The Brain Bomb Explodes

It is another astounding Indian summer afternoon in Door County, the northeastWisconsin peninsula that juts into the sky-blue waters of Green Bay and LakeMichigan. The misty atmosphere virtually vibrates with the jewel tones ofnature—garnet, sapphire, topaz, and ruby—all set in shimmering gold. No wonderDoor County is the Midwest's artists' Mecca. The patio door of my harbor-sidehome is wide open to an unusually balmy breeze off Lake Michigan. I've beenlured to my easel by the siren call of seagulls, lapping waves, and chirpingbackyard birds. Puffs of clouds are racing seagulls across the cobalt sky.Truly, this is paradise. Nothing can ruin my ecstatic mood as I paint thespectacular landscape I can see from my studio.

Earlier in the partly cloudy day, I had been moping around, still trying torecover from a weeklong bout with bronchitis. My housemate and best friend, Eve,had not too subtly suggested I get some fresh air by mowing the lawn before shegave the yard a final trim for the season.

Despite my initial reluctance, mowing turned out to be no chore at all. It wasinvigorating. As the sun claimed more and more of the sky, the temperatureresponded accordingly, eventually creating a perfect fall day. I even thankedEve for getting me moving again.

Now I feel good enough to return to my painting, while Eve zips around the yardwith her weed whip. As the birch shadows lengthen in the late afternoon sun, Iam totally lost in the mesmerizing process of creativity. Certainly, it takes meseveral minutes before I realize that the weed whip is silent, replaced byanguished cries of distress mixed with the background noise of nature.

"Help me! Help me!" The words finally register in my mind.

Oh, Lord, I wonder if Eve has chopped off a hand or foot. Dropping thepaintbrush, I race out of my art studio into the dining room.

I hear the cry again, but I don't know where it's coming from. Sound playstricks in a lakefront house. I run out on the deck. She's not in the yard. Backinside, I fly through the kitchen to the front door. Nope, not there. Maybe thelaundry room? Bathroom? Where is she? I hurry into the living room and peer downthe dark hallway to our side door. There she is! Eve crawls out of the hallwayshadows and collapses at my feet, moaning, "Help me."

At first, I'm frozen, then panicked. "What happened?" I shriek. "Did you cut offa foot?" Quickly checking, I'm relieved. No blood. Her legs and hands areintact. Thank God, I don't have to retrieve a body part from a bush.

Eve is crawling again to the middle of the living room. Now she's rolling aroundon the rug, legs thrashing, clutching her head in her hands. She's berserk withpain.

"What's the matter? Please tell me." I'm begging for an answer.

"Don't know. Felt like I was shot between my eyes. Fell to my knees ...passing out ... crawled in ... God, the pain!" The words come tumbling outin one breathless rush.

I lean over and check her head. Maybe a stone hit her? Maybe a wayward bullet?It's deer hunting season, isn't it? Nope, no holes. Suddenly, she's quiet. I'mgrateful for the silence. Then I notice that her eyes are rolling back. Itappears she's losing consciousness.

"Eve, are you fainting?"

"Going to be sick."

"No, wait," I squeak, "not on the living room rug." Like a raving lunatic, I runinto the kitchen and fling open the cabinets, looking for a plastic bowl. An oldone. What's the matter with me? Just go help her, stupid. Then a thought occurs.Hey, wait a second. This is probably just a migraine. Eve gets one every othermonth. Sometimes she vomits. Yep, that's what it is, a dumb headache.

I hurry to the living room and thrust the old bowl at her face in the nick oftime. I close my eyes until she's finished gagging. Nervously, I check in thebowl. Uh-oh. It doesn't look like lunch, nor does it look normal. "Please," Ibeseech her, "tell me, do you think this is a migraine?"

No answer. She's losing consciousness again. She's never done that before.

I jump up and run to the phone. "Eve, is this migraine or should I call 9-1-1?"I wave the receiver in the air threateningly. Precious moments pass.

"Call," she says weakly.

As Eve passes out, I punch the buttons.

"Emergency operator."

"I'm not sure. I think we need help. An ambulance. My roommate hurt her headsomehow. She's losing consciousness. I don't know if it's a migraine." I vaguelyhope the operator will shed some light on my dilemma. "I think she's unconsciousnow."

"Where are you?" the calming voice asks.

"In Baileys Harbor." I recite the street directions. It feels like I'm talkingin slow motion. "Yes, the driveway is on the right coming from Sturgeon Bay."

This is going to take forever, I think. Sturgeon Bay is 40 minutes away. But nosooner do I hang up than there is a pounding at the backdoor. Who needs visitorsnow?

I run to see who's there. It's the owner of a restaurant down the street. She'sholding a duffel bag. Really, I don't have time to chat now.

"I just got the emergency call," she says breathlessly. "I'm a medical firstresponder. I know CPR. What's wrong? Is it your roommate?"

"Oh, yes, she's in the living room. Thank you. Please hurry." As I open thedoor, I see two more first responders running up the driveway. I wave theminside and direct them to the living room. Amazing. Where are these peoplecoming from?

"Does Eve have a heart attack history?" a responder asks. "How about stroke?"

"No," I answer. "No!"

Now the three first responders are kneeling next to Eve. "Well, it might be amigraine," one says. "We need some ice."

I run to the refrigerator. Another knock at the door. Another first responder.

"Get some blankets," someone shouts. "She might be in shock."

I know I am in shock. I'm racing around like the proverbial headless chicken. Iretrieve the ice from the refrigerator and run to the linen closet to find ablanket. Where are the damn blankets? Oh yeah, way up on the top shelf. I pullone and they all come tumbling down.

I hear the distant wail of a siren. Wow, that ambulance got here fast. Soonthere's another knock at the door. "Paramedics," they shout in unison.

Armed with oxygen and a stretcher, they quickly take over. I'm crowded out ofthe living room trauma scene. Standing in the doorway, I feel so helpless asthey call out more of the...