…There was no dimly lit corridor, no feeling of warmth, no welcoming arms, no smiling friends and strangers. There were none of those things. There was nothingness. Complete and bottomless, utter nothingness. Like the space behind a Barista’s eyes when you ask for a milky tea. No sight, no sound, no sensation… And yet I was able to comprehend this nothingness; to understand the nature of the void of which I had become part. Cast into a world of non-existence, I sensed myself as part of a far greater non-being: somehow able to recognise the gossamer frail grip I held on existence even though I knew that I had no influence over it. Yet if I understood the depths of nothing, if I felt the fear and the thrill of the utter unknown, if I felt anything at all, then I could not be dead. As a child my mother always threatened me with a fate worse than death and I thought, ‘name one’. What could be worse than non-existence? Well, if this was death, then it – at least what I had seen of it so far – was not so bad, although I have to admit, not being dead still felt like much the better option.
The strangest sensation was of not being anywhere: it was not like a Waiting Room or even like the long tiled corridor I had heard people talk about, it was just nowhere: an ethereal Milton Keynes. I was surrounded by a bright white light, but I wasn’t actually there. Was I actually part of it? No, that couldn’t be so – it couldn’t seem so bright to me if I was part of it. And I know that my life hadn’t flashed in front of my eyes. It hadn’t even wandered listlessly by. Unless, of course, it had and it had been so boring that it hadn’t even held my own attention.
I tried to concentrate on the moment. I wanted to know what had brought me here, even if I didn’t know where ‘here’ was. I think that even without any solid recollection I had a pretty firm idea of what I was like: bad diet, too much alcohol, too little exercise – all of the above seemed to fit into my own impression of me, so I guessed that I must be having a heart attack. Or a stroke I suppose. Or perhaps I wasn’t waiting for death at all. What if this was the life that lay ahead of me? Could I be in a coma? What if this is all that I would have – me – and no outside stimuli for the rest of my days: my whole existence the kind of dream you get after too much sauce on your kebab? I could feel my chest tighten at the thought and I decided that, all in all, given the choices available to me, I was prepared to let myself go – and then I thought of Sara…
“…Don’t worry,” said the voice inside my head. “She’ll manage perfectly well without you.” As a hypothesis, I realised that it was almost certainly factual, but I wished that I could have been a little less candid with myself, if I’m honest. “She’ll be totally lost without you,” might have been completely untrue, but it was a sentiment I could have thrown my weight behind, if I actually had any weight to throw. Even in such a state of grace I could not depend on me. “I’m just not ready to die,” was all that I could sense myself saying…
“Actually, I don’t think you are dying,” continued the voice that, contrary to all expectations, seemed to be coming from outside of me. “If it helps, I don’t think you’re having a heart attack at all.”
I was, for some reason of which I was not certain, enraged to hear my instincts so summarily dismissed. “Oh yes,” I could feel bile rising inside of me, “and what makes you so sure?”
“Well, I don’t think they’d just let you die would they? You would feel them, don’t you think? I’m sure that somebody would be punching your chest…” Mentally I tried to assemble a list of all the people that might like to punch me, even under these circumstances, and it was regrettably long. “…Someone would be giving you the kiss of life…” Again, a small, rational portion of my mind tried to assemble a roll of all the possible suspects, but this one was very much shorter. “…At worst, I’m sure there’d be a boy scout of some kind with a pen knife…”
“A boy scout?”
“Well, they’re taught to ‘be prepared’ aren’t they? I’m sure I’ve heard something about them being taught how to cut your chest open and massage your heart. No… someone would be trying to do something wouldn’t they; you’d feel them… rummaging about. The paramedics would be here.” I had my doubts, but I felt it best to keep them to myself. Perhaps a uniformed youth in search of a CPR badge really was my best hope, but I couldn’t help but rail against the injustice of it all.
“I don’t want some snotty adolescent hacking at my chest with a bloody Swiss Army knife!”
“No, I don’t suppose you do. If I’m honest, I can’t help but wonder if anyone is actually that prepared… I wonder if now would be a good time for you to review some alternative scenarios.” The voice, obviously not my own, was calm and gently questioning.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” I said, or thought, I’m not sure. “It’s Lorelei.”
“Yes, it’s me,” he said, sounding ever-so-slightly hurt, like it should have been obvious. It should.
“What are you doing here?” I sensed that if I opened my eyes I would see his face… Could I open my eyes? I decided not to try.
“Well, more to the point,” he said, his voice as soothing as Vaseline on a graze “what are you doing here?”
“Well, I thought I was having a heart attack, but you seem very intent on persuading me otherwise.”
“No not really,” he said. “I completely agree that you thought you were having a heart attack, I just think that that was what brought on the panic attack.”
“Panic attack?”
“Mmm, yes, I think that you’re probably having a panic attack.”
“But I’ve never had a panic attack in my life.”
“No, and that’s probably why you’re panicking.”
“So if I’m not dying, why can I see the white light?”
“I think it’s probably because you’re in the dentist’s chair.”
“Oh God, no. Please tell me that I’m not having some kind of episode at the dentist’s. Please let me be having a proper heart attack – like a man.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
“Oh my… you’re not even really there, are you?”
“Well, it depends on what you mean by ‘really there’.”
“I mean really there.”
“Ah. No then, I suppose not. I mean, I’m here now, but when you open your eyes, I won’t be.”
“I don’t want to open my eyes.”
“I think you probably have to…”
“…Am I speaking out aloud here?”
“A bit, yes, I think you are.”
“They won’t believe that I’m rehearsing for a play will they?”
“I think it’s unlikely.”
“What the hell should I do?”
“Do you think you can sit up and rinse?”
“Yes.”
“I’d probably do that then…”
Like Frankie & Benny, I am very attached to these characters, but I thought that their story had probably reached a conclusion when the idea for this little episode popped into my head whilst I was sitting in the dentist’s waiting room…