Hobbling over to the planted bicycle machines, I could feel my body protesting in wanted ache. Not only was I tired, I was hurting. No matter, it was only exercise. What possible damage could it do?

I had only just finished the day's fifteen-minute run on an elliptical stationed among ten others at the YMCA. With it still being around ten-o'-clock in the morning, the crowd wasn't at its thickest. I'm glad many hadn't come yet, because I was beat. It was only fifteen minutes, but I shouldn't have been so tired.

I continued to strain against my body, struggling to capture oxygen in each constricted breathe of my diaphragm. Even with the enlarged lungs and breathing technique of a brass instrument player, it was proving to be a rough time.

The floor seemed to be lowering, the walls closing in. At the very least, the sensation crept its way into my eyes, in an occurrence that I can only relate to the tunnel-vision one gets from standing up to quickly after a long sentence of laying down. I stood up from the bicycle machine's seat, and made my way towards the front lobby of the building. There would most likely be more comfortable chairs to rest in up there.

Having now gotten up, my tunnel vision continued to bug me with its presence, prickling the backs of my eyes and challenging my hand-eye coordination. I recall stumbling my way up the shallow steps and into the main lobby, with perhaps only fifty-percent of my vision to aid me.

Plopping down on a large seat, I worked my body into several positions that could advocate comfort or ease of breathing, but it was no use. The walls continued to close on me, and my vision fell away from the avenue to my brain.

Having previously known the location of the man at the front desk, I turned my head toward him and pushed out only a few words, "Excuse me sir".

Sounding like he had already been caught off guard, he responded quickly. "What is it, son?"

"I can't see."