His balance swayed. His consciousness faded. His knees buckled. Before I could fathom what was happening, he was on the floor of the bathroom. His entire body shook and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
Heart attack? Seizure? Low blood pressure? Fainting? I didn’t know what was happening, and it all happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to think.
I screamed. My entire body shook. I burst into hysterics.
"Farhad!!!!!" I yelled. "Farhad!!!!!"
Tears poured down my face.
By the second scream, he snapped out of it. His eyes darted around the room, as if he didn’t know how or why he got there. His and my eyes connected, and his face reflected the ghostly shade of white across mine. We broke down. Hard. Short of breath and frightened, but together and holding each other this time.
This was the scene last night. It was in the early morning, many hours after Farhad threw out his back. He was unable to walk, and barely able to move. We attempted to make it to the bathroom, but the pain was too high to bear. His body shut down.
As we checked in with doctors, one of whom thankfully happened to be staying with us, and tucked him back into bed, a rush of emotions flowed through me. It was just earlier that I shared with a friend my debilitating fear of something happening to him. And here I was now, confronted with that possibility.
I kissed his forehead, his cheek, his eye, his chest, his shoulder, his arm… grateful that he didn’t hit his head on the glass wall. Grateful that he quickly snapped out of it. Grateful that he was falling fast asleep. Hopeful that we would wake up tomorrow with the scare behind us.
Hours later, my mind calmed and my eyes felt heavy. My hand held his tightly as every ounce of me sent love and healing to the man I love deeply.
"This is what love is all about," is the last thought I remember before falling asleep. "And no moment can ever be taken for granted." (at DUMBO, Brooklyn)