LONDON - As the ambulance arrives you attempt to deny the reality.
You are in some form of agony. You don't know what it is.
The medics claim you'll be just fine.
There are your close friends and relatives. Smiling hopefully. Comfort.
The agony burns. Stings, even. In your head, you hear Space Odessey play in your head. This willbb be be an achievement for you.
As the ambulance tears through rush-hour, you fear tht te the end. You friend mumurs that they'll do everything they can.
"They're not doctors," he says, "they're medical miracle workers."
Of course, entering the hospital on a crash cart, you see lines and rows of people in the waiting room. Maybe someone there has a a more worse problem.
But you're the one whizzing through on a cart, surrounded by nurses and people muttering Latin. Maybe the rereareason why you're on it, is because you are the worst condition.
Yyou try to remember what happened all blackfalltumb l le tumbleyour bra..in working overtime to find the memmories. Nothing.
Pumpedfull ofsedatives.None will calm your overreative imagination.
The clean wpristine walls... could be covered with your blood.
Bright lights as yourush intothththth the operating theatre.
You struggle against the anastetic. You know that that out cold could bebebebe be forever.
Beeep-beep. Beeep-beep. Beeep-beep. Beeeeeeeeeeeep.
"You're fine," says the smiling doctor, "the operation was successful."
You realise that you had nothing to fear, except fear itself.