Mortality Check

I never thought I’d be quite as pleased to have a discharge as I do today. Oh yes, its home time.

Here’s to at least another two years between hospital visits but with the chances of some bastard giving me swine flu again I won’t hold my breath. Besides, lack of oxygen is what got me here in the first place.

This visit has been unlike my last three, it was, in the immortal words of Big Chris, emotional.

I don’t want to over dramatise things because I hate wankers who do, but my first night in here was about as close to me checking out as I’d quite like to get for a bit, fuck you very much. I like to tell people that it wasn’t that hairy but if I were to be honest – and don’t tell anyone that I am now – but it was the retro minge of close calls.

And you know what my main thought as I lay there struggling to inflate my sad state of a lung sack? That I hadn’t yet put together a playlist of essential funeral songs for the missus to play, should this be it. Yep, priorities - I’ve got ‘em.

Now I’ve been in similar predicaments before and I’m not talking about Nam either. Oh sure, we got into our fair share of shit storm’s there, but there was no chance I was going to let someone with a name that sounds like an empty Coke can blowing down the street and an AK47 take out Noshow.

But when you’ve got little things like, oh, lungs and shit starting to cease what it is they should be doing, then there is a point where you have to man up and make a decision; do I stay or do I go?

Far be it for me to shatter any Mills & Boon dreams you might have about how that moment might present itself were you ever unfortunate to reach it, but here’s how it goes; there are no bright lights, no aliens in spaceships probing your anus (Maxi you will be disappointed), or sadly, nubile maidens in nearly-but-not quite see through cotton one pieces beckoning you into the water.

The chances are that when it comes you’ll have several tubes sticking in you, which always looks so ace on TV, but in reality makes the necessities of life, like sleeping, impossible. There will be a constant stream of people fussing over you the problem, not you the patient and despite all this activity there’s a very high possibility that you’ll be alone.

Nor will there be some gay, Greys Anatomy back ground music track playing but that’s a plus really.

It will be just you and the choice. Like Neo choosing between Trinity and Zion or Batman choosing Rachel over Harvey Dent and you lot know me, I’m a sucker for a good looking brunette so I chose to stay with mine. But it’s not the easier door to open, I won’t lie to you.

Yet open it you must because unless your penis has seen so little action that it’s retracted upon itself thus leaving you with a vagina, or vice versa depending on your gender, you will still have much to see and do. Personally I plan to write at least 4000 more blogs, coach more football and stalk so many more young ladies on Facebook.

Mortality is not something I contemplate too much because that would lead to eyeliner, striped jerseys, Adam Lambert CDs and crying over absolutely nothing, but every now and then you just have to look back and say “Shit in my mouth. That was a close one”.

There's only ever one door worth opening...