A cavernous abyss is what it felt like. It was darker than night, blacker than black. I was barely conscious, to the point where I could only hear the wheels of a trolley and see the faintest cascading flicker of lights. Strange people surrounded me… many in a frantic hurried manner. I open my eyes a little wider and could now clearly see the concern on their faces. This was the point I realized I was in the hospital.
My only thought was of relief. Or… OK… throw in some astonishment at the fact I was still alive. By now, I also had the slightest recollection of what I’d just been through. I was in Emergency, then admitted to a Ward, and then this strange blackness occurred. Heck, who was I kidding, now was hardly the time to pontificate over these matters, my life was on the line. Literally. Again, the black void returned, much as it would for an alcoholic at happy hour.
What felt like a few seconds, was actually several hours later, I came too. I woke to a beige ceiling and a tube down my throat, it was a bad day. I tried to move a little and see my surrounds, because of my pre-existing paralysis, I could see nothing other than the ceiling. Actually, my body had been contorted in such a way that I was stuck riding side-saddle. My head frozen. All I could see was the ceiling, a respirator, and a potential death sentence.
It was quiet, very quiet, and I could see no-one nor did I have any way to gain someone’s attention. My thoughts were of serene peace and raw tension. I lay in this position, completely alone for an eternity. I knew I was awaiting my fate. My mind boggled. A nurse must have seen my eyes open, and they began with all the questions. “Do you know where you are? Are you in pain?” Geez, all I could think was, “Man, I’d love a beer!”
Through our ‘speechless’ conversation I worked out I was in the Intensive Care Unit, and what was becoming bleedingly obvious was that my life really was on the line. I was left in silence again. As I now starred at the ceiling once more, deliberating over my final hours, I began to gain clarity upon my predicament. I could feel the aching mallet on my chest from CPR just a few hours earlier, I could also feel the garden hose running via my mouth to my throat, and then suddenly I could hear the murmur of Doctor’s in the background.
It was a group of Doctors and Specialists discussing my fate. I could hear the odd word or sentence, but not everything was clear. My ears pricked up more. ‘He’s already paralyzed’ one said, ‘I mean what quality of life will he really have?’ mumbled another. Next came the statement ‘maybe we should let him go?’. My ears erect, my blood boiling, my mouth gagged. All I could do was to shake as vigorously as I could, in anger. This was my way of saying don’t fucking kill me.
One Doctor noticed my struggle, and all he said was ‘look he’s awake’. Almost simultaneously, I recognized a voice (as all I could still see was the ceiling), and luckily it was of a Respiratory Specialist I’d known for ten years. I knew he was a good bloke. But still, I was shit-scared. Still, I was doing that weird wobble thing to try and let them know I wanted to live. The tension in my body was inconceivable.
“If anyone knows what he’s getting into, it’s him,” were the final words I heard from the Respiratory Specialist, then the whole gaggle dispersed. Honestly, I had no idea what was going on. My mind was exploding with possibilities, my body shivering with sheer terror. For the next hour, I lay in limbo, just staring at the life support machine and hearing my mechanical breath. The situation was far from ideal.
After some time, I heard yet another familiar voice, only this time it was my Father. His formidable shadow brought instant relief. Plus, fun fact, he was wearing the jacket I got him for his birthday, and that is the one and only time I’ve ever seen him wear it. Anyhow, suddenly my Brother appeared as well. He seemed very lost. All I wanted to do was cry – I tried but couldn’t. I was, well, to put it bluntly, numb. This felt like the end.
Nevertheless, as Dad does, he instantly started talking about options. ‘So I’ve talked to the Doctors and…’ I couldn’t really comprehend anything. All I could think about was how sore my throat was (from the tube shoved down it), and what I must’ve looked like. Still, Dad kept playing the optimist. He said ‘son we’ve really only got one option left, but one is better than none – Mark, we’re going to have to go with a tracheostomy’’.
Now we knew all about tracheostomy’s, I’d had one eight years earlier. They are a pain in the ass, invasive and uncomfortable, however, in this instance, it did offer the clear advantage that I’d still be alive. In fact, very shortly after this was tabled a Doctor gave me the clear choice, ‘do you want the tube or do you want to die?’. I could tell by his manner he thought saving my life was a waste, and he actually got visibly uneasy when I ‘blinked’ to approve it. No joke.
The next hour with my Father and Brother was really weird. It was an uncomfortable expectation. It was silent and contemplative. I still hadn’t moved. But the reality was we all knew what we were getting into: I’d lose my voice indefinitely, 24/7 ventilator dependency, suctioning, and I’d probably have this plastic shit protruding out of my neck for the rest of my life. It was one step further away from the direction we wanted my health to be going, but in short, it was a step back into the game.
And now as the medical team advanced to perform the operation, it really did feel like I was about to get a sixth chance at life. Smiling, elated, grateful. Then I remember gritting my teeth, the tension floating away, my eye-lids heavy, all while the anesthetist put me back into the black void…..
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