Another new story from the collection about death, Pictures From Life’s Other Side, which I am very slowly and laboriously assembling:
I had on occasion pondered upon the question of life after death: did it exist, what form did it take, with whom was one sharing the afterlife? Or was there to be nothing at all, a blank, a shutdown following the final heartbeat, no more fuss than you’d get after switching off the TV after News at Ten?
Without wishing to give the appearance that the question had preoccupied me – which as I say I suspect it had done no more than it has perhaps exercised your own fine imagination – I can say that along with more ephemeral questions about the meaning of life, such as the definition of happiness or the difference between good and evil, this speculation as to whether there was a life after death had only occasionally diverted me as the years passed; unless one were a theologian or a great thinker, the ‘life after death’ ding-dong never really raced my motor.
Had you asked me, I would have said something along the lines of: ‘One can never be sure, there may well be but of course one can never know.’ Had you suggested that in your own opinion there was not a shred of evidence to support the contention I would not even have ventured to argue with you and would in all likelihood have merely nodded in agreement, pulled at my ear and commented, ‘Yes, you are most probably right: from dust to dust it must be.’
I have never had the same instinct for philosophical questions such as these as I have for the clear things in life. I could never focus my attention on such musings in the same way as I could watch the arc my greyhound ran across the field to corner the rabbit or as I felt when I saw the dew on the corn on the morning of the day when we knew the harvest was ready. Life after death? I’d discuss it with you genially in mixed company after the coffee had been served, but no more than that.
Since it is now, according to the clock in the operating theatre, almost two minutes since I died, I can confirm that, had I been more insistent upon the view that some form of existence might persist beyond the end of physical life, I would have been correct. There is no question of it: I can clearly see my own body lying upon the operating table, and the heart on which the surgeon was operating is visible to me through the sizeable opening in my chest. My skin is still pinned back around the entry point and there are clamps and tubes scattered about my torso.
The surgeon and his team have moved away a little and are deep in discussion; I wonder if they are discussing liability? That would not surprise me in the least: this modern day obsession with culpability and compensation is one of the more depressing symptoms of our national decline.
I appear to be a little way off from my own body, although as far as I can tell I have no physical presence. That, I have to confess, is somewhat disconcerting: to be able to view one’s own body lying there several feet away in this bright white room was not an outcome which I expected when they wheeled me in here several hours ago.
I should explain: I suffered a rather significant heart attack this morning. The emergency services were surprisingly efficient, more so than I might have given them credit for beforehand, and from falling down in the yard in front of one of our stable boys to entering this brightly illuminated operating room can have been no more of a matter than a couple of hours.
So, yes, this has certainly been what one might call an unusual day. How do I know that I am dead? Well, look at me: I bear more than a passing resemblance to one of the stags that the hounds have been set upon. My chest has been opened up with considerable skill but now it lies there, ignored by the medical team who are gathered around a computer screen over to one side.
Oh Good Lord, that was a comical moment: my left arm just fell down off the table and is now swinging free of that ghastly green nightgown which they put on me earlier. No-one even noticed that, they’re too busy examining what went wrong, I suppose. How curious to find myself the only witness of what I assume was the last movement of my dead body.
How the devil am I seeing it? I can’t see me, if you get my meaning: the me that I remember is lying over there. But the me that is talking to you can see all around the room. I have no means of movement, as far as I can tell: I can’t go and join those fellows around their computer screen and find out what they are discussing. I’m rooted to the spot.
Ah, now they’re coming back to my body and the surgeon is poking a scalpel into that rather unpleasant hole in my chest. Well, they clearly can’t see me otherwise I presume one of them would have pointed me out by now. What’s he doing in my chest?
Oh dear oh dear, now of course I realise there will be all sorts of commotion. I know I’m dead, but I’ve only just died; I presume my friends in white here are the only other people to know at the moment. Which means that my poor dear wife will be outside in a waiting room somewhere, hoping to hear the All Clear.
Poor old stick. Fancy me going first: she won’t credit it. Longlivers, the Randolphs, that’s what she always said; no chance of her outliving the old boy, she’d tell her chums. His father lived to ninety eight, he’ll outlast us all. Well, you got that wrong, old girl. What am I? Seventy three. Bang: heart attack at seventy three and it’s Goodnight Vienna.
Ah, he’s stopped fiddling with his scalpel. Good, that was making me feel a little uncomfortable. Although I can’t feel anything, and come to think of it, I realise now I can’t hear anything. Everything is silent. I can see their lips moving but it’s like one of those old silent movies. No noise at all. Volume button’s kaput. That’s odd too. So I can see perfectly well, despite not being able to change my position, but I can’t hear and I’m pretty sure I can’t smell anything either.
Hello, they’ve covered me up with a sheet now. What about all that spadework on my chest, doesn’t that get a bit of clean up? Obviously not. That pretty nurse is starting to gather up all the utensils; rather her than me, I must say. They look a bit grim. Surgeon wallah is heading for the door; I imagine he’s going to have to break it to Diana. I must say, this is all quite fascinating, although I’d like to be able to move myself; it feels rather strange to be stuck in this position while all these chaps are bustling about.
Oh Lord, now two of them have got hold of the bed and they’re wheeling me round. I do believe they’re taking me out. They’re not hanging about, are they? Look, there I go, straight through the swing doors. Cheerio, old boy. Wonder where they’re taking me? Mortuary, I suppose.
Now it’s just the nurse left. She’s got a twinkle in her eye, no doubt about it. Given other circumstances… She’s got all the kit and caboodle into that machine in the corner, washing-up machine I imagine. Damned efficient. Peels off her gloves. Now she’s heading for the door too.
Oh, don’t turn off the light! Damn. She has. Flash of light from outside in the corridor, now the door’s shut and it’s all dark. I can just make out the odd chair, I think I can see the outline of the screen they put around me earlier. That’s about it though.