Blood Moon

Blood Moon

The dog and I clapped eyes on each other. He landed at the bottom of the staircase, while I leapt, naked, out of bed.

The sound coming from the bathroom was terrible, unnatural; part wounded animal, part teakettle about to explode. We ran to the bathroom door, the dog getting there first. The scene we were met with was horribly unexpected. My husband laid on the cold tiled floor, seizing, bashing his head, a nebula of burgundy blooming around him like the tail of a comet.

While Echo grabbed hold of Paul’s underwear and began to pull him out of the room, I realized that the lip into our basement apartment washroom would probably cause more harm than good as my husband’s body bumped over and onto the carpet.

“I’m sorry buddy,” I said to the dog as I pushed his big black body out of the room.

I stood there, watching from above myself as my husband lay dying, blood marching around his head in steady waves in time with the rhythmic movements of his body.

Somewhere, in a dusty file folder in my brain, I remembered a guy I knew in school. He had a shunt in his head from a childhood illness. It needed to be replaced suddenly and he was gone from school for awhile. When he returned, his personality was different. Paul had a shunt too. Is this what happens when a shunt fails?

For whatever reason, the memory of this childhood friend kicked me into action. I saw that I needed to put something under Paul’s head. Looking at the towels hanging nearby, I had a choice between a red and a white towel. I chose red, knowing that Paul would be annoyed that a white towel got ruined. I turned him on his side, to prevent him from drowning on the foam clinging to his lips and chin. Placing the towel under his head, I hesitated a moment before I ran for the telephone.

Yesterday, my mom and I had returned home from a girls’ weekend in Collingwood with her sisters and my cousin. Over a breakfast of eggs baked in little cups of ham, topped with ponds of soft, yellow, hollandaise, a purple finch struck a window. Mom went outside to see if it needed help. She returned with the sad news.

“It’s dead.”

“That’s a bad omen,” my Aunt Carol said, between sips of tea.

When mom and I got home, she took her bags to her upper part of the house, while I took mine to the basement. I found Paul lying in the couch.

“Sorry I didn’t help with your stuff. I have a terrible headache.”

“That’s okay,” I said. His eyes looked strange, big brown saucers, not quite focused on anything. “You rest.” I gave him a kiss. I went about the usual Sunday activities, dinner, laundry, lunch preparation for the next day. As the sun vanished, pink, gold, and crimson in the west, I went upstairs to the front porch. It was a special evening. The moon was going to be as close to the earth as it would be all year, and bonus, it would be a blood moon. I sat, gazing at the glowing ochre orb as it rose in the sky. Paul had gone to bed early.

Phone in hand, I snatched my bathrobe and winched it around my body. While I dialled 911 with trembling fingers, I ran up the stairs to the main floor of the house and shouted for my mother to wake up and unlock the doors. “Paul is having a seizure!” I screamed. “Unlock the doors for the paramedics!”

She arrived in her bedroom door, sleepy and confused.

“What?”

“Paul, seizure, ambulance, open doors.” I repeated, terrified I’d left him alone for too long on the bathroom floor.

In moments, I was connected to the 911 operator. She instructed me on what to do. I had already done some of it, but I was helpless to stop the tight fists of my husband’s hands banging against his chest, or to his relax his vice-like crossed ankles. He held himself like a lost child.

I looked around the room and saw evidence of the series of events leading to this moment. A red slash on the sink told me that’s where he stood when the seizure started. The broken and bloodied toilet seat told me that’s where he’d landed, prior to the floor.

“The spasms are beginning to slow down,” I said to the operator.

“Good, he might be confused when he comes back around,” she said, warning me.

“Where is the ambulance?” I wanted to know. Instead of seizing, Paul was now fixated on a droplet of dried grout on the floor. Echo stood guard outside the bathroom door. Time stopped and sped forward all at once. We needed help.

“I’m sorry,” the woman on the other end of the phone replied, “they are coming from the neighbouring town. It will be about five more minutes.” Our house is around the corner from the Tottenham volunteer fire department. Wasn’t there anyone on duty?

I knelt over Paul, and he started to come ‘round. His eyes were so wide, wide enough to swallow the room. He let out a scream at the sight of my face and took a swing at me. His pupils were black holes.

“It’s me, it’s me,” I soothed, dodging his fist. He blinked in acknowledgement. “You’ve had a seizure, don’t try to get up.” I gently held him down on the floor. Paul was somewhere between the darkest part of the night and morning. His alarm for work blared in our bedroom, signalling the time as 4:30am.

I heard heavy boots coming down the stairs, it was a group of volunteer fire fighters, beating the ambulance. Echo still stood guard by the bathroom door.

“Does your German Shepard bite, ‘mam?”

“I have no idea, we haven’t had him for long,” I called, not leaving Paul. The new addition to our family had proved his worth as more than just a snuggle companion. One of the fire fighters, took over holding onto the dog.

Before I could find clothing to put on, they had whisked Paul out to the ambulance that had just arrived. I pictured red lights and neighbours gathering out on the street.

“Wait,” I called after the boots climbing the stairs. “I’ll ride with you.” But it was too late. I was left to drive to the country hospital, never knowing where my husband had been or gone, or if he would meet me there when I arrived.

By now, the moon had returned to silver and was disappearing beyond the horizon.