She Who Wrote Delirious...

My doctors mentioned I had survived by some miracle. I don’t know how true that is, but I certainly felt like I danced with death, lingering in its arms a little too long, flirting

My mother used to say I was like a cat with nine lives.

But I passed that ninth near-death experience long ago, and now I can’t help but wonder how many lives this cat has left.

It would be easy to say that this was the closest brush with death—though I’m not entirely sure — That time the riptide dragged me under, pulling me into the ocean’s depths until I lost consciousness, with no one around to save me… that was close too.

But this... this was different. This was the longest caress of the veil between worlds I’ve ever had. The most excruciating, the most debilitating—and yet, somehow, the sweetest and most tender.

I had just finished the first run of the mermaid theater play—a performance that nearly gave me another flirt with death when my 45-kilo silicone tail filled with water and almost dragged me down the 72-meter cenote. Neither of the two divers beneath me, nor the lifeguard, noticed my silent struggle. The director later remarked, “You nearly-drowned so gracefully, we didn’t even notice.” In a twisted way, it was humorous. We performed eight shows every day, all day long. Two bones in my toes broke, and the skin over them tore open, but I didn’t realize the extent of the damage until we wrapped the final show. Only then did I allow myself the luxury of rest and the time to examine the injury. Until then I ignored the pain and kept moving forward, like ballet had taught me to do.

As I watched the second mermaids, my replacements, constantly struggle and eventually quit (and as they now keep postponing the next season because they can’t find anyone who can handle the physical demands of the show), I started to wonder: maybe I lost the line long ago—the line that tells you when to stop. I don’t know how to stop. I’ve always pushed through, no matter the pain, the exhaustion, the broken bones, or the wounds. There’s something deep in my mind that equates not pushing through with weakness. When I discovered this I explored that part of myself, trying to find where the line should be, the point where I should ask for a break. But I couldn’t find it.

Tino often says I would rather die than give up, and there’s probably truth in that. Maybe that’s why I’ve brushed so closely against the edges of death so many times—because I’ve forgotten how to surrender, or how to notice when my body simply can’t anymore.

Strange things began to happen during this time. My engagement ring—this beautiful, intricate piece that was supposed to symbolize something unbreakable—broke in the most mysterious way. It has a striking green apatite at the center, flanked by two delicate diamonds on either side, all set in gold. But one day, one of the gold prongs that held a diamond just… snapped. No warning, no apparent reason. The diamond fell away.

I can’t quite understand it; it shouldn’t have happened, its gold after all. The ring seemed sturdy, perfect. And yet, it wasn’t. I still wonder if that was a sign—subtle, quiet, but unmistakable. Maybe some things that are supposed to be solid can crack in ways you never expect.

Traveling all the way North, deep into the desert, wasn’t exactly pleasant with broken toes. But even in pain, it was magical. I visited my family, reconnecting with my roots—both the white and the red.

My uncle took me to his home, nestled far up in the mountains, surrounded by buttes, canyons, mesas, and caves. This is where my great-grandfather, along with 25 other men, founded a small village in the wild '20s. I’d never seen anything like it—the desert and forest colliding in a way so raw, so exquisite, it felt almost intimate, like two forbidden lovers entwined against the odds.

“There was a mama bear with her three cubs the other day,” my uncle told me, before showing me the most heartwarming video from his surveillance camera. Here, bears roam freely alongside pumas, rattlesnakes, coyotes, boars, the occasional lonely wolf and everything else deadly. I loved it. There’s a wildness in the air, something that calls to a primal part of me.

About the rattlesnakes, though, my uncle was more serious. It was breeding season, and they were everywhere. He warned me to be careful because we were so far from civilization that if one bit me, the only rescue would be by helicopter—at least two hours away. Not enough time. He asked me not to seek them out.

So, of course, I went looking for them.

But no matter how many bushes I rustled or rocks I turned over, I couldn’t find a single rattlesnake. Everyone swore they were everywhere—hundreds, even thousands. Yet somehow, not one appeared for me. Instead, I came across a sleek, black snake refreshing herself in a puddle. It was as if she noticed me, gliding toward me in quiet recognition, almost granting me permission to lift her from the earth. So I did.

Later, we stumbled upon the unmistakable imprint of a puma’s paw—just like the ones my uncle’s surveillance cameras often captured on video. And just like that, night fell, darker and quieter than anything I’ve ever known, wrapping us in its deep, unsettling stillness.

The thought of living in a place so vast, so untamed and dangerous, thrilled me to my core. It felt nourishing, like a raw and visceral yet warm energy filling my bones. I began to wonder if trimming the claws and dulling the fangs of nature, as we’ve done in our modern world, had been a mistake—for our souls, for our hearts. I imagined the winters here—icy, unforgiving, with thick snow and predators driven by hunger—and I nearly abandoned everything just to stay, to become a part of it.

It reminded me of a storm I once faced in the Northern Sea, in Europe. The ocean black as charcoal, its waves ferocious. The wind was so brutal it whipped sand against my skin, like a million tiny blades cutting through the air. When I finally reached the top of a cliff, there was only one other person there, a Scandinavian man who had also fought his way through the storm. Together, we stood in silence, watching the wild sea rage beneath us. One wrong step and we would be lost to the abyss, I wondered if my body would even be found or if the ocean would immediately claim it. And then he spoke, saying there was a word in his language for what we were feeling. It wasn’t quite fear, but close—something deeper, a blend of fear, awe, respect and reverence.

That’s what I felt as night descended on the mountains. I wondered if the mama bear with her cubs was nearby, if she could smell me. I wondered if the puma was stalking, hungry or intimidated, if the rattlesnakes would finally emerge, lying hidden in the path where my feet might tread. My veins pulsed with life, every sense heightened. The presence demanded of me in that moment was absolute. I had to be fully here, fully now—immersed in that same mixture of fear, awe, respect and reverence.

And then I was stung by something. The pain wasn’t bad at all, so I didn’t even bother to stop walking, just as I had with so many other stings before. I’d let them come and go from my body without much thought—the stingray, up until that moment, being the most painful of them.

A few days passed, maybe a week or two, and then it started.

It began as a unbearable coldness, though my body has always run a little too cold. My temperature usually hovers between 35 and 36 degrees Celsius, so shivering wasn’t unfamiliar to me. But this time, no amount of blankets or closeness to the fire could warm me, nothing could take the ice out of my veins. I was freezing.

And then came the fever. I was boiling, then freezing, then boiling again.

And then the pain. Every… single… tissue in my body ached.

Next came the fatigue. I couldn’t get out of bed. My body felt as if it had been drained of all its strength.

And then came the sweating—so much sweating, night after night, soaking through the blankets and into the mattress until everything was drenched.

Then the confusion. It felt like I was drunk or high, a constant haze clouding my thoughts, with no way to escape it.

Then the migraines, sharp and relentless.

And then, then came the delirium.

I began to fear sleep. Every time I drifted off, I was pulled into brutal fever dreams—vivid, violent, and relentless. When exhaustion won during the day, it was even worse: sleep paralysis. Four days and nights passed where I barely slept at all, and I couldn’t eat a single bite. It was as if my body had forgotten how to swallow food; everything repulsed me. Only water, which I drank endlessly, only to sweat it out into the soaked mattress.

Then came the tachycardia, the erratic heartbeat, and the deep, wrenching kidney cramps.

And then came the worst night of all—the one where I could no longer resist the pull of sleep. I succumbed, both during the day and again at night. This time, the sleep paralysis was different. I left my body. I became someone else. And then… I died. And only through death I woke up from the paralysis.

That night, everything hit me at once with a force so intense, so merciless, there aren’t words I know that can capture it, or organize the chaos of it, or truly describe the madness that unfolded in my dream. But I’ll try.

Every color I had ever seen in my life—every shade, every hue—was there, brighter, more vivid than I ever thought possible, they flooded my mind, blinding me with their intensity. And every voice I had ever heard was talking, no, shouting at me all at once. Voices from childhood, voices of strangers, whispers of the dead, shouts of the living, all overlapping, a deafening roar that drowned out any sense of reality. There were so many people, so many things, the space around me felt impossibly crowded, as if the entire universe had collapsed into that single moment and space.

I was suffocating in it—this violent, dizzying assault on my senses—and yet, I fought ferociously. I fought them all with all of my strength. I tried to run, but there was nowhere to run where they wouldn’t follow. I swung at the voices, at the colors, at the faces swarming me, clawing and thrashing to escape it, but every blow I landed led me to more intensity They kept coming, closing in on me, wave after wave of sound, light, and presence.

My mind screamed for release, for silence, for stillness. But none came. I kept fighting, kept running, kept trying to destroy and kill what was closing in on me, but it was impossible to free myself. And so I fought more—wild, desperate, like a feral animal. And the more I fought, the deeper I sank into the nightmare, the more everything around me swelled in intensity, as if trying to swallow me whole.

Apparently, at some point, I woke up in the haze of my fever and delirium and asked for my blue sapphire necklace to be brought to me. I put it on, though I had no memory of this until a few days ago. I had bought that necklace over a decade ago, vowing to wear it only on the most special day of my life. Until that night, I had never worn it. When I first bought it I was young, so I imagined maybe wearing it on my wedding day, which seems almost laughable now. Later when I was pregnant, eight years ago, I thought I’d wear it during childbirth — but I didn’t.

And yet, somehow, in the midst of my fevered dreams, I asked for it—demanded it—and wore it. A beg summoned from the depths of my delirium. I collapsed back into sleep, returning to that violent world, still fighting for a few more hours.

Until I saw them. And I heard them.

It was my ancestors. They smiled at me, with my grandfather Manuel leading the way. He spoke in the softest voice I had ever heard from him, a tenderness I had never known. He told me they knew I was exhausted, that they saw the pain I was in. And then, gently, they offered me a choice. They told me it was okay to let go if I wanted to. They would be there. They would guide me. It was my decision.

And for a moment, I considered it. It was intoxicatingly tempting, a delicious and delightful proposal. I was drained—physically, mentally, emotionally. I had nothing left. I was ready to leave it all behind. I wanted to say yes.

But, I said no and thanked them for their generous offer.

I kept fighting, pushing just a little longer, until every last bit of strength had been drained from me and there was nothing left to give. I was utterly broken, finally shattered beyond repair. And so, I gave in and gave up—allowing myself be devoured by everything, swallowed by the unspeakable horrors that followed, and then by the deep, endless void of darkness. It was quiet, so quiet. There was nothing. And then, I became the nothingness. I was the darkness itself.

And I was free.

What happened next in my dream is too intimate to share in full, but I will say this: beauty and bliss are such small, pale words for what I experienced. They don’t even come close.

There was a voice, a woman’s voice, speaking to me—filling me with wisdom, sharing answers to questions I didn’t even know I’d been carrying. Everything was laid bare, nothing left unanswered. Yet even there, I fought. I fought against the darkness outside myself, the darkness of the world.

It feels almost embarrassing to admit, but in that moment, I learned something: I’m not a bad person, as I’ve always thought. Maybe, just maybe, I’m good. Maybe I’m not evil. Because gosh, did I fight and gave everything I had and more just to get rid of a darkness that didn’t belong to me anymore, after I swore I would stop fighting.

And then, at the peak of my dream, after reaching the most profound, soul-shattering realizations, my mind bursting with the weight of it all—I opened my eyes. I woke up.

Like the nights before, my nightgown was soaked with sweat, as if I’d been pushed under a shower. But this time, for the first time in days, I got up. I stood on my own. I wasn’t cold, I wasn’t burning. I glanced at the clock—it was somewhere between 2 and 3 in the morning. I took a few steps, left my bedroom, and walked into the garden. Deeper still, I moved into the trees where the forest began. Why wasn’t I freezing? Why wasn’t my body boiling? Why wasn’t I shivering or feeling the crushing pain in my skull? Where had the agony gone?

I laid down in the mud, my belly against the earth, and closed my eyes. For the first time in what felt like an eternity—silence. Peace. I felt healthy.

Of course, I wasn’t. By morning, I realized many of my symptoms remained, but they were a shadow of what they had been. The intensity was gone, diminished. For that moment, I had finally found my reprieve.

And then my test results came back.

My liver was damaged. My kidneys were damaged (but they’ve been for years). My lungs were damaged. My heart was damaged. My doctor suspects Rocky Mountain Fever was to blame, though she can’t say for certain.

I hadn’t received any treatment, no medication to combat whatever was ravaging my body. I had simply—and unknowingly—endured it, brushing it off until the moment came when I could barely think, allowing it to run its course.

The sting I got that night in the desert still hasn’t fully healed, and the blisters from my broken toes? They only closed up this week, two months later. I still can’t believe the bones healed faster than the skin.

My lungs and liver seem back to normal, or so I believe. For weeks, the only remaining evidence of that month in bed was the relentless tachycardia and arrhythmias, as if I had a hummingbird instead of a heart. But even that has finally gone. Only my kidneys sting a bit every once in a while, but, as I said, they’ve been broken for years.

At least three times, my doctors mentioned I had survived by some miracle. I don’t know how true that is, but I certainly felt like I danced with death, lingering in its arms a little too long, flirting, sharing a kiss or two. I’ve been bitten, stung, and battered by everything imaginable—yet never, ever had I felt this wretched.

But this was also one of the greatest gifts of my life, a profound blessing. When I emerged from that dream, I was someone new, as if I had broken free from a shell I hadn’t realized I was trapped in. I carried with me a deeper understanding, a surge of life that hadn’t been there before. The woman I was did die that night—so I could be born, heightened.

Tino told me the other day I could have been a fierce, fearless warrior—if only I had a body less frail. It made me wonder: is my body truly frail, or is it strong? On one hand, it has survived the bite of the world’s most poisonous spider, not once, but three times, and I came out unscathed, without treatment. It has endured the venom of poisonous snakes, brushed off Lyme disease so effortlessly that I was asymptomatic… My body has been through countless accidents, each time enduring, surviving. It has borne so much.

And yet, there is undeniable frailty. My kidneys have been weakening for years, failing to filter my blood properly. My knees, ravaged by injuries, are now completely stripped of cartilage. My injured spine aches. There is always a steady, relentless pain that never truly leaves me. Every day, something hurts—sometimes a dull, manageable or unnoticeable throb, other times a sharp reminder of my body’s… fragility? So, what am I? Strong or frail?

In my dream — On that fevered night of delirium — my ancestors offered me a gift, they told me they weren’t sure if my body could handle it, but I accepted without hesitation. By the end of the dream, they revealed what the gift was, right before I opened my eyes.

Since then, as a strange side effect, I haven’t felt the cold again. Not on rainy nights, not when everyone around me is bundled in sweaters and coats. The chill that once gripped me so easily no longer touches me.

And so I bath myself in that sweet blend of awe, respect and reverence.