Awake in the Dark

NOTE: This story depicts a life-threatening medical event, including internal bleeding and anesthetic awareness, which can be distressing to some readers.

The summer of 1983 felt almost enchanted. My boys, ages five and three, were at that perfect threshold between innocence and boundless curiosity, their laughter as light as the salt-laced wind off the coast. We danced through visits with relatives and friends, explored parks and beaches like they were new worlds, and collapsed into cottages and motel rooms with cheeks flushed from joy. Every evening ended in stories and giggles; salty skin and sandy toes tucked beneath blankets that smelled faintly of sunscreen and marshmallows.

That last night near Kelly Mountain was supposed to be simple and uneventful… a quiet lull before reality returned. The motel room buzzed gently with distant traffic and a flickering neon sign beyond the curtain. It smelled of old carpet and industrial cleaner.

“I can’t sleep,” I whispered into the darkness, more to myself than to my wife.

Something was off. A sense of imbalance, like my body was holding something just beneath the surface. She stirred slightly and murmured, “You’re most likely restless after the long day’s drive.”

“Yes, that’s most likely it,” I responded. Just a restless night, right?

Wrong.

Moments later, a wave of nausea rolled over me… sudden and violent. I staggered to the bathroom, the harsh light stinging my eyes. Then it hit… blood, dark and metallic, erupting from somewhere deep inside. My knees buckled slightly. Time slowed. Was this real?

I clutched the sink, breathing heavily, waiting for the dizziness to subside. My reflection stared back… pale, sweating, wide-eyed. This wasn’t normal. But maybe… maybe it was nothing. A fluke. A strange reaction.

Stumbling back to bed, shrouded in anxiety, my thoughts tried to rationalize what was happening while my instincts whispered otherwise. The sheets now felt cold and unfamiliar. The hum of the motel’s neon sign outside offered no comfort. My heart thudded against my ribs like it was trying to speak.

I closed my eyes. I can’t sleep.

Morning arrived in pale strokes of sun through the blinds. My body protested every movement, stiff and sore, yet I kept going. The kids needed normalcy, and I clung to that purpose like a lifeline. Breakfast was a blur. A forced smile. Half a piece of toast that tasted like cardboard.

The ferry ride should’ve been routine, but instead, I kept returning to the washroom. Each trip a reminder: something inside me was unraveling. My steps grew slower, my breaths shorter. Even the gentle lapping of water against the hull seemed louder… ominous.

The ferry docked and we disembarked. As I drove, my thoughts began to splinter. Is this serious? Should I tell Sue? I didn’t want to alarm her. She looked so peaceful, gently holding our youngest, humming a song I couldn’t place. But with every wave of weakness, fear crept closer. Finally, about 50 kilometers from Corner Brook, I turned to her and admitted, “I can’t keep driving.”

Those words, honest and defeated, cracked whatever wall I’d been holding up. She didn’t ask questions. Her silence was steady, resolute. She simply nodded and took the wheel.

We reached WMRH’s Emergency Unit in Corner Brook, and everything suddenly felt unreal. Nurses moved like synchronized dancers. Bright lights overhead. My name being repeated softly, like a lullaby pulling me toward consciousness. I tried to stay coherent, but my thoughts blurred and bled.

Is this how it begins? Something catastrophic hiding behind a benign day?

The ICU. Seven units of blood tried to unwind time. Seven. I kept asking myself… how did I not collapse? How had my body managed to keep going? I was held together by sheer will and silent panic.

A blur of masked faces and clipped reassurances. Someone gently held my hand, their thumb brushing across my knuckles… a human tether to reality. I tried to stay grounded in the moment, but part of me drifted, watching myself from a distance, like a spectator to my own unraveling.

The endoscopy confirmed the worst… a duodenal perforation that had been silently hemorrhaging for days. Days. I kept replaying the motel bathroom. The blood. The silence after. Why did I wait? Why didn’t I speak louder?

I remember asking my nurse, “When’s the surgery?”

She responded warmly, almost motherly, “It’s scheduled soon, and we’ll make sure you’re ready and comfortable. You try and rest now.”

Rest. That word again.

Then, the operating room. “Kevin, I want you to start counting backwards from one hundred.” It was protocol. I knew that. But the fear surged. I obeyed. “Ninety-nine… ninety-eight…” You’ll wake up and feel better.

Darkness… but not sleep. I could feel everything. I couldn’t move, but I wasn’t asleep.

Anesthetic Awareness: my consciousness refused to disappear. No dreams. No sleep. Just sterile air and immobilization. The realization hit like thunder: I’m not asleep.

I’m awake. I can’t move. I can’t scream. I can’t sleep.

The scalpel sliced, and my nerves lit up like wildfire. I tried to blink. To twitch. To cry. My internal voice became a scream: Please. I’m awake. I can feel this. Somebody, notice.

Time twisted in that room. Seconds felt like hours. I was trapped in a waking nightmare… imprisoned by a cocktail meant to protect me. My thoughts ricocheted between rage, terror, and despair.

This can’t be happening. It’s not supposed to happen. I’m just a man. A father. A husband. Not a horror story.

And then… salvation. A shift. A recognition. Someone saw the signs. Adjustments were made. And I faded into real anesthesia at last.

Three days passed... the perforation had been repaired, and my body had begun its healing process. But my mind… my mind kept that echo.

“I can’t sleep!”

It wasn’t just a restless phrase anymore. It was a cry from the deepest part of myself… carved from fear, stitched with survival. That summer remains a dichotomy: joy and terror, laughter and silence, life and almost-death.

Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night kicking and screaming out, moonlight casting long shadows across my bedroom. I listen to the quiet hum of the air conditioner, the rhythmic breathing of my wife beside me, and the distant creaks of a condo settling into sleep. And I hear it again.

“I can’t sleep.”