I thought I was going to die.

And all the while I did, and that it was actually a real possibility that I might, I thought about my daughter. That small(ish) firecracker that amazes and confounds and frustrates, often all at once. I also thought of Philip Larkin’s, This Be The Verse, hoping that history wouldn’t repeat itself, and that she wouldn’t be like me – the girl with the dead parent.

I’m an atheist. I really don’t believe in salvation or damnation. I try and not be too much of a dick, and hope that my loved ones also think that – in lieu of worrying about saving myself in time for judgement, which seems like a rather narcissistic undertaking.

I felt afraid of the nothing, very briefly. Thinking instead: “Is this really it?”.

My wrists were incredibly painful – a visual cacophony of bruising caused by artery catheters and multiple IVs sticking out of every accessible vein. I enjoyed this pain. A masochistic reminder that I wasn’t dead.

I couldn’t sleep at all. I’ve managed more than three hours only once since it happened. There was lots to reflect on in the first few days – primarily relief that I wasn’t some hoarder of weird porn. I kept remembering the time about 25 years ago when a friend gave me a sealed envelope with his computer password in it, just in case he died. He didn’t want his parents to know he was gay.

I also thought about the washing pile. Thinking that the last thing my husband would want to do if I snuff it is the three loads of washing waiting at home – sluggishly littering the hallway waiting for their turn in the machine. I also worried that one of the cats might have pissed on them.

I’m fucking tired. All the time. I’m on about ten medications at the moment and purported side effects can include fatigue. But then I’m not sleeping particularly well so that will also make me tired. And the overthinking is exhausting. Maybe I’m being a giant drama queen and I need to calm the fuck down.

A few days after I initially got out of the hospital, I was readmitted to intensive care because the chest pains came back and I was breathless. I was grateful that they took it seriously and that someone was monitoring me constantly again. I lay there wondering if I was losing my remaining marbles: am I really in pain or just scared?

Readmission began more tests. More CT scans. An endoscopy. Lots more echos and ECGS. I got utterly enchanted by the imagery of my heart valves. They looked like the arms of contemporary dancers from Sadler’s Wells. Doctors eventually concluded that the pain wasn’t a new cardiac event, but a part of my heart recovering from the previous one. I was let out of intensive care eventually and my last night was spent in a private room. My daughter came to visit and brought with her a takeaway chicken tikka masala, which she absolutely destroyed whilst cuddled in the hospital bed next to me. The nurse was impressed that someone so small could demolish a curry with such aplomb.

Then we had to have one of cats put to sleep. Her kidneys took her in the end. I’d loved her like a baby for over 16 years – even during the last couple of years when she shat on the utility room floor every day for no reason and walked like Herr Flick. I cuddled her while she died. It was very peaceful. The small human wants a memorial shelf in the hallway which seems a bit dark, but actually I’m running with it because I’m not sure what else to do with the box of her ashes.

The cardiologist recommended that I see a Psychiatrist, just to make sure that everything upstairs was in order. Dr D was kind and compassionate, eventually telling me that I’m not mental despite the fact he’d listened to me prattle on for two hours. I asked for it in writing.

I’m still waiting to find something funny about this. It hasn’t happened. Yet.