I’m writing his post from the critical care unit of a London hospital. It happened. We all knew it was going to. And I was once again powerless as my fear became a reality.
Last Friday morning I nearly died.
Pretty spectacularly. Hours in resus and a trip to the critical care unit. And then I got worse again right after I got better. And now I may need a minor surgery. Not my plan for my last few days of being teenaged, not my plan for the day before my birthday (was meant to be going to a concert tonight) but hey, at least I’m going to actually see my birthday. My presence on the planet is kind of the only present I need right now.
Today I woke up and cried five days worth of tears – tears of relief and fear and vulnerability and the huge swirl of emotions that comes with being stuck in hospital alone, and from accepting your own mortality and then not having to face it. I’ve no idea where these tears came from, but I know they needed to fall.
I hope to be out of here today but know that I probably won’t be. I’d planned to catch the train home at the weekend, then hop on the bus, sneak into my parents’ house, and walk in to wish my mum happy Mother’s Day as she ate breakfast in bed with my little brother; I’d planned to go shopping for thank you presents to give people on my birthday, I was looking forward to another week of lectures at uni, there was a presentation I was meant to prepare, and there was a blog post I meant to write about how I run to the river Thames every time I freak out… but life and near death got in the way.