The Atomic Priest II

You could sum up my life in three parts--childhood, young adulthood, and adulthood.

My childhood was a rather mundane swirl of hypersensitivity, emotional and physical brutality and the mouths and hands of other children, a lot of moving around (even after my family arrived in California we moved quite a bit). Dickensian at times, my parents both struggled to make ends meet; I recall with crystal clarity the hellacious arguments they had about paying the bills while simultaneously handling two daughters and a bipolar son whose illness--though detected--had yet to be diagnosed and properly treated with medication and psychiatric therapy.

My young adulthood was two-fold. Firstly, as soon as I turned eighteen I left the house after being misdiagnosed with schizophrenia. The apartment I lived in was more like a holding cell for the criminally insane and, since I could not handle the medications prescribed to me (Navane, Thorazine, as well as other colorfully old-school anti-psychotics) I began self-medicating with Benedryl and--eventually--alcohol. I slept most days, forcing myself into stupors with over-the-counter medications, malt liquor, whiskey, wine, beer...whatever I could get my hands on. Whatever did the trick. Whatever knocked me cold.

Secondly, I attended college. Local junior college at first, followed by university (1994) after I graduated with an Associate's Degree in English.

Then I died.

On December 22, 1992 I was pronounced dead at approximately 7 AM. My parents had accompanied me to the hospital where surgery was performed to remove my gal bladder [which had become riddled with gal stones] laproscopically. The individual responsible for administering my anasthetic made the mortal mistake of combining the wrong ingredients, creating a highly toxic poison whose implications meant death shortly after placing me under the knife. As soon as they were informed that I was dead, they both went into shock. To the best of my recollection, I was told that my mother began to cry uncontrollably. My father held her. Several doctors were called in to attempt to bring me back and calm my parents down. But that is what I was told. To the best of my recollection.

I was dead for half an hour.

But, to me, it felt more like forever.

I hovered above myself as the scampering figures around the table worked overtime to bring my body back to life. But my interest in what was happening vanished when I looked upwards at the ceiling, moved through it, sailed far above the hospital, and swooped up further into darkness and stars, tiny diamonds glimmering, pulsating, moving and breathing with life. At once the universe seemed to stop its rotation--then all the stars went counter-clockwise. Slowly at first. Then rapidly until a tunnel appeared from my location to a very bright light, an illumination so brilliant there are no words in any language--in any vocabulary--to describe it. Swiftly, peacefully, lovingly, I entered the light and felt myself within the presence of what some have described as the breath of God.

Personally, however, my own experience did not include the spirits [or souls] of loved ones long-since passed away, or even angels; my own experience included me and God. That was it. And God essentially let me know that it was definitely not my time. I had a mission to complete. I would be married with three children to help raise. I would make a lot of friends and, when it was my time to go, I would do so in the presence of many good friends and family. And since isolation has always been my greatest fear, it was comforting to learn that I would not pass on alone.

(To be continued...)