Gran Mal Festival Finale, 2017

The first time I opened my eyes, it was to find two uniformed Kitsilano Peacekeepers looking down on me.

The closest one was a smooth faced, handsome young Chinese man beaming concern; the second, his partner, a crop haired, sandy brunette with broad shoulders.

I was lying on my back, fists clutching handfuls of sweet smelling turf, just outside the East entrance to Jericho Beach Park in Vancouver, British Columbia where I’d come for the 40th Anniversary of the Vancouver Folk Festival.

The reason I was lying on my back and that these two fine specimens of Canadian Constables on Patrol were studying me was that I had, mere minutes earlier, experienced a gran mal seizure inside the festival gates. Full throttle, no holds barred, complete system shut down.

I’ve had seizures off and on, ever since being on the receiving end of a solid kick in the head delivered by my Grandmother’s seventeen hand tall Piebald gelding, Sultan, when I was thirteen. Freak accident that it was, it nevertheless landed me in Sisters of Sacred Heart Hospital, in a coma, with a smashed supraorbital ridge as well as a shattered temporal ridge on my right side. Two brain surgeries, one implanted plate and some cosmetic surgery to ice the cake later, I was back in action, relearning basic skills such as how to walk, talk and yes, even how to shit. It created a memorable adolescence.

Now, newly turned 62, I found myself flat

on my back, wishing these intent young men would just go away.

No such luck. I was in their cross sights and they had no intention of losing me, set upon me as they had been by my own frightened husband, Peter, who had been successfully sheltered, until this time, from experiencing the finer points of my purgative full body explosions.

“Ma’am, can you tell us your name?” the sandy haired brunette was repeating patiently.

My words often tangle up and betray me when I’ve gone full gran mal and this was no exception. My head felt like it was wrapped too tightly in layers of thick cotton. It was taking real effort to keep my eyes open.

“I’ll be okay. Really.” I managed to whisper. “You don’t have to stay here.”

“Can you tell us your name?” he asked again.

I opened my eyes a second time to see that the Chinese guy beside him was watching me like a hawk, though his eyes were kind. They both, to my utter chagrin, settled down onto their haunches and moved in closer. Too close. They were nearly on top of me.

“Nyla.” I said, working hard to make it sound like a normal voice articulating normal speech was coming from my mouth.

“Well, Nyla. Can you tell us what happened?”

This time it was the handsome Chinese officer speaking. They seemed to be double teaming me quite effectively.

I clutched my handfuls of grass and soil tighter, something to hold onto. Something to keep me grounded.

This was so fucking exhausting, answering these guy’s intrusive questions. I just wanted to lay there, eyes closed to keep the world from spinning me around, focusing on my breathing, until Peter came back with the car, which he’d told me he was going to get. He’d said nothing about sicking Mounties on me. I felt betrayed.

A new voice joined in, a crisp edged, unyielding, alpha male, “What’s going on?”

Things quiet and just out of reach. Words being spoken. I couldn’t make them out. Didn’t care.

“Ma’am,” the new voice demanded, “Can you tell me what you took?”

I sighed. I could feel tears beginning to trickle down my face, sliding slowly out from under my sunglasses. Glasses I’d had the presence to keep on as protection from the sun’s relentless glare. It was a very hot, very bright day. That was the problem.

My internal thermostat is permanently damaged from one or the other of those brain surgeries. Or maybe it was obliterated along with the cranial bone that originally shielded my brain. Whichever it was doesn’t really matter: the end result is the same.

What I knew could sometimes happen, and what I’d experienced this day, was that I’d overheated while strolling through the festival grounds with my dear friend, Eva.

We’d walked the long journey across the park until we were outside the West gates, travelled through the hot, fragrant, “Porta-Potty Alley”, then spent an hour, or an hour and a half ,visiting the many vendors in the annually erected World Community Market Village. Having a good time. Laughing and visiting with the colorful sellers who were plying their wares. All under a blazing 90 plus degree sun, which was further reflecting the brightness off the deep waters of Vancouver Bay and the surrounding snow capped mountains, all of which just happens to be right, smack dab, brightly, there.

Oh, and I’d stupidly forgotten to wear my hat.

Now, there was no way in my present state that I could muster the strength to tell these three intimidating men any of that. And I had at least enough presence of mind to know that it was none of their damn business, anyway. I wanted them to go away and leave me some dignity.

“Ma’am,” Hard Voice repeated, “I need to know what you’ve taken.”

I sighed. Continued to weep silently and without control. Cursed myself for so doing. Willed my eyes open a third time. Forced myself to drop one of my comforting fistfuls of dirt and grass in order to free up a hand to remove my sunglasses so that the bastards could see my eyes. Cobbled some speech together.

“I didn’t take anything,” I managed. “I had a seizure. My husband is getting our car so I can go home and sleep.”

That was it, everything I had in me for that moment. I put the glasses back on, reclosed my eyes, re-grabbed my connection to earth.

I could hear them speaking to one another again, a kind of mini-conference.

The voice of the kind Chinese man emerged alone, gently.

“Ma’am,” he began, “We’d like to take your blood pressure.” Then he dropped a bomb, “We’d like us to take you to the first aid tent.”

I couldn’t answer. Tears of frustration and humiliation continued to seep out from under my sunglasses. I was struggling hard to keep from sobbing. To not lose it again.

“Your husband asked us to watch you for him.” This was the sandy haired brunette again, as if my husband’s request somehow gave them all the right to make my decisions for me. Men telling me what to do. A blood pressure cuff was meanwhile wrapped tightly around my bare arm.

“You will find my blood pressure low.” I forced the words out of my trembling mouth. “And my pulse will feel slow but normal.” With a great deal of effort I added, “This has happened to me before. I know what I need.”

The new guy, glimpsed during my opened eye communion with the others to be a shaved head blond, barked at me. “When was the last time, Ma’am? Can you remember?” His voice was colored with doubt.

I telescoped inward, feeling powerless.
Powerless.

And weepy.

Afraid.

I was afraid they were going to take me away until I found myself in yet another hospital, undergoing yet another set of tests, being studied yet again like the lab rat so many neurologists perceived me to be. Theirs for the testing.

Where the fuck was Peter? Why had he done this to me?

I reached up with effort, pulling the sunglasses off again, opening my eyes one more time.

Made eye contact with the blonde. Saw that he was older than the other two, clearly fancied him self some kind of leader.

Who knows? Maybe he really was their superior.

I knew the stakes were getting higher. The right words counted. I looked directly at him and said, “Maybe five or six months ago. At home. My husband was asleep.”

I paused for breath, gained a bit more strength and continued, “I had a head injury forty years ago. I have seizures sometimes. I don’t need to go anywhere but home, to sleep. I frightened my husband. He hasn’t seen me have one this bad before. I’ve protected him from them. He’s scared. He’s gone to get the car. Once I get home and lay down I will be okay.” And then I just couldn’t speak another word. Spent, I lay there, tears coursing down my face. Wishing everyone would stop looking so fixedly at my weakened form. Hating everything about this moment in time.

I closed my eyes. The blood pressure cuff was removed. The three began conferring.

I filled my hand with soil.

“Okay.” Blonde Fuhrer said. He’d come to a conclusion. “Okay. We’ll stay here and keep on eye on you until your husband gets back. It sounds like this has happened to you before.”

I drifted away. Back. Away. Glad to be leaving them behind. Then back again.

My handfuls of earth prevented me from leaving everyone forever. They anchored me to this time, this place. To this hot, sunny day in 2017.

Some time later, I at last heard Peter’s voice, the Officer’s speaking to him. All of them together trying to decide my fate.

I had to reclaim my power. Nyla Anne.

I struggled so slowly to my feet. “I am still here”, I thought, “I decide.”

The final time I opened my eyes I, at last, began to walk. Perhaps as if in a mist, a dream clothed by too tight layers of cloud, step by sliding step.
One foot placed, oh, so carefully, in front of the other. Supported by a well-meaning husband.

I entered the car and he drove me back to the house. Where I would sleep for the next two days.

40th Annual Vancouver Folk Festival 2017.