As I'm sitting in the doctors office, waiting for Stephanie and Jones the doctor approaches me. Apparently there are some tests that need to be done to me as well; nothing to get worried about, just precautionary. She lays be down on one of those super high tech hospital beds, the kind with all the hydraulic lifts and buttons that turn on the T.V. and close the blinds.
She wastes no time getting me all geared up: Oxygen mask? Check! Safety glasses? Check! Helmet? Check! She then positions herself around to the head of the bed and with all the strength she can muster, from underneath the bed, she reaches up and around wraps her arms across my head. Before I have a chance to think about what is happening the bed starts to move. My head is lowered, my feet are raised, I go from seeing the ceiling, then the wall behind me, now I'm seeing the floorboard. I grab the handrails on the bed and not a second too soon. Before I know it the floor is looking me square in the face. I don't know how, or even why, these beds can do this but I am completely upside down, and holding on for dear life might I add. The bed slowly makes its rotation back to normal laying position.
I barely get a little breather in when the doctor tells me she's going to need to conduct a stress test. The bed starts moving again, but this time it's being raised toward the ceiling. I had forgotten that the doctor was under the bed, or that she was even holding my head down but she was most definitely still there, and judging by the death grip she had on my head I don't think her feet were on the floor anymore. We kept moving higher and higher. I had my eyes closed because of the immense pressure on my head but then something smashed my face. Nose first, I was pushing up one of the acoustic tiles that made up the ceiling.
The bed stopped and the doctor, still hanging from the head of the bed, yells something at me. I really can't hear her though, for one because my head was on the other side of the ceiling, but now there was an incredibly loud box fan blowing right in my ear.
I yell back at her, "WHAT?!"
"TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU CAN PICTURE!!!!"
Everything I can picture? What does that even mean? Everything I can see? I guess. I see a florescent light fixture to my right, the little metal rail the holds the ceiling tiles up, the ceiling tile that my face is being smashed into, another metal rail, another ceiling tile that has a fire sprinkler coming out of it, another metal rail and to my far left another florescent light fixture.
The doctor lets the bed down, has me sit up and says, "How do you feel?"
Seriously? I didn't really feel all that stressed throughout that whole episode but I was a little freaked out.
I tell the doctor, "Fine."
She needed to step out of the room and calculate my results. As I'm looking around the room I notice a giant gob of pink bubble gum stuck to the ceiling. It was stuck to the light fixture that was to my right.
"How did I miss that?" I know that wasn't there when I was up there. "I totally failed the test!"
The doctor comes back into the room with a very serious face. I knew it, I failed. Heart attack, stroke, high cholesterol, what could it be?
She gives me the diagnosis, "It looks like you have a pretty serious case of hyperventilation."
Oh no! I don't believe it! It can't be, my heart wasn't beating fast and I know I wasn't breathing that hard. She explains to me that my family records show a pretty serious run of hyperventilation in my whole family - my dad's side.
It's a hard pill to swallow, but I'm on medication now, and my dad is going in for a test next week. Hopefully we can get a hold on this so the next generation won't suffer the way we have.

For 5 seconds my camera allowed me to review this picture before the screen went to black again. But a 5 second review was all I needed to see, and to know, that there was light here. When all I can see is a nearly pitch black room, through the right eyes there is abundant light to be seen.