Member-only story
The night I think I died
And why it was so wonderful
Just over a year ago I was lying on a hospital bed fighting for my life. Not that I knew it; I was delirious. Medics were sticking needles in me to take blood samples and administer intravenous antibiotics. I slapped one of them, complaining about wasps. A few hours earlier my wife had found me in the stairs, I think I’d collapsed. She managed to get me to a doctor’s surgery. Once the car was parked I barely made it across the street. It felt as if my lungs were full of glue and someone was tightening a belt around my chest. Breathing was nearly impossible.
The General Practitioner had the same name as my sister. She asked me to lay on a bench for examination but I didn’t think I could make it, so I asked if I could crawl to the bench. The next thing I remember is being carried like a dead man still walking, by my wife and the General Practitioner. She’d written a letter for my wife and told her to get me straight to the hospital emergency department.
The receptionist was clueless and rude. He shouted at my wife, telling her to get in line. Meanwhile I was slipping away, sitting on a pale blue chair with wooden armrests. I’d been placed there by my wife after a middle aged woman rushed from the waiting area to help her lift me out of the car. As soon as a medic saw me I was put in a wheelchair and rushed through to the…
