By Any Other Name

This is the story behind the name of this blog – A(nother) Dazzling Darkness. This might should have been the first posting but I had to get my personal discovery of Orville Peck out before I could write anything else.


The fairytale “Rumpelstiltskin” is a naming fable. In it we learn that names have power. Naming something implies control and influence over the one being named. A name can convey purpose and destiny. Picking out a baby’s name is this kind of naming. Getting the name of a diagnosis for an unknown ailment is this kind of naming. Naming songs and other works of art is this kind of naming.

Shakespeare has a different take on names when Juliet says a “rose by any other name would smell as sweet” in the 2nd act of ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ In these cases, there are inherent attributes which are immune to any imposed name. They persevere regardless of whatever outside force might be trying to exert control. The numbering of prisoners is this kind of naming. Prisoners are issued numbers and their names filed away from sight. The goal is dehumanization. But using a number to name a person changes nothing in terms of one’s humanity and personhood. Remembering this truth is key to surviving oppression.

“A dazzling darkness” has deep meaning within western Christian mystical tradition. I’m sure it also has deep meaning in many other traditions about which I am not qualified to speak. For my purposes, I added the tongue in cheek “(another)” to acknowledge how many publications use “dazzling darkness” in their titles. Maybe mine will sift to the top of the pile over time. The deep meaning of “A dazzling darkness” compels me to use it despite its popularity.

When people have an experience of the divine it almost always falls into one of two categories. Usually people experience some form of intensely bright light. The technical term to describe a bright encounter is ‘cataphatic’ – a transliteration of the Greek word for ‘with light.’ Sometimes, however, an encounter with the divine is a beckoning darkness. Or, more paradoxically, a luminous darkness. These experiences are called ‘apophatic’ – ‘against light.’ A bright experience is not “better” than a dark experience or vice versa. Bright experiences, however, are easier to talk about. Apophatic spiritual encounters are notoriously hard to describe.

The 17th century poet Henry Vaughan coined the phrase ‘dazzling darkness’ in the final stanza of his poem “The Night” –

There is in God - some say -
A deep but dazzling darkness, as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
See not all clear.
Oh for that night, where I in Him
Might live invisible and dim!

The more ancient metaphor comes from “The Cloude of Unknowyngh.” The author is, ironically, unknown. It is written in Middle English and dates from the late 14th century. “The Cloud of Unknowing” metaphor conveys a similar idea to the ‘dazzling darkness’ in Henry Vaughan’s poem.

In the post about thin places, I neglected to mention my most profound experience of a “thin place.” It happened not long past midnight on June 15, 2012.

Early in the morning of Thursday, June 14, 2012, I checked in at Northwest Medical Center in Tucson for a cervical fusion procedure. Day surgery. Common. The operation held the promise of ending intense pain in my left arm. My surgeon, Dr Hanks, stopped by briefly to say I’d see him soon. I don’t know the details of what happened that day but I did not see Dr Hanks soon. He wasn’t ready to see me again until 5:30pm.

I was fine and recovering in a hospital room by 10:30pm. My aunt was soon there. My wife and 11 year old daughter had gone home to bed around 9pm. At 11:30pm, my aunt went home with my blessing. I was just parked until I could be discharged the next morning. This was supposed to have been outpatient day surgery.

My room had a direct view of the brightly illuminated nurses station. There was a large school clock mounted on the wall above the door. I woke up around 1:30am. I could see the clock because the door was open. And I was immediately aware I could not breathe.

Okay, I’m exaggerating. I could breath if I exerted every muscle in my diaphragm with all of the strength I could muster. Inhaling was a bit easier than exhaling which I found interesting. The call button was in my hand so I pushed it.

The nurse came quickly. I could not speak and she could not read lips. I put my right hand to my throat to give the international sign for choking. Unfortunately, this was also the precise location of my surgical incision. The nurse inferred that I needed pain medication rather than seeing I could not breathe. Intravenous Dilaudid it would be.

My coping mechanisms tend to be objective and analytical. In the analysis of my plight, I told myself that if I panicked, I would use more oxygen. I centered myself internally. I sang 2 or 3 favorite Episcopal hymn tunes in my mind. I felt an assuring presence. And I even chuckled when I thought how pissed my wife was going to be that I did not get all of our filing and tax work done before I died.

Apparently calm and centered is not the usual state for someone who can’t breathe. What was helpful internally was working against me in the eyes of my beholders. I summoned the nurse 2 more times over the next hour. I got a hit of Dilaudid each time. By 2:30am, I knew I was about to die. There were 2 or 3 people in the room at that point. On my way out, I decided to kick the bedrail to communicate my distress. It turns out brains do unexpected things when under threat. While I only intended to kick once, what the people watching me witnessed was a grand mal seizure.

Inside, I had a sense of invitation. Of beckoning. I realized I was standing at the edge of a cliff with my back to an obsidian and radiating abyss. A persistent voice was saying “It’s okay. Trust. Just let go.” I’ve no sense of how long I pondered my choice. In the end, I did not lay back gently. Instead, I jumped as if off a diving board. I know not why. I don’t remember making any decision to do so. No memory of any particular motivation. I just leapt.

“Obsidian and radiating abyss” is just another name for “a dazzling darkness.” I am certain of it.

I had 2 more brief flashes of consciousness. While in the elevator with the respiratory code team squeezing the bag-valve-mask, I got a momentary glimpse of the elevator ceiling. The evenly spaced rows of round white lights reminded me of the elevator used for the dramatic initial descent in the 1998 movie “Men in Black.” The second moment happened when they administered Narcan in the emergency room. They had taken me to the emergency room because that was the only place in the hospital where they stocked the anti-opiate medication. The working theory was that I had been given too much pain medication. The moment the Narcan hit, I awakened long enough for a red-headed doctor to say I was having breathing trouble but they were fixing it. My telepathic thought was “good luck.”

Nothing after that.

My breathing was not compromised because of a Dilaudid overdose. Instead, an existing condition – adrenal insufficiency – had allowed excess swelling in my airway. As if that weren’t enough, my surgical drain came out during the seizure. This triggered new bleeding inside the surgical site. A large hematoma started to form. “What are the odds” is a question woven throughout my medical history.

Eventually my condition deteriorated to the point of needing to be on a ventilator. In the ICU, however, the endotracheal tube would not pass through my upper airway. The compression and swelling were too tight. After the 3rd attempt they summoned the ENT physician on call – Dr Hu. He arrived to make the 5th attempt. For the 6th attempt, he was using a scope to guide the tube. That was when I coded. Full code. Flatline. Movie drama big needles in the sternum coded.

I can say a few things in hindsight. First, CPR is violent. Matthew, the stocky male nurse on duty, was astride me with a shin on each side of my abdomen. He used every bit of his strength and body weight to compress my sternum. He only took breaks when they discharged the defibrillator paddles on my chest. According to the report I read later, I was clinically dead for 2 minutes 45 seconds.

What followed were several hours of surgery getting a tracheostomy placed and repairing the surgical site. There was a hematoma to deal with and the emergency tracheotomy incision had intersected the surgical site. Lung fluids had drained into the surgical wound and bloody discharge from the surgery site had flowed into my lungs. Dr Hu and Dr Hanks did tag team surgery to put it back together.

Around 7am, Dr Hu was talking to my wife Tammy in an ICU consult room. My oxygenation had been compromised for several hours. They were waiting to see if I was going to wake up. If I woke up, they would evaluate any heart and brain impacts.

Around 7:30am, I opened my eyes. The room was crowded with 5 or 6 men in white coats. My first thought was “I guess they pulled it off.” I then moved my left arm a bit to see if the surgery had worked. No pain. I was thrilled.

When I moved my arm, the red-haired emergency doctor thought I was fighting my restraints. They loosely tie your wrists to the bedrails with gauze to prevent injury if you panic upon waking. He said – loudly – “Don’t try to move. You’re intubated. Your hands are tied.” My second attempted telepathic thought to this doctor was “I’m just checking my arm. I know I'm intubated.”

He asked me to follow commands and to move extremities. The other staff, including Dr Hanks and Dr Hu, watched closely. They were smiling. In the end, they found no cardiac damage and no brain damage. There is still not a clinically satisfying answer for this outcome.

So, yes, my “thinnest” experience is an encounter with “a dazzling darkness.”

I have shared my experience infrequently over the years. When I do, the universal response is befuddlement. Even disapproval. Good people are supposed to go towards the light when they die. This dazzling darkness business sounds dodgy. I’ve learned to avoid the topic.

It is Saturday, March 8, 2025. Ironically I have a 1pm appointment with Dr Hanks on Monday to review a cervical MRI I had this week. I had severe throat pain for several weeks after Christmas. During the wee hours of January 20, 2025 my airway abruptly closed – for a few seconds – three times. I was at the Banner UMC Emergency Room by 5am. Steroids calmed things. The CT scan showed a large bone spur on my bottom cervical vertebra compressing my trachea. The trachea was not compressed enough to block the airway.

Dr Hu was able to see me on the morning of January 22. He ran a scope up my nose and down my windpipe. He could see the red inflamed vocal chords. They are just above the section of the trachea being compressed, close enough to be angry at the incursion. I am likely having vocal chord spasms. Vocal chord spasms are brief, intensely painful, and briefly close off the airway. Just briefly.

Dr Hanks was able to see me on March 4. He examined the CT scan from my emergency room visit. Every one of my cervical vertebrae has a bone spur. Apparently I have a disorder called “Diffuse Idiopathic Skeletal Hyperostosis” which means I’m developing new bone in inconvenient places throughout my body. I’ve learned this can just happen. What are the odds?

The bone spur at C7 pushing on the trachea is extremely large and elongated. The pressure point makes the trachea cross section look like a kidney bean. The only fix is surgery – the same surgery I had in June 2012. The spur is in a difficult location anatomically. Dr Hanks is asking Dr Hu to do the ‘dissection’ which is the unappetizing technical term for “make the incision.” So I’m bringing the old team back together for a reunion gig.

We will be on the lookout for what went wrong in the previous surgery. I’m still preparing, putting myself in a mindset of finding another Zen place if things go south. I don’t think Episcopal hymns will be the music that comes to mind this time. I am certain it will be Orville Peck songs.

I am thinking about what tracks will end up being most helpful. “The Curse of the Blackened Eye” is a good bet given how deeply it has worked it’s way in. I also love “Death Valley High” and the line “spin the wheel and roll the dice” is perfect gallows humor. “Kalahari Down” feels like a very thin place to me. The most melodramatic choice I can think of is “Let me Drown.”

Preparation is a misnomer for this occasion. All planning evaporates in extreme circumstances. The best I can do is what we all do – I’ll take the next step in front of me, crossing my fingers I make it back to tell the tale.