The Hornets’ Nest: A Meditation on Death, Running, and Writing

W— hen I died—almost— We go to these near-death experiences hoping to learn what is on the other side. Three summers ago, I was stung by a bald-nosed hornet, having bent down to see how my hollyhocks fared, little seedlings, then standing up quickly when my son called from the swing. I caught it inside my hand—the thing that did the stinging—brought it inside, and sat at the kitchen table. I remember the light from the window on the worn wood as my fingers uncurled, the hornet lying against the deep line. Then my head was on the table and the light on the wood shimmered as my breath snagged, then faded, shot through with silver static.

Anaphylactic shock can kill someone in less than ten minutes, and the onset is faster and more severe the second time. This was my second time.

I remember mostly the moments of coming back. My husband’s hands slapping my cheeks. His eyes hazing into focus. I could see the dark gray line around his green iris, the red veins radiating and throbbing. “Why are you yelling at me?” I whispered. Later, coming to with my body slumped partway inside the car, the door open. His arms lifting my slack legs roughly. I said before I slid under, “I won’t make it. Call—” And then he was holding me upright on the toilet, my head having fallen against the wall, the shivering shape of my son in the door. I began gasping then to keep the threads, panting, “when, when?” and then my back was on the linoleum in the front hall and people were bending over me and a needle went in. Those are the moments of consciousness. But there were other moments. I can only recall where the edges blued, blurred. I think of the warming space between the seeds and the air, where the dew first begins to take form. I try to call that pre-condensation back.