Experience of Clinical Death.

'O what a wonder seems the fear of death,

Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep.' COLERIDGE.

'It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.' SHAKESPEARE.

'A free man thinks of nothing less than of death; and his wisdom is a meditation not on death but on life.' SPINOZA.

Well, it was as nothing, I knew not of it, though it was very distressing to bystanders. I clinically died, so they say, my heart stopped on two occasions and I lost all sense of time. It was as total sleep, but without the strands of faint consciousness lurking on the boundaries. I was without pain, without troubles, without torment, at least until I awoke in hospital to undergo intensive care. I am grateful to those who helped me, I still have a fondness for this mortal life, its music, its stories, its fascinations, though I must admit that the pain involved therein often has made me wish to be free of it. Yet mankind has reached a point of remarkable convenience now in so many respects through industry; plumbing, light, heat, water, beds, food, and electronic entertainments, which still hereafter are likely to increase in refinement and variety, that often I feel my greatest conundrums are which indulgences to prefer over others. Sometimes I feel personally like this nation itself, for I seldom can shake the thought that this kingdom is in fact a pensioned country, whose best years are behind it and whose present and future is one of decline and decrepitude. The worst of it is that with time we lose those deepest feelings, those all encompassing swells of emotion at a song or a circumstance, wonderful melancholy, exceptional love that flushes every vein, hilarity which shakes the frame with gladness, or the delightful discovery of new ideas, realms, and notions, of thought. It is not a sad thing to grow old, but O it is a sad thing to lose such potency of experience. So much can be injuriously complicated in the human body that it is a wonder self-confidence or happiness exist at all, and yet awareness of this truth is called hypochondria! On the contrary, lack of awareness of the continual peril of disease and injury which we all face is mere blissful ignorance; ‘t is folly to be wise of such things, yes, nonetheless it is the case. Sometimes I become aware of the truly awful suffering of others, which renders the thought of mine pale and as nothing in comparison, cases of frostbite, cancer, and total incapacitation. I learnt of a Japanese man who, after crashing his motorcycle, was almost completely paralysed and yet painted beautiful works with his brush in his mouth, paintings I could never hope to match with the full use of my arms, incompetent as I am in that excellent art. I do not much worry about my heart’s defect, for I knew something was wrong with me and therefore I am at least satisfied in that regard. Indeed, I hold it true with Edward FitzGerald who also had a weak heart that it is a cause for rejoicing, for a sudden death is preferable to a painful and slow one. Hopefully, by the grace of God, I may live a longer while still, though no one is assured of this in so startlingly inexplicable a life, yet even if I had perished this year on these two occasions I could, if I had opportunity for review, be satisfied that I wrote enough to please my own need of expression. This, like one of many ripples on the divine lake of existence, the measure and the meaning of my years.