In Between Things

On parties, proximity to death, and being unattached.

Photo by Anna Sophia

In between things, I say, at a party. I am glued to the spread inside a warm, beautiful house in Pasadena. The rugs are predictably cheerful, a Frankenstein of Moroccan and seventies shag layered over sturdy blonde wood floors. The ceilings suggest aspiration. I am waiting for my EBT card to be approved, so I indulge in: smelly cheeses I can’t pronounce, tooth-breaking baguette, limp grapes, gluten-free chips, and a spicy fig jam that makes my mouth tingle. I eat like someone who hasn’t eaten in days, which is not far off for me.

I am the only woman there who is unmarried and childless. A barren landscape, I like to intone privately in David Attenborough’s voice. What was once a lush environment teeming with life has now been razed. No green things will grow again.

The gathering has the faint quality of a cult. Everyone is working very hard to convince themselves they enjoy assembling from six to ten p.m. How funny, I think, that one apparently doesn’t need eight hours of sleep. I turn away and sneak a few mouthfuls of wine. Red. Unfortunate. But it’s all that’s left on the table.I’ve had maybe six Ghias and feel buoyant, as though my feet are no longer fully attached to the floor.

I use the restroom. The toilet seat is warm. Aesop, of course—cleanse, moisturize, imbue my hands with the scent of the new middle class.

I bought a red dress a few months ago. Eighties cut, shoulder pads, gold buttons all the way down the front. The hem hits my knees. Modest and ostentatious at the same time, which feels correct. Everyone else is dressed down, except Krista and Jared and me. Don’t dress sexy, Jared texted. It’s not that kind of party.

Outside, I stand with the husbands, slightly removed from the main group, and begin gently negging them. I have learned through careful observation that men will include me if I pass their unspoken first test. I have to say something unexpected, funny only because I am the one saying it. It must be simple. Obviously absurd. I walk up to a cluster of red-eyed husbands and say, Sup, virgins.

They laugh into their beers. The air loosens. A reprieve from talking about their children. I have looked at death twice in two months and come back. I invite them to a brief game of mental table tennis. My mouth quirks in a small, sensual amusement as I think of someone I am supposed to forget.

It’s not that I don’t like children. I just can’t pretend to be interested anymore. I smile at babies when I pass them on the street. I like the noise of play drifting from the elementary school near my apartment, even if I can’t record audio during school hours. I like that children give people a sense of purpose.

How do you produce life when your own life force feels so dim?

I wasn’t like them. I couldn’t carry a child even if everything worked. I flickered while my friends with babies looked wiser—wearier, but stronger somehow.

So I avoid standing near the women, not because I don’t want to talk to them, but because my questions are all inappropriate. Is there anything sexually exciting about pumping? How long did it take before you wanted to have sex again? Do you still like your husband? Do you think he’s hot?

I’ve been thinking about life and mortality a lot.

I was in the ICU over Thanksgiving. By the time I reached the hospital, I was dying.

What I remember most is the serenity. A calm so complete it felt almost wrong. I had no emergency contact. I understood that if I died, I would die alone. It didn’t trouble me. I felt beyond that kind of concern. Maybe it was chemistry—DMT, medication, delirium—but the thought of slipping into a coma and passing through successive shades of black didn’t seem terrible. I was glad I didn’t have children. Glad I didn’t have a partner. I was unattached, and the freedom of it felt almost chosen. Forced at gunpoint by depression, maybe, but still something that came from me.

The diagnosis was sepsis. Ulcers all over my mouth and down my throat. Five days without food, then five days in the hospital without food. I didn’t know I was dying. I just felt very bad. Bad in a way I had learned to tolerate.

I went to urgent care expecting antibiotics and a nap. Instead, they took my vitals, went quiet, looked at each other, and called an ambulance. I wasn’t prepared to go to the hospital that day. I was strapped to a gurney and wheeled out to the ambulance parked directly outside Erewhon. People eating lunch watched me pass and I gave them a helpless shrug.

Sepsis moves quickly. I arrived with no white blood cells, a blood pressure of seventy-two, and a kind of cognitive dissonance. I couldn’t remember my name. I sent a few texts to people I thought should know. Then my phone died. I was radio silent for more than twenty-four hours.

The memories don’t line up. Nurses. Text messages. Cardiac arrest. Hypotension. She keeps dropping.

And then I woke up.

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