The Best Time I Thought I Was Going to Die Alone in Punta Cana

by Bex Schwartz

I love to travel, despite being one of the more accident- and injury-prone people you could ever encounter. I’ve visited clinics in three different countries for emergency sinus infection treatment (Barbados, Costa Rica, and Thailand). I was bitten by a donkey in Bonaire. I broke a toe in Paris. The Dead Sea in Jordan made my nipples burn and I had to find a special ointment. I am pretty awesome.

I’ve been suffering from chronic sinus pain for about eight years, and I came down with a severe sinus infection right before I went to Iceland in February. Ever since I returned, I’ve had a migraine every day, which is no fun! A constant migraine gets in the way of being a normal person and having a life, and so I reluctantly went to my sinus doctor’s office, where she shoved a giant thing into my face (when I freaked out at the sight of it, she actually said “Just the tip!” I’ve heard that before, lady). and told me I couldn’t postpone surgery any longer. So I decided to take a last minute spontaneous vacation to Punta Cana, to get in some good snorkeling before starting an intense month of post-production at work and then having surgery inside my face.

I have no qualms with traveling alone, and I highly recommend it. Just, you know — be smart. Don’t get drunk and wander around dark alleys. Maybe don’t get too drunk, period. Because if you (meaning me) are backpacking through Southeast Asia or snorkeling in Belize, you’re there to explore and probably not to party. If you are me, then you are also backpacking through Southeast Asia and sort of having a nervous breakdown about the death of your mother, so partying is not on your mind. Anyway. I like being alone in foreign countries, and I like to snork at fish and turtles, so booking a spontaneous vacation to the Dominican Republic sounded like a great idea.

And it was really fun! I sunburned my boobs and met a lot of pilots and learned all the secrets of the airline industry. And everything was hunky dory until my last night of vacation. I finished reading my book and was toying with the idea of getting a drink and going to the Beach Party (my hotel threw Beach Parties, I don’t know) when it suddenly felt like a giant knitting needle was being shoved through my eye and straight through the back of my brain. I am no stranger to migraines, but this one was different. It was only on the right side of my face, and it was like no pain I have ever felt before. It was worse than when I had my tonsils out, worse than when I’d been hospitalized for my chronic tummy condition, worse than any other major migraine I’d ever had. And so, of course, I thought I was dying.

I mean, I am familiar with migraine pain! I was coping with a constant migraine until I went away, but this pain was like nothing in the world. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my right eye was all drooping and red. And so, because I thought I was having an aneurysm, I tried to email my best friends to tell them my hotel name and room number in case they didn’t hear from me the next morning. I guess I was thinking: I didn’t want to alert my dad that I was dying, but I wanted my friends to know where I was staying in case I didn’t tweet the next morning so that my dad would know where to get my body? I normally send my itinerary to my father, but this trip was such a whirlwind that I totally spaced. Which was stupid — STUPID. When you travel alone, you should make sure people at home at least have a general idea of where you’re going to be and when.

And so. The pain escalated until it felt like there were at least 45 knitting needles shoved into my eye and penetrating to the very back of my brain. Let’s also say that these knitting needles were on fire. And we can add that they were full of venom from very angry snakes. I tried to visualize the knitting needles dissipating into little puffs of purple pixie dust, but that didn’t work. (Headache coping skills require a lot of hippie-dippie visualization stuff. Don’t knock it.) So, of course, I decided that I was going to die of an aneurysm, all alone, in my hotel room in Punta Cana. A friend’s boyfriend died suddenly of an aneurysm when he was my age, so I was pretty convinced this was it.

At that point, it hurt too much to look at my phone anymore, so I couldn’t type another email. So I grabbed the pen and notepad next to my bed and scribbled: If I am dead, call Bob Schwartz at XXX-XXX-XXXX. Then I lay down and tried to deal with the pain. I pounded a Diet Coke because caffeine often helps migraines, although by this point I was convinced that I was having an aneurysm or a stroke. And I started to think about what it was going to mean if I died alone in Punta Cana. Who would cut my spots? I’d be leaving my job in such a lurch! And how would my family cope? And who would take care of my cat?

I knew there was a doctor somewhere on site at the resort, but I didn’t think I was capable of walking there myself. And then I thought that if I called the front desk and told them I was having an aneurysm, they would probably call an ambulance and take me to a hospital. I only speak un poquito of Español because I studied French for five years, which was a foolish choice, and the idea of being in a hospital in the Dominican Republic trying to explain “I am having an aneurysm but I have to get back to NYC because I have to cut the image campaign for season two of Single Ladies on VH1” was way too much for me to handle. I got as far as “cabeza es mal” but I wasn’t sure about the conjugation since I never studied the language, and so I didn’t call the hotel.

By this point, I should note that I was probably insane. If you look up cluster headaches, which is what I think I had, you will learn that they are also called “suicide headaches” because the pain makes sufferers want to kill themselves. And so, I was not in any sort of right mind, but it made sense to write a bullet pointed list of things I was sorry about and/or regretted. I scrawled out a few thoughts: I was sorry I was leaving Lindsay to host Picnic Club alone; I was sorry I wouldn’t be able to throw Josh a going-away party; I was sorry I never told that one guy how I really felt about him. I left my cat to Josh. I left my stuff to my friends. I wrote out all these regrets and things I felt horrible about, and then, for whatever reason, I pinned this note to my bra. And then I passed out.

I woke up a few hours later, and the pain was better. It felt like a few burning knitting needles instead of 45 or so. I emailed my friends that I was getting better and then I passed out again. When I woke up the next morning, the pain had downgraded to feeling like there was a golf tee in my eye — a huge improvement over the knitting needles. I looked at my chest and found the illegible note pinned to my bra. I couldn’t read a single thing. When you are a lefty and you write in pen, everything smears unless you are very careful. Since I thought I was dying, I wasn’t very careful. And I was blind in one eye at the time. Lost to the sands of time, and smeared-ink! And probably for the best.

And then I drank some coffee and eventually flew home, with a brief layover in San Juan. And now I am home and alive! But sort of feeling very carpe diem-y, if you catch my drift. When you are huddled in a whimpering heap in the middle of a hotel room, thousands of miles from your friends and family, convinced that you’re going to die alone, it sort of puts everything else into perspective.

So, if you’re looking for a teachable moment here, I will say this:

– Travel alone, but let someone know where to find you in case you suddenly stop tweeting or emailing or texting or whatever you do to communicate!

– Tell that guy (or girl) how you really feel about him (or her)!

– Make sure your friends know who is going to adopt your cat if you die suddenly in Punta Cana!

– Enjoy every sandwich.

Bex Schwartz is a writer/director, television enthusiast, and friend to all pandas. She loves traveling solo and snorking at fish.

Photo by Andre Viegas, via Shutterstock