20 years ago, I almost died watching a Robin Williams movie
Marking a personal anniversary.
I had to see the 11 a.m. show of One Hour Photo.
To this day, I don’t know why it felt so important for me to rush to an out-of-the-way theater to see the Robin Williams thriller, but on Aug. 31, 2002, I woke up with that impulse. It was a decision that changed — and may have saved — my life.
I woke later than I wanted that Saturday morning; I was 23 and still lived at home, but my parents were camping for the weekend and everyone else was gone. I’d planned to see One Hour Photo some time that day, but the only theater it was playing at was a good half-hour drive away. There was the 11 a.m. showing and a 1:30 p.m. showing. The easier option would be to take my time, grab some lunch and go to the later show. But something was prodding me to go to the first show of the day.
I gulped down some coffee and drove out to Birmingham, where I parked my car in an out-of-the-way lot and walked a few blocks to the theater. I was feeling a bit out of it that day; kind of weak and having trouble focusing, which I chalked up to a late night and hunger. I bought a bottle of water but didn’t want to spring for food from the concession stand; the movie was already starting, and I could just grab a sandwich after. I sipped my water and walked to the auditorium.
I honestly don’t know that I could give a fair assessment of the Mark Romanek film, which stars Robin Williams as a photo developer who develops an intense and potentially dangerous relationship with a family that frequents his store. I remember that Williams’ performance is one of his more interesting, lonely and uncomfortable, with a suggestion of menace. The film itself is unsettling, and goes places that I did not expect. But my focus kept being robbed by the fact that it was increasingly clear that something was wrong with me.
Like I said, I awoke tired and groggy. As I took my seat, I felt weakness heading in, but dismissed it with a reminder to hit the Subway down the block afterward. I watched the film, but it felt clearer throughout that something was off. I considered leaving and going home to take a nap but waved it away. I was tired and hungry, I rationalized, and I could take care of that as soon as the film was over.
As the film’s climax settled in, I realized that my left arm didn't feel right. I couldn’t seem to get it to behave and open my water bottle. I assumed it had gone to sleep. When the credits rolled, I stood up to walk out and received my first hint that something was seriously wrong. The entire left side of my body felt unresponsive. I could lift my leg up enough to move forward, but I couldn’t point my foot in the right direction. My left arm was swinging uselessly at my side. I bumbled out of the auditorium, slamming my shoulder into the door on the way out.
It was clear to me by this point that I was in no shape to drive at the moment, but I figured I would just sit down and let it pass. I stumbled to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I felt dizzy and confused. I looked into the mirror and tried to smile; the right corner of my mouth obeyed, but the left drooped down. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good.
I limped back to the lobby and sat down on a bench. A trailer for a comedy played on a TV screen a few feet away and I laughed at it; I stopped quickly, when I realized my laugh sounded off, echoing through a head that felt like it was spinning. I pulled my glasses off my face and rubbed my eyes; it took me five tries to get them back on my face. I noticed my shoe was untied; I attempted to fix it and couldn’t even move the lace correctly. Something was wrong, I was at the theater all by myself, and I had no clue what to do. I walked as best as I could over to a nearby drinking fountain, sipped some water through my curled lip and stood there for a moment contemplating my next move. That’s when I fell.
I never lost consciousness, but I still don’t know how long I was on that lobby floor, kernels of popcorn just a few feet from my face. I was in a tucked-away portion of the lobby, and it was early afternoon on a Saturday, so the theater was nearly empty. I lay there for a few minutes, occasionally trying to get up but quickly learned my bum arm and leg wouldn’t support me. I reached for my phone, but I already knew dialing a number would be helpless. I called out for help, but my voice was weak.
After a few minutes, a young girl walked over on her way to the restroom. I called out to her, asking for help, terrified by the way my voice slurred and sloshed. “Lil’ guuhrll, can ooh pleash get an usshha?” She ran off, and I wasn’t sure if she was getting help or if I’d scared her off. Thankfully, it was the former, and a group of people gathered around a few seconds later, asking my name and if there was anything I could do. I protested that I just needed something to eat and I’d be fine, but thankfully they must have known the situation was more serious than that. They called 911 and, since my parents were out of town, contacted my grandfather. A few moments later, an ambulance arrived and took me to a nearby hospital.
The story gets fairly anticlimactic from there. Within an hour of arriving to the hospital, I could stand up again and walk around a few feet, even though my voice still slurred a bit. They ordered a CT scan and some blood tests, and I sat with my grandfather in the ER waiting for my parents to arrive. I was admitted to the hospital that evening and spent a week undergoing a battery of heart tests, brain tests, spinal taps and MRIs. My health cleared quickly; I was speaking normally within 24 hours and I didn’t have any recurrences. By the time I checked out five days later, the doctors had enough information to know it was either the onset of multiple sclerosis or a stroke. Two weeks later, a neurologist confirmed that the spinal tap was negative for MS and that a stroke was the most likely option, even though my cholesterol was fine and I had no clots.
Twenty years later, there’s no official word on why my brain went on the fritz while watching a Robin Williams movie. One neurologist suggested that it was likely a freak accident, and that a blood vessel in my neck may have gotten pinched, cutting off the blood flow the same way a hose cuts off the water when you crimp it. Fifteen years later, I was diagnosed with sleep apnea, which I’m fairly certain I’ve had since I was a teenager, and my hunch is that might have caused it. There have been no lasting physical effects; my health is good, my cholesterol and blood pressure normal. I took blood thinners as a precaution for about a year and, after that, began a daily aspirin regimen. I know I was lucky to be out at the theater when this occurred; being able to get to a hospital quickly probably kept this from becoming too severe. Had I been home alone, who knows what would have happened or when someone would have been able to help.
But the day was easily one of the most impactful of my life. It kicked off a long struggle with anxiety that I still battle today. For a year or two following, I suffered regular panic attacks when I would leave the home. Going to the movies was next to impossible for a bit; I’d leave the theater just to take some deep breaths. I’m convinced that this jump-started my social anxiety, as collapsing on the floor of a public place is a good way to feel pretty awkward. One night, at home alone, I became so overcome with anxiety that I paced around a coffee table for two hours trying to calm my nerves. Shortly after, I talked to my doctor about anti-anxiety medication, and it helped greatly.
It’s easy to look at that day as one of the worst of my life, but there have been upsides. When the stroke occurred, I was pretty aimless in life. I’d graduated college a year earlier with a journalism degree and wasn’t doing much. I was working in a call center for a mobile phone company, and while I didn’t enjoy the job, I kept it because the pay was decent. I was happy to stay there, live with my parents and not do much with my life. I think the health scare caused me to reconsider where things were going. Less than a year later, I moved out and got an apartment with a friend.
It would still be a few years before I left that call center job, but the incident revealed how much I was wasting my potential as a writer. I looked for opportunities to do some freelance work and eventually started a blog, taking the early steps toward what would ultimately be a long career in writing and editing. Two decades down the road, I can see that the reminder of mortality instilled in me a mentality that said I needed to care about the things I did. I realized early on that we’re not guaranteed our health.
For awhile, that Aug. 31 date was a harsh reminder each year and, as it approached, I would steel myself for flashbacks and panic attacks. They started to dissipate after about five years, but that date was always a stark reminder of a bad moment. But in 2009, that date was redeemed. I began dating a girl who would go on to become my wife. Her birthday? Aug. 31. Now that day in our household is set aside to celebrate her and, aside from milestone years like this, I only think of it as my stroke anniversary in passing.
I don’t know why I wrote all this. I think twenty years on, it was cathartic. I think it’s important to look back on those days. And, it’s a weird movie-related even in my life. I’m happy it never became as bad as it could have been; I’m thankful that I’ve remained pretty health.
But I still haven’t been able to bring myself to revisit One Hour Photo.