opinion
Andrew Miller: The story of how I almost died and how my body responded with fight or flight

Some years ago, I foolishly bought a nice car. Maybe it was a midlife crisis, or just a crisis. I don’t have it anymore. I was running late again — this time, ironically, for a funeral. The dead don’t care about punctuality, but I was in a hurry. City folk — especially those of us tainted by testosterone — often underestimate the time it takes to get to small country towns. We forget that the road surface can be pitted and potholed — especially on the tree-lined edges — the routes are winding, and overtaking opportunities are short and few. The conditions often mandate driving well below the speed limit. Mister Parker, the sheep-dog man, lived to a good age, but his death marked the close of a cherished chapter. A light misting rain seemed appropriately sombre for goodbyes, but it added an unwelcome sheen to the coarse-chip asphalt, while making the windscreen hardly wet enough for the shuddering wipers. After cresting a small rise, the road dropped into an off-camber, tightening left-hand bend. I ran wide mid-turn, trying to wash off speed but wary of jabbing the brakes. A rigid truck came hurtling and shaking the other way, as my driver-side wheels ran hard against the double white lines. I could feel the car squirming — its electronics struggling to maintain grip — as I fixed my eyes on the horizon and whitened my knuckles. It was a coin toss — a junction in time. In an instant, the future we had always expected can be snatched away by a careless act, chance, or someone crossing the lines. Like a giant world power suddenly listing toward authoritarianism — everything hangs in the balance, and we hold our breath, stunned. I don’t know whether the truck driver deftly swung onto the rough edge to miss me by a whisker — or whether God just didn’t want this weed in her garden — but I found myself on straight road, rolling to a stop as my heart pounded in my throat. I pulled over, killed the engine, and bucolic silence flooded in. When our brain apprehends danger — real or perceived — the amygdala signals our sympathetic nervous system to enter a flight-or-fight state. This primal response is involuntary, instantaneous and unpleasant. The chromaffin cells of both adrenal glands receive a message to dump catecholamines — adrenaline and noradrenaline — straight into the blood stream. Consequently, the heart contracts faster and harder, and our blood pressure jumps. We begin to hyperventilate, and our pupils dilate. Blood is diverted from our skin and gut to go instead to our muscles and heart, leaving us ashen-faced and queasy. In critical care of patients with problems like septic shock or anaphylaxis we infuse adrenaline or similar drugs to support blood pressure. We block the same pathways with antagonist drugs if blood pressure spikes dangerously. I sat at the side of the road, waiting for the adrenaline to fade. The pulse pounding in my chest and temples settled, but my hands shook for a while. I arrived at the funeral in time to stand outside between dripping umbrellas, after the hymns but before the shuffling handshakes, hugs, and nods to those not seen for years. Humans have a fundamental need for ceremony. We turn up to touch our common emotional foundations, underscored by the closest things we have to permanence: familiar trees; the old church; the laughter lines around the old folks’ eyes, and the tears of people who have endured so much, yet still give more. I paid my respects to Jim the dog-whisperer, and the origins of good things. As I went to leave, a local farmer was leaning against his ute, having a smoke. “Nice car — bet it goes?” he asked. “Probably a bit too quick for me, to be honest” I said. He squinted at me, nodding slowly. The look on his face said, “Jeez city people are strange.”

opinionAndrew Miller: The story of how I almost died and how my body responded with fight or flight

opinion
Andrew Miller: The story of how I almost died and how my body responded with fight or flight