It's been nearly 10 years since I was rushed to the hospital at 4 am, but you don't forget something like that.
Internal bleeding. "It's gone septic," my wife recalls hearing, understanding only that that meant something serious. Something dangerous. Rough translation: blood poisoning.
All I remember is passing out in a hospital bed. My wife says I called out for my mother, who died in 1981. It looked like I was going to join her.
The bleeding was set off a few days earlier by a surgeon's blunder, in another hospital, during an unrelated gastroenterological procedure. In context, I was lucky: I was in a well-equipped, big-city medical center. I was quickly surrounded by medical staff.
But there was a delay. "Is he full code?" someone needed to know.
Fortunately, my wife was clear about my desire to live. We'd discussed this possibility before. And, in time, I made a full recovery. But not everyone has a significant other like mine. What happens to them? Does everybody in such dire straits get asked this question?