Do not go gentle into that good night*

Photo by Bret Kavanaugh on Unsplash

This week marked the ninth anniversary of the day I didn’t Die, and though it has been nine years I remember in vivid detail the events of that day and the months that followed.

Sometimes death comes suddenly, in other cases, the process of dying takes days. In the seconds/minutes/hours/days while you are dying, what do you think about? Do you replay the favorite moments of your life? Do you ruminate about missing those you love? Or possibly about important work deadlines you are missing? Early on, the neurosurgeons and other ICU doctors couldn’t agree whether or not I would make it, what had caused the hemorrhage and resultant stroke or the extent of the brain damage the stroke inflicted; mostly they encouraged me to sleep which gave me time in that liminal state of dreamy perception and unconsciousness. I recall fragments of the doctors’ and nurses’ background discussions about the chance of survival and long road to recovery with hemiplegia.

I recall trying to reply in my garbled slur of a voice when they asked me if I knew where I was. Frequently my brain muted the cacophony of the hospital to protect me from the incessant beeping of machines and blinding ER lights. I dreamed strange out — of — body dreams where I was looking down on myself on the gurney and observing from above the ER entrance where ambulances came and went. Somehow the dreams…