Near Death Experience

Near Death Experience

           On January 26, 1978, I set off for work as a Grade three teacher in the east end of Toronto. Waiting for the bus to the subway, I hopped back and forth as the frigid wind and swirling flakes took bites out of exposed flesh.

           My partner, Peter was sleeping. He worked a night shift and I seldom saw him. He had a day off, and I hoped he would choose to spend the evening with me, since it was his birthday. The night before, I had broached the subject.

           “How about we order in tomorrow night? I’ll treat you to Chinese dinner.”

           “We’ll see.”

           By the time I’d taken the subway across the city, trees swayed as I trudged through the escalating snowfall toward the school. Kids arrived and were allowed to enter the building early. It was going to be a long day.

           Recess was cancelled. Students who went home for lunch were told not to come back to class in the afternoon. Ice pellets rattled against the windows and gusts roared.

           By 4:30, parents had arrived to pick up their kids, and it was time for me to head home. Before leaving, I phoned Peter. I could tell I had woken him up.

           “What is it?”

           “I’m leaving now. I just wanted to let you know.”

           “Why? What’s the big deal?”

           “Have you looked outside?”

           “It can’t be that bad!”

           “There might not be any way to order Chinese when I get home.”

           “Whatever.”

           Rebuffed, I quickly ended the conversation, and pulled on my hooded coat, boots, and gloves for the two-block trek to the subway station. The ice-snow pounded against my face, and I bent at the waist, head down, blinded.

           I heard it before I saw it. A ripping, grating screech, as a huge section of roofing tore loose and landed a mere four feet in front of me. Panicking, I scrambled to the side and prayed I’d make it to shelter. As I rounded the icy corner, downed wires, like giant serpents, menaced me. Terrified, I made a wide berth as I trudged toward the subway.

           The relief was overwhelming as I boarded the train and settled into the thirty-minute journey back to the west end.

           Unfortunately, I still had a bus ride to navigate. As I ventured back outside to wait, a huge crowd had assembled on the platform. The winds were even more savage. My hands and toes throbbed in pain, and I swayed in agony as the gusts buffeted the crowd back and forth. The bus finally arrived forty minutes late, and we fought our way aboard.

           Crushed between equally miserable passengers, I grasped a pole and waited for my stop. The journey took three times as long. Finally, it was time to disembark and walk half a block south to the brownstone where I lived.

           I gasped as the ferocious hurricane blew me backwards off my feet. Alone, I struggled to get my feet back under me. No sooner had I regained my balance then another brutal ambush carried me, like Mary Poppins, out into the road. An oncoming car skidded to a stop, barely missing me. I crawled back to the curb, coated in ice, desperate to survive. It dawned on me that I might not.

           A shrill scream penetrated the deafening whistling of the wind. Across the street, a woman clung to a hydro pole. I was powerless to help her. A tree branch ripped apart from a nearby trunk and caterwauled past me.

           Unable to stay on my feet, I resigned to crawling like a crab. My heavy workbag helped keep me grounded as I inched over the icy mounds of snow.

           It took over an hour to crawl to the front door of the triplex where I lived. I pulled myself semi-upright on the front porch, holding desperately to the railing as I struggled to insert my key. My hands were too numb. Sobbing, I leaned on the doorbell to my apartment, willing Peter to come downstairs and rescue me. I waited an eternity.

           Abruptly, the door flew open, and I collapsed into the front foyer.

           Peter, groggy from sleep, looked annoyed.

           “What’s going on?”

           “It’s terrible outside. I nearly didn’t make it.”

           Rolling his eyes, he headed back upstairs, leaving me behind to haul my purse and workbag up three flights.

           As I thawed out, Peter offered me a stiff drink. The liquid coursed through my veins and my relief gushed out in a torrent of tears. Peter hated it when I cried, so he headed off to take a shower.

           I gazed out the front window. The screaming woman was nowhere in sight. Had she made it to safety? A few cars zigzagged past, crawling like turtles. Others were stranded, and some had been abandoned by the side of the road.

           By the time Peter emerged from the shower, I had dried my tears. The whiskey was working wonders.

           “Happy birthday.”

           “Thanks.”

           “Want me to try calling for Chinese take-out?”

           “No, I’m meeting up with Roger for a few drinks.”

           “Are you sure that is a good idea?”

           As I launched into a story about my struggles to get home, Peter interrupted me by clearing his throat. He did not want to be dissuaded.

           Hurt that he didn’t choose me, I watched him crawl into his winter gear and head out the door. As he stumbled down the street, a stop sign tore loose and somersaulted past him. I shuddered, then poured myself another generous shot.

           By the time I fell into bed that night, I felt no pain. If Peter made it home in one piece, he would be angry that I had finished off the bottle. So be it. Snuggling under the electric blanket, I told myself that I didn’t care.

           I came to the next morning. Peter slept next to me. Bright sunshine penetrated the curtains. Squinting, I gazed at an ocean-blue sky and sparkling drifts of snow.  Icicles dripped outside the kitchen window with a monotonous rhythm.  Swallowing some aspirin, I skidded along the sidewalk to the bus stop. Thank God it was Friday. I wondered if Peter would let me celebrate with him over the weekend. In all the excitement, I had forgotten to give him his present.