it came from. But I remember feeling it—believing it—to the bone.
The following days, I found myself increasingly overflowing with empathy and compassion. I initially chalked this up to the unusually strong connection and friendship I have with my parents. It’s predictable that they sparked these feelings, I thought to myself. Once back home, I had a Zoom call with my team at Pracademy, the innovation training firm I founded. They had stitched together a short yet powerful get-well video for me while I was in the hospital. It was so impactful that it took me weeks to finally watch it in its entirety without completely breaking down. My heart literally hurt while watching it from the emotional overload.
Another cascade of feelings poured out as I saw their apprehensive faces on Zoom. I felt more grounded this time, but just as connected and bursting with love. I remember expressing how strongly I felt for them. It was as if I were able to tap into all the experiences we had shared together during the past decade and drink them all up in a concoction of gratitude and affection. I remember seeing them sit there, a bit taken aback, as they gradually opened up. We reminisced and laughed for three hours. To say that this was the most meaningful team call I’ve had would be a resounding understatement.
This state of awe and grace, which until this day I struggle to put into words, lasted for approximately two months. Day in and day out, I found myself teeming with love. For my wife and daughter, and parents, and sister, and close friends, of course. But also, for my quirky neighbor, for the clerk at my local food store, for the waiter at my favorite sushi place, for the random stranger on the bus. With every person I crossed paths, I felt an overpowering sense of connection. As I wrote in an article for my local newspaper as a tribute to the healthcare workers who saved my life: “I felt strangely invigorated and taken over by a profound sense of appreciation for the deep human interdependence we are all a part of.”