On Dying

By Anders Drejer

Born down in a dead man’s town
And the first kick I took was when I hit the ground
You end up like a dog that’s been beat too much

(Bruce Springsteen)

’Til you spend half your life just to cover up

I have lived a Grand life and I am very happy. But — and this is hard to write — I have been dead. Now 8 times. If I were a cat, I would be concerned …

Let me explain. Under Danish law, at least, having our heart stop constitutes being dead. Funny story. In 1997, I had my Colon removed because of a genetic disorder that statically guaranteed me 200% “chance” of getting cancer. Having surmised that all that cancer started in the Colon, a rather frail and almost useless organ, I teamed up with a young Doctor, aptly named Thor, and invented the treatment of removed a, we hoped, perfectly healthy organ and, thereby removing the origin of all the cancer.

Now. On May the 6th in the evening, I was very humble. Tellingly, my girlfriend and later wife could not stomach seeing me in pain — perhaps that was telling in itself — so I had to shave my (few) body hairs alone. I have never been so scared and alone. On the next day, however, I was back to my normal self.

Lying in the hospital bed, knowing rather well that I was minutes away from operation, suddenly a Doctor came in. I asked who he was and what he was doing there — as he was not Thor, my main man. He explained that he was the head of anastatic of the entire hospital and he was there to make sure I got a couple of pills to calm me down before being properly anesthetized for the operation.

Being me, I got into an argument with this nice man — I felt perfectly able to down two white pills all by myself. And I could hear a child screaming in pain from the nearby operation ward and thought the head of anastatic should tend to that instead of me. In the argument, we forgot about the darn pills. Bad idea. As I was rolled down to surgery, my pulse went from 56, my resting pulse at the time — I was young and in great shape — to 96. Near panic.

Guess what?

I’m ten years burning down the road
I’ve got nowhere to run and nowhere to go

(Bruce Springsteen)

Two things happened that day. First, Thor found out that my Colon was way bigger than average and had to cut a longer cut in my belly than planned. Messily and in panic. Because, at just that time, I apparently decided — in my not so unconsciouse state- to remove the annoying thing in my spine that administered the anastatics.

Guess what? That stops your heart. And could have paralyzed me, by the way. The first thing happened. So technically, I died. Being cut open from bottom to chest, there was one option. Good old fashioned heart massage. I have had my chest bone broken. Seven times. To this day, I am very scared to be touched at the broken chest bone. I allowed the Star Chef, as the only one, to touch it. I do not think, she appreciated the gesture. But it was a major gesture for me.

I remember waking up the next day with 30-odd puncture wounds in my arm, thinking — what happened? During the day, several nurses and doctors opened the door to my, strangely, single suite and looked curiously at me.

I also remember being waked up by Thor, after a few hours after the operation. He was smiling happily and told me that my Colon had been cancer-free and, despite its consierable size, removed without spilling. It now sits in a (large) glass jar.

I also remember, somewhat later, being told that I had seven cardiac arrest during surgery. But lived.

You want to know what Hell is like? I should know. Strangely, Hell — in my memory — is cold, wet and scary. Not hot and burning. The Star Chef tells me — and she is a very smart woman — that this is a fake memory. But my advice to you is still, don’t die! And, when you do, make sure that you have someone to have your back in Hell …