I don’t mean that in a “the Reaper gets us all” kind of philosophical platitude, but in a very real, very immediate sense. I remember thinking, “So, this is it?” I had tonsillitis. Growing up, my mum had told me that I’d had my tonsils removed, but either she or the surgeon was lying because after two weeks of worsening symptoms, the out-of-hours doctor at my local hospital told me I had a pretty egregious case of tonsillitis.
I hadn’t eaten for five days. I’d tried my best to drink, but I was dehydrated and weak. On the 18th of December, I nearly died.
I had been half asleep when some saliva I was too scared to swallow dripped onto my voice box — and my throat completely constricted. I jumped out of bed, I paced around the room, and I tried to jam my fingers down my windpipe to open it. After maybe 20 seconds, I let out a whistle-wheeze and fell into bed breathing again.
It turns out that when fluid comes in contact with the larynx, your body can initiate a terrifying, throat-constricting spasm. It might not release this laryngospasm until there’s no other alternative — until the body’s oxygen levels drop so far that the reflex breaks. To my larynx, the entire process was a last-ditch effort to prevent me from drowning.
After four long hours of I-definitely-can’t-sleep-after-that, I drove myself to the hospital. I saw a tired doctor just finishing their night shift, picked up some antibiotics, and was told not to worry too much. My tonsillitis lasted roughly three weeks, and for two of them, I barely slept.
The pain twitched me awake every hour. The night is long when you are the only person awake. The modern world demands a lot of us.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
