charloft [Saturday] Life and Death
"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?"
117 seconds.
I was clinically dead for 117 seconds. And all it took was one well-aimed piece of metal, pointed at just the right angle, fired at just the right time to catch me in the chest. My blood was everywhere--oozing life, as the song goes. My heart continued to beat and my lungs continued to move air in the ambulance. If they had given up then, I would have been beyond the capabilities and hopes of the paramedics. It wasn't until I crash landed in the ER that I gave up the fight and they started counting those 117 seconds.
They said I didn't want to come back.
But clearly I did and they patched up the bullet holes and put me back together with metal wires like some kind of broken down toy.
Five days later, they kicked me out.
What nobody realized was I was walking out of there still dead. Those 117 seconds became infinite; the last ten weeks are a blur. I spent them in a haze of pain or a haze of drugs or a cloud of both. But my nerve endings were so blunted and blackened, I felt nothing. They were so raw and exposed, I felt everything. I couldn't understand why my heart was still beating and my lungs were still breathing.
And as I stare at my body in the bathroom mirror, I'm reminded of this.
Two weeks ago, I was full of life even as my body and mind clung to death. This week, I'm living; those 117 seconds finally stopped. But even as I willingly choose to draw breath, I still look like I'm sitting on death's doorstep--the scar that will always be there, the hip bones that stick out too far. Living won't change the fact that I'm still dying. A new life can't stop my death.
117 seconds.
I was clinically dead for 117 seconds. And all it took was one well-aimed piece of metal, pointed at just the right angle, fired at just the right time to catch me in the chest. My blood was everywhere--oozing life, as the song goes. My heart continued to beat and my lungs continued to move air in the ambulance. If they had given up then, I would have been beyond the capabilities and hopes of the paramedics. It wasn't until I crash landed in the ER that I gave up the fight and they started counting those 117 seconds.
They said I didn't want to come back.
But clearly I did and they patched up the bullet holes and put me back together with metal wires like some kind of broken down toy.
Five days later, they kicked me out.
What nobody realized was I was walking out of there still dead. Those 117 seconds became infinite; the last ten weeks are a blur. I spent them in a haze of pain or a haze of drugs or a cloud of both. But my nerve endings were so blunted and blackened, I felt nothing. They were so raw and exposed, I felt everything. I couldn't understand why my heart was still beating and my lungs were still breathing.
And as I stare at my body in the bathroom mirror, I'm reminded of this.
Two weeks ago, I was full of life even as my body and mind clung to death. This week, I'm living; those 117 seconds finally stopped. But even as I willingly choose to draw breath, I still look like I'm sitting on death's doorstep--the scar that will always be there, the hip bones that stick out too far. Living won't change the fact that I'm still dying. A new life can't stop my death.