Monday, 23 June 2014
I don't remember an awakening. In the movies, there's a dramatic opening of the eyes and quick intake in place of bated breath of a loved one by your bedside. The first solid memory I have is day nine After The Crash. I'm playing hangman in the patient family lounge with my son, my sister-in-law and my brother. I'm happy. I'm so happy that all I can register is how swollen I am with love and pride that my eleven year old son is stumping adults three times his age with puzzles like Nelson Mandella, Shakespeare and Bruce Wayne.
Yes, I did find out later that Nelson Mandella dying around that time was all over the news and yes, I also know that Bruce Wayne is Batman but that's besides the point. The point is I remember feeling such happiness. What baffles me looking back are the things I know now but didn't question.
Why did I have a three inch scar in my chest where my portacath used to be? Why did I have a surgical central line in my neck? Why was I moved to a different room? How come people keep telling me how great I look? (Trust this: I did not look great.) Why are there so many Christmas decorations? Why - WHY?! - does everyone keep looking at me like I should get a gold medal for getting out of bed in the morning?
A lot of my factual questions have been answered, but most of the important ones haven't. I was released home after two months only to be readmitted a month later. That was fifteen weeks ago and I am just now finally allowed to go home. It's been forever since I've written. I don't know how but somehow I became accustomed to the constant yearning to write everything down. I filled the void with over-priced jellybeans and boxed it away with my longing to be home. Now that I am home, and truly at home feeling better, there are a million things I want to do but only one real thing I need. Only one question I need to find an answer to.
After being dead for twenty-three minutes can a person really come back to life?
I guess I'm going to find out.