Not Dead Yet!
When The “Dare To Live” Is Still Your First Choice
Yes, I was beyond scared. After being awake for over 28 hours thanks to a severe allergic reaction to an IV drip antibiotic that sent my pulse plummeting to dangerous low levels — The ICU doctors and nurses were on high alert and hoovering over me in my room. Blood pressure readings kept coming up as error codes in the understaffed and underfunded 30-bed rural hospital.
Then, out of nowhere, they started shoving paperwork in my face, demanding I sign an advanced directive outlining my end-of-life wishes. Asked me if I wanted someone to come from Palliative Care to talk to me. My mind raced: “Am I about to shuffle off this earthly entanglement? Found myself thinking — Am I dying today?” I have no time for that!
Around 4:00 a.m. I finally drifted off to sleep, only to be jolted awake by the sight of a Jamaican Catholic priest standing at the foot of my hospital bed. His prayer was like a holy hoopala. It covered every possible sin and transgression I definitely might have committed, and was delivered with a heavy dose of sincere island compassionate charm.
I hazily recalled some of the prayers from my childhood. The words he was speaking sounded oddly familiar. It took me a few groggy moments to realize that I actually hadn’t kicked the bucket. This wasn’t my…
