Is There Death After Life?
About ten years ago I was in a car accident that I'm fairly sure killed me. Unlike most near death experiences I've read about, there was no magical tunnel filled with light nor even a single Vestal Virgin galloping down from the Heavens to assumpt me. There was just a lot of blackness, and my head hurt a lot.
It was an interesting experience. I was enroute from a tiny town in western Queensland where I used to work to Brisbane. It was late at night and my plan was to drive straight through -- a twelve hour drive at a comfortable, law-abiding speed. My one real concern was that I might hit a Wallaroo, thus possibly breaking a headlight and being forced to pull over somewhere until daylight or risk colliding with one of the many jugganaut-sized road trains that cruised the highway at night. In case you're wondering, outback stories had it that Walleroos are nuggety little beasts, unlike their Kangaroo cousins that are routinely knocked down without causing much damage at all. So anyway, I'm coasting along this one long, straight stretch of highway and in the far distance I see a Wallaroo standing on my side of the road. I gradually swerved over onto the wrong side of the road and believed if it jumped at all, it would jump off the road rather than panic and jump in front of me. And then the wheels of my van dropped off the edge of the bitumen.
It had been drizzling with rain that night and the blacksoil beside the highway had turned to mush. I managed to pull the front wheel back up onto the bitumen but the back right-hand wheel refused to mount the highway again. At 90km per hour, this had the effect of slowly dragging the whole van sideways until that moment where I felt that's it -- I'm fucked and I let go of the steering wheel.
The van flipped completely the first time it rolled. It was completely airborne and I instantly lost my bearings of what was up and what was down, except I knew I was definitely more up than down and that this was a major, major concern. When it did crash back to the ground, it was the corner of the roof right next to my head that hit the ground. The windscreen vanished and I was showered with rocks and mud as the van skidded on its roof before launching into a second roll.
In the darkness, and aware that I was now rolling off into the darkness beside the highway, my biggest fear was that a wooden guidepost would spear me through the hole where the windscreen used to be. I was also a little non-plussed to be forced to endure another roll-over, though I was remarkably calm, I think. True to the anecdotes about dying, my life did indeed flash before my eyes. I remember consciously telling myself I wasn't in the mood to die just yet and that it was very important that I live long enough to see Mrs P and the offspring again.
After the van finished rolling that second time, I had one of those feelings you get on wild sideshow alley rides -- that feeling that yes, that was fun, but I think I want the ride to stop now kind of feelings. I also was acutely aware of the statistical chances of surviving yet another roll-over. A bit like playing Russian Roulette, firing two blanks and hoping the third is also a blank. But gravity continued sucking and over I went. The van rolled completely over a third time and ultimately landed back on its wheels and pointing back up the highway in the direction that I had come from. I think. I wasn't entirely sure.
I felt my head for fractures and expected to feel bone through my skull, such was the pain. There was a lot of mud and grit in my hair but that was about it. The rest of me felt relatively unscathed as well. A large, heavy trolley-jack in the back of the van had pounded my back through the seat and I was pretty fucking sore, but I was able to climb out of the wreck and was still alert enough to think what to do. It was the middle of nowhere and I didn't expect any traffic to pass or, should I say, I didn't feel up to standing on the side of the highway, wet and freezing while I waited for a rescue vehicle that likely wouldn't pass until morning anyway. I also knew my important papers (banking things, cheque book, etc.) had flown out somewhere back in the night and I needed light to find them. Ironically, while every single square inch of the van had been battered to smitherines, BOTH headlights still blazed brightly and didn't have so much as a single scratch!
There was also my poor ol' dog to consider. He'd been chained in the back (on a long chain) and bounced around with the trolley jack, tool box, etc. The side door of the van had broken completely off and out there, standing at the fullest distance away from the wreckage his chain would allow, was the dog. I decided to climb into the back of the van and try and get some sleep before daybreak. I was only wearing shorts and a t-shirt (and deserts are freezing at night in the middle of winter as this was) and so I needed the dog to climb in with me to keep me warm. Man, if that dog could have talked he would have said no fucking way am I getting back in that thing with you!
Eventually, I was able to drag him in the back and settle him enough that I could sleep. Poor bugger is dead now, but this is one of a few times I can genuinely say I owe my life to him.
When morning came the daily McCafferty's bus came past just as I'd expected it would. I flagged down the driver and he radioed back to the cop at the next town. Within 40 minutes, there was a cop there to take me back to town and arrange towing for the van (it was totally wrecked -- even worse than I had imagined) and for my dog to be looked after as well. He took me straight to the hospital and I was immediately checked over by a nurse.
All limbs were in the right place; there was no blood. Aside from a shocking headache, all seemed to be well. We chatted and joked about medical things (as much as one does after suffering a severe head injury) but she eventually told me to keep quiet. She had one of those this isn't good looks I've seen nurses on TV hospital shows get, and I was worried. When I asked what she thought was wrong, she told me she couldn't find a pulse: none. I had to laugh because my head, throbbing as it was, was all the proof I needed that blood was circulating somewhere in my body. She abandoned her stethoscope and checked my pulse the old fashioned way: with her fingers on my jugular. Yep. There is was. Barely. I've since heard that shock will make a person's pulse disappear like this.
But of course, it could be the case there was no pulse because I was, in fact, dead. It's an interesting thing to ponder, especially given the various Hells I feel I've endured every now and then since that fateful night in the middle of nowhere. Movies like The Matrix weird me out a lot these days too. I wonder why?
It was an interesting experience. I was enroute from a tiny town in western Queensland where I used to work to Brisbane. It was late at night and my plan was to drive straight through -- a twelve hour drive at a comfortable, law-abiding speed. My one real concern was that I might hit a Wallaroo, thus possibly breaking a headlight and being forced to pull over somewhere until daylight or risk colliding with one of the many jugganaut-sized road trains that cruised the highway at night. In case you're wondering, outback stories had it that Walleroos are nuggety little beasts, unlike their Kangaroo cousins that are routinely knocked down without causing much damage at all. So anyway, I'm coasting along this one long, straight stretch of highway and in the far distance I see a Wallaroo standing on my side of the road. I gradually swerved over onto the wrong side of the road and believed if it jumped at all, it would jump off the road rather than panic and jump in front of me. And then the wheels of my van dropped off the edge of the bitumen.
It had been drizzling with rain that night and the blacksoil beside the highway had turned to mush. I managed to pull the front wheel back up onto the bitumen but the back right-hand wheel refused to mount the highway again. At 90km per hour, this had the effect of slowly dragging the whole van sideways until that moment where I felt that's it -- I'm fucked and I let go of the steering wheel.
The van flipped completely the first time it rolled. It was completely airborne and I instantly lost my bearings of what was up and what was down, except I knew I was definitely more up than down and that this was a major, major concern. When it did crash back to the ground, it was the corner of the roof right next to my head that hit the ground. The windscreen vanished and I was showered with rocks and mud as the van skidded on its roof before launching into a second roll.
In the darkness, and aware that I was now rolling off into the darkness beside the highway, my biggest fear was that a wooden guidepost would spear me through the hole where the windscreen used to be. I was also a little non-plussed to be forced to endure another roll-over, though I was remarkably calm, I think. True to the anecdotes about dying, my life did indeed flash before my eyes. I remember consciously telling myself I wasn't in the mood to die just yet and that it was very important that I live long enough to see Mrs P and the offspring again.
After the van finished rolling that second time, I had one of those feelings you get on wild sideshow alley rides -- that feeling that yes, that was fun, but I think I want the ride to stop now kind of feelings. I also was acutely aware of the statistical chances of surviving yet another roll-over. A bit like playing Russian Roulette, firing two blanks and hoping the third is also a blank. But gravity continued sucking and over I went. The van rolled completely over a third time and ultimately landed back on its wheels and pointing back up the highway in the direction that I had come from. I think. I wasn't entirely sure.
I felt my head for fractures and expected to feel bone through my skull, such was the pain. There was a lot of mud and grit in my hair but that was about it. The rest of me felt relatively unscathed as well. A large, heavy trolley-jack in the back of the van had pounded my back through the seat and I was pretty fucking sore, but I was able to climb out of the wreck and was still alert enough to think what to do. It was the middle of nowhere and I didn't expect any traffic to pass or, should I say, I didn't feel up to standing on the side of the highway, wet and freezing while I waited for a rescue vehicle that likely wouldn't pass until morning anyway. I also knew my important papers (banking things, cheque book, etc.) had flown out somewhere back in the night and I needed light to find them. Ironically, while every single square inch of the van had been battered to smitherines, BOTH headlights still blazed brightly and didn't have so much as a single scratch!
There was also my poor ol' dog to consider. He'd been chained in the back (on a long chain) and bounced around with the trolley jack, tool box, etc. The side door of the van had broken completely off and out there, standing at the fullest distance away from the wreckage his chain would allow, was the dog. I decided to climb into the back of the van and try and get some sleep before daybreak. I was only wearing shorts and a t-shirt (and deserts are freezing at night in the middle of winter as this was) and so I needed the dog to climb in with me to keep me warm. Man, if that dog could have talked he would have said no fucking way am I getting back in that thing with you!
Eventually, I was able to drag him in the back and settle him enough that I could sleep. Poor bugger is dead now, but this is one of a few times I can genuinely say I owe my life to him.
When morning came the daily McCafferty's bus came past just as I'd expected it would. I flagged down the driver and he radioed back to the cop at the next town. Within 40 minutes, there was a cop there to take me back to town and arrange towing for the van (it was totally wrecked -- even worse than I had imagined) and for my dog to be looked after as well. He took me straight to the hospital and I was immediately checked over by a nurse.
All limbs were in the right place; there was no blood. Aside from a shocking headache, all seemed to be well. We chatted and joked about medical things (as much as one does after suffering a severe head injury) but she eventually told me to keep quiet. She had one of those this isn't good looks I've seen nurses on TV hospital shows get, and I was worried. When I asked what she thought was wrong, she told me she couldn't find a pulse: none. I had to laugh because my head, throbbing as it was, was all the proof I needed that blood was circulating somewhere in my body. She abandoned her stethoscope and checked my pulse the old fashioned way: with her fingers on my jugular. Yep. There is was. Barely. I've since heard that shock will make a person's pulse disappear like this.
But of course, it could be the case there was no pulse because I was, in fact, dead. It's an interesting thing to ponder, especially given the various Hells I feel I've endured every now and then since that fateful night in the middle of nowhere. Movies like The Matrix weird me out a lot these days too. I wonder why?
posted by Mister Pervert at 4:54 PM
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