I Lived in Fear of Death — Until Almost Dying Changed My Life
(Reading Time: 6 Minutes)
I lost my father when I was 14, and he was just 47. His life was claimed by a monster that changed him in front of our eyes. At well over 6 feet tall, he was ravaged by the tumours growing inside his head.
It was brutal.
My mother was and still is incredible. She raised my two sisters and me with a pragmatic love that meant we all did OK. We got on with it, did well in school, went on to university, and all got careers. Yes, it was tough, but we were able to be happy again. It was what our Dad would have wanted.
As I look back, I can now see that it took me a long time to deal with happened to my father. There are events that I am aware of that I am unable to recall. Traumatic things that my mind has made the decision aren’t good for me to dwell on. It’s like they’re parcelled up in dusty boxes, tied with string and stored in the attic for safekeeping.
The death of my father has shaped my life profoundly. I am emotionally strong and passionate; I am comfortable to wear my heart on my sleeve. Yet, I am also paradoxically vulnerable. I never really feel ‘safe’, and I worry about things that affect the security of my family like money or making a wrong decision. I worry about regret.
I’ve always been afraid of death. I can remember having nightmares as a child long before my father was even ill. I’m not sure where this comes from, but apparently, these feelings are widespread.
It doesn’t generally affect my daily life, but it does manifest itself in peculiar ways. Despite being a strong swimmer, I am terrified of the sea. If everyday space travel becomes ‘a thing’, I’ll be keeping my feet firmly on the ground down here.
There is something about infinite darkness that terrifies me. I picture it like swimming beneath the surface a never-ending sea of thick, black oil; viscous, dark and lonely.
But when I nearly died, twenty years after my father, what happened wasn’t what I expected and feared.
It was nothing like that at all.
Out of Control
Ten years ago, I was pregnant with my first child. My pregnancy was straightforward, and I had no complications.
I don’t ever think you’re ready for your waters breaking. It’s momentous. When mine broke five days early, we were shocked. We were told countless times that first babies are never early. Things started moving along pretty fast, and I was admitted to the hospital.
And this is when things started to spiral out of control.
As a first-time mother, I didn’t know what to do. I was partnered with a midwife who was very experienced and had seen it all. Sadly, she didn’t want to listen anymore.
For about 8 hours straight, I was treated like some ‘silly girl’ who was behaving like a drama queen. (I must point out that she is the only midwife I’ve ever met who acted like this. The others have all been incredible.)
I recall it vividly. It was degrading and humiliating, and I felt totally out of control.
Clarity
At 3 am, after hours of little progress, no pain relief and being issued with instructions that my body simply refused to comply with, I had a moment of clarity.
The ‘silly girl’ was gone. In walked the assertive, fully in-control woman.
In a moment, I was lucid and precise. I sat bolt upright. I told the midwife specifically what I thought of her and demanded, in no uncertain terms, to see a doctor immediately. She was shocked. I was unrelenting.
It took another fifteen minutes of what I can only describe as agony before the Doctor arrived.
She entered the room, introduced herself, examined me and then hit a big red button on the wall.
A Sea of Faces
Suddenly the room was filled with people. The midwife disappeared into a sea of faces; my husband was ushered away and dressed in the appropriate garb. I was wheeled into an emergency operating theatre to be greeted by a team of what I can only call superheroes.
It turns out that my daughter was wedged firmly, like a marble up a small child’s nose, she wasn’t going anywhere. She was, what they call in the business, ‘stargazing’ (breached to you and me).
I remember the next part vividly.
The frantic but focussed chatter of the medical professionals. The calming voice of the anaesthetist who whispered soothingly in my ear like some kind of Buddhist monk. The noise of strange machines humming, whirring and bleeping in the background.
Soon after I heard the cries of a baby. I wondered whose it was and what it was doing in here. Then I realised that it was mine.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. She was battered and bruised. She was breathtakingly beautiful. My husband cradled her in his arms and looked like I’d never seen him before.
And then an alarm went off and all hell broke loose.
In the race to free my trapped baby, a major blood vessel in my abdomen was severed. Blood was pumping from me like water from a hose.
And that’s when it happened.
There He Was
Despite the cacophony of anxious voices, the incessant screeching of sirens and the desolate loneliness I should have felt as my husband and new-born baby were ushered quickly from the room, I was at peace.
And then there he was.
My Dad.
As I lay on the rubberised mattress of the now franticly shaking hospital bed, I felt nothing but calm, secure and safe.
He was stood, as I lay, at the head of my bed behind me, slightly to my left, adjacent to my shoulder. Although I couldn’t see him physically, his presence was overwhelming.
The best way that I can describe it is if you raise your left arm and move your hand behind your head. You can’t see it, but there is no doubt that it’s there.
And there he stood.
Looking forwards.
Confident and self-assured.
He never left.
Despite the ensuing chaos, I was safe. I knew that he had full control of this situation.
Shortly afterwards, the anaesthetist explained that they needed to put me to sleep.
I was serene and unruffled as I fell backwards into the darkness.
Blessed
I awoke 5 hours later in the High Dependency Unit, where I remained for a week, before being transferred for a further ten days of care in a specialist maternity hospital. I had lost over half the blood in my body and received two massive transfusions.
Despite her unintentional beating, my daughter made a speedy recovery and has, thankfully, never known of the trauma at the start of her life.
It’s common with traumatic childbirth to develop PTSD, to tragically suffer from an impaired relationship with your new-born baby and partner. Many feel anger and resentment because they were robbed of the experience they were hoping for.
I felt none of this.
I just felt blessed.
Before my discharge from the hospital, I met with a specialist midwife who was keen to give my mental health a once over. I spoke openly and freely of my experience, and she asked if she could pass on my account to a university research project she was aware of. I willingly agreed but heard nothing more.
The Fear of Dying
It’s worth saying that I am not religious. I’m agnostic. I believe that there is something more powerful than us, but what that means I have no clue. This experience did not change that. It didn’t convert me to God, but it did change my life.
I cannot begin to understand what happened to me, and I don’t want to. Did I die and ‘come back’? I don’t know, I never asked.
I accept what happened simply, at face value. I am comfortable in not knowing.
If it was merely the workings of my brain offering a haven and a refuge to which I could retreat, then that’s fine by me. If anything, it’s reassuring to know that this is what happens when we begin to check out.
If it was something more profound, then I’m content with that too.
If pressed, I think that it was latter. But don’t ask me to explain why.
Writing this has done me good. I sometimes forget what I went through and how fortunate I am to have had this experience.
Sometimes, when I’m busy, I get lost in the fog. I need to stop and allow the light to seep in. To live in the now and regain perspective about what’s most important in my life.
This has taught me that worrying about the future serves no purpose, nor can we change the past.
All we can do is live in the now, with joy, love and compassion and let that shape our future.
