Eyes swollen, nearly closed, but wide open with fear. My heart pounds like a deer being chased by a lion, thoughts racing.

Waiting with my spoon. Waiting for the doctor. 

Waiting.

He finally arrives, takes one look at me and calls the ambulance; why is he on the phone so long?

My face is so tight, lips about to split. I don’t have a chin, it’s joined to my neck, it feels like there are huge gobstoppers in my cheeks. The ‘thing’ in my throat is so big it’s choking me. 

There is a squeaking sound coming from my throat with each breathe in…out…there is a rattle from the ‘thing’. 

Scared stiff, petrified: spoon held tight in my hand. I don’t tell anyone but I figure if my throat closes I will put the spoon down my throat and turn it sideways to let air in. 

An ambulance arrives; a white crisp sheet covers me – will we make it? 

I try to relax, who am I kidding? Breathe in, wheeze. Breathe out, rattle, rattle. 

Siren scream. We pull into the local football ground, I lift up the mask, ‘what’s happening’ I say, but it comes out as a squeak. 

“Fairfield Hospital by the air ambulance.”​

IN FOCUS: 

We lift up; I can no longer hear the squeaking of my breath. I breathe quickly, not knowing if this breath will be my last. 

Another sports ground then ambulance. Dr Yung and Sister Pollock wait. 

Into the tent over the bed, full of steam, hissing; an enormous icy-pole stick pressing down my tongue. I gag, the corners of my mouth splits, blood. Dr Yung tries to calm me, I’m too far gone for calming words.

Pushing breath through my swollen throat, my chest is heaving. I can’t breathe.

Panic, clutching at my throat with one hand, trying to get the spoon in my mouth with the other.

This is it. Blackness. 

The bed is hurtling down the corridor; crash, bang, black turns to grey. I’m travelling at a great speed, now floating, I’m heading towards a light, irresistible, do I want to go there or go back?

It is so peaceful, colours all around, like I’m in a kaleidoscope. I’m at the ceiling, looking down at someone lying on the table, people working frantically.

Me the observer. 

I join the body on the table – whoosh – spraying out a stream of bright red blood and mucus onto Sister Pollack’s crisp white uniform. 

The air flows in and out through a tube in my neck.

Then the smell - it takes me a few seconds to realise, oh no s--t, I mean faeces, I have pooed my pants. 

Funny, I have nearly died (or did I?) and I’m mortified.