Sick Days

The day started out normal. Then I passed out.

My companions by this time were Elders Hoskins and Masi. Hoskins had replaced Findlay for my third transfer in Crownpoint, and Masi had joined our companionship after his companion (Serial Killer Allen) had rolled their truck, resulting in the temporary expulsion of elders from Pueblo Pintado. (You can't have a  set of elders two hours from anywhere else, without paved roads, without a truck.)

The day's activities included service for a Navajo family with a large pile of trash in their backyard. This was the rez, so you could burn gigantic piles of trash with impunity. The police might even stop by and help you set the desert on fire. We had a fire about five feet high when a profound tiredness settled over me. Tiredness is a regular part of a missionary's life, but this was different.

Time ran like a broken clock after that.

The column of smoke expanded and contracted. Glass bottled popped. The sky got bigger.

Elder Masi: "Hey, dude, what's wrong?"

Elder Hoskins: "Elder Kunz! You okay?"

The ground rushed at me.

I clawed the dirt, trying to stand.

I remember the trip back to our trailer, but only in hazy strings of disconnected memories: Elder Hoskins calling President Koyle, me trying to eat a potato chip but forgetting about it with my hand halfway to my mouth, the decision (without me) to drive to the Farmington hospital.

In the hospital, I regained some cogency. The doctors plumbed my spinal cord in search of some telltale sign. They took my blood. They looked me over with glittering instruments. They found nothing.

"It's all in his head," I overheard Elder Hoskins telling Elder Masi.

There was no doubt about that. And that was what made it even scarier.