It took hours in that room,
To die.
I knew it was coming. I could feel the swelling in my throat growing, slowly, but steadily.
I told the nurses, but they said I was fine,
the new medication would work in time.
But it didn't.
I kept ringing the bell, squeezing the button in vain, in desperation, but my voice had already gone. The speaker would crackle, but they couldn't hear me
...calling for help...
Alone in that room, it took me hours to die.
Rasping breath rattling, hunching and stretching to force air through tortured tubes.
Only then did they hear.
Only as my laboured breathing echoed down the hallway, fighting to life, gasping to live...
...did they hear me.
Fighting for consciousness they tried tests, they tried everything, desperate to catch me only after I'd fallen so far. Only when they were little more than impressions and images flashing into consciousness did they come.
Still, I was alone.
Just Death and I.
Everyone else but a dream seeping into my darkness.
It took me hours to die...
...and the whole time...
...I was alone.
First draft impression, caught in a moment. It might lead to some good music, but for now it speaks of a deep-seated fear caused by being left to die by my attending physician who went on holiday after changing my medication. I never saw him again and was only saved because a nurse happened to hear me struggling to breathe in the final stages of broncial edema.
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