On near-death experiences and not getting to meet Jesus

It's a miracle! It's a genuine melon-farming miracle!

A trip to Farnham Hospital to see my surgeon, and - as expected - he gave me the all clear to start walking about on both feet. I went into his office hopping around on crutches, and I emerged minutes later, walking rather sheepishly, but with the crutches slung over my shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle.

"It's a miracle!" I said to the packed waiting room. "He's cured me! I can walk!"

Not a bloody dicky-bird. Nothing. Proof indeed that hospitals are no place for cheerful people.

It wasn't until late that night that my brain finally processed everything the Colonel had told me in a short appointment, illustrated by a number of lovely photos of the inside of my foot that looked like they were taken by the Mars Rover.

Yes, all was well. Yes, I might still feel some pain. Yes, you've got a lot of physio ahead. And we almost killed you by mistake.

 Wait...what?

"Oh," says he, looking at my notes, sheepishly changing the words 'left ankle' to 'right ankle', "Your airway collapsed halfway through. Caused the gas doctor quite some concern."

That might go some way to explaining the sore throat for a week afterwards, then - probably the result of large metal implements being shoved down me, while somebody hammered on my chest screaming "Breathe, damn you!"

The British Journal of Anaesthesia says a collapsed airway is "common" during surgery, so I was probably in no real danger of being killed TO DEATH by highly-skilled professionals, so what I experienced was more a damn good sleep rather than near death.

Besides, it couldn't possibly have been a proper near-death experience, because I didn't float toward a bright light and meet Jesus. It would have been an awkward meeting anyway, seeing as I'm an atheist, and the whole thing would have ended with Our Lord and Saviour attempting to kick me in the fork. So much for a forgiving man of peace, he's a nut-cracking monster.

Elvis wasn't there either.

You need to realise at this stage that I have spent this year living in the dread of dropping down dead at the age of 48. This all came from the funeral of a good friend who died suddenly last year, where all I saw at the crematorium was headstone after headstone for unfortunates who had carked it at this deadly age, leading me to fear that I was headed in the same direction. I am 49 in less than three weeks AND NOTHING CAN GO WRONG.

Grim Reaper: Come at me bro.

On the bright side, 2014 will go down as the year I started being bullet-proof again.

A collapsed airway recently