To all intents and purposes, I should be dead. I’m supposed to have died that night in August, when I haemorrhaged and was taken to A&E. I should have left hospital in a box – not in the passenger seat of my husband’s car, exhausted but alive.
Sitting in your living room admiring your tarantulas, being cuddled by your husband and eating your way through delicious meals when you found yourself unable to bear the thought of food due to your medical condition at one time really does serve to ram this one simple fact home.
I should be dead.
I have touched the very Veil; even parted it like a shimmering, ghostly curtain, and seen the other side – the Afterlife. Nobody is supposed to come back from that, and yet here I am. For reasons known only to the Gods, I have been given another chance. It is a very humbling honour that seems to be bestowed on only a few.
Knowing that you should no longer be of this earthly plane changes you. For me, waking up every morning and checking the weather is a miracle. It’s one more day on this beautiful planet that mustn’t be wasted – even if currently my main contact with the outside world is through the internet. I no longer touch alcohol, and I approach food with relish and enjoyment, as opposed to simply eating because I must. It’s a pleasure again. Every week I look younger and fuller in the face; every week I achieve something that I was unable to do even six months ago.
I take nothing for granted; every new day is a gift, as is whatever the day has to offer. I am planning an inexpensive, simple, teetotal Christmas and revelling in it. I shall be thanking my Gods, and making a toast to whoever donated their blood to save me. I wish the donors responsible could know that I’m here to enjoy another Yule because of them.
One other thing I’ve learned? Death isn’t to be feared; in fact, he’s rather a pleasant chap who obviously decided at the last moment that this isn’t my time.