Living through death

- Ben Cope

It's hard to think that space might have a boundary. But somewhere out there, it might end. It's not something I ever thought about. My life was like space. It didn't have any boundaries, nor much direction. I never thought about it ending.

However, back in May I was lying by the side of the road with the smell of petrol making me feel sick. I never forget that moment. I thought I could just get up, get back on the bike and limp back to the office.

I could feel strange sensations intensify through my body. Someone had scooped out my insides and replaced them with a block of ice. Someone else was squeezing my brain in a clamp. The sun intensified and I was sweating fear.

The seriousness of the situation reflected back at me through the faces of various onlookers. I knew I couldn't hide my accident from anyone. My belly was filling up with blood while my mind was overflowing with determination to stick out the pain that was numbing my senses and etching away my willpower. I was becoming isolated, sounds became distant and my eyelids were heavy.

Just for a couple of seconds, I let go. With my eyes shut, I could hear distant voices of bystanders drowned out by my heart, pounding away. I felt so helpless, but so much calmer than everyone around me. I think this was the moment I let go of my self-control.

I could hear a familiar voice and when I opened my eyes I could see Dale staring at me. I wanted to apologise for crashing his bike, but I just reached out to hold his hand.

I felt like my body was on fire. I was in pain, but I need a new word to describe how I felt. Pain is what happens when you stub your toe. When you've torn your liver and kidney in two, you feel relentlessly tortured by your own nerves. Inescapable agony. I uttered some paranoid words about needing space just as another onlooker praised the arrival of the ambulance.

The next scene I can remember was in the A&E room, a thousand and one people rushed around me, introducing themselves before sticking a needle in a spare patch of skin. All I could do was crack bad jokes and suck on gas. Then, when a nurse went to cut-off my boxer-shorts, I had a split-second thought that the whole room was about to witness my manhood. But I quickly remembered I was in a place where I had no control. It was an enjoyable experience because I felt like I should be dead and from now on in anything was a bonus. However, it was to be short-lived.

A surgeon appeared infront of me and punctured the atmosphere by saying he couldn't get through to my next of kin and that my condition was deteriorating. He had to operate and wanted me to sign a form. I snatched at his pen but he warned me that I might not make it out of the operating theatre. I believed what I was hearing but I didn't want to think about it. I managed to write the first letter of my name before the pen ran off the bottom of the page. That was considered good enough, I think.

I thought I'd got away with it and was enjoying an overwhelming sense of relief. But looking at the tubes running from my body, I felt gutted this might be the last thing I see.

Only now do I realise that unlike space, life does have a boundary. I think I've been through all the feelings that someone feels before they die. Those feelings are as undiluted as the day I first experienced them. My scars are the only visible reminder to a day that taught me ultimate freedom isn't ours forever.