Death Has No Friend
I died in 1974 in Baltimore, Maryland from a drug overdose.
I was declared dead for eight seconds as the ambulance approached John Hopkins Hospital, but it was those eight seconds that seemed to hold a lifetime.
I saw myself in a world of color that had no color. Squares were round and straight lines became crooked. Light and darkness crisscrossed rapidly. I was running yet not moving. I screamed but no sound could be heard.
I call it the waiting room to either or.
When I came back, the paramedics were surprised, and I spent two days in the hospital before I was released. It was from that moment I gave up drugs and cleaned up my life.
Forty-nine years ago, I was given a second chance to be alive and from then to now I've made the most of it, although now, at 75, as fearful the moment then, now, I truly long for death to take hold of me. Crazy perhaps, but I have seen my share of moments, of friends, of family, simply dissolve.
A small number of people will miss having me around, but the majority of people will simply say, "Oh well. I was bound to happen,"
After all, dying is the last thing we all do.