Back from the Underworld - by Lu Hersey

 There's nothing like a brush with death to help change your perspectives on life. I don't recommend it, as there must be far easier ways - but if it ever happens to you, you might also see things very differently afterwards. 

Following open heart surgery three weeks ago, I look like something Dr Frankenstein created in his lab. I've been split apart and sewn back together. It was a struggle clawing my way back from the underworld, and in my nightmares my feet still stick in Stygian mud from time to time. But I really don't care - I'm alive, and life has never seemed so sweet.

The problems started the day after my birthday, when I found I could hardly breathe. In the end, I got my partner to take me to A&E, thinking I must have pneumonia. Actually, I did. But far worse, the hospital discovered I also had a prolapsed heart valve which required emergency surgery. 

Before this happened, I'd been worried about my father, who is 96 and kept falling over and ending up in hospital. He needed care, but was so stubborn he was refusing to accept the help he needed.  Apart from that, I was looking forward to my youngest daughter's wedding next year, and idly wondering if anyone would be interested in the cosy crime novel I'd recently completed - a departure from my usual writing for children. Basically just normal, everyday concerns. 

The kind of surgery I needed is usually done as elective surgery, to ensure the patient is as fit as possible before they proceed. I was fighting pneumonia, which didn't improve my chances. The surgeon was careful to explain the 20% possibility of death or stroke having the operation (the alternative was certain death, so not much of a contest), and suggested that if I had anything important to say to my family before surgery, I needed to do it, in case I didn't make it. 

That was the most difficult thing. I wanted all of them to know how much I loved and cared for them, in case I never saw them again. Talking to them for what might have been the last time was so heart-breaking, I was still fighting back the tears as they wheeled me off to the operating theatre. 

To cut a long story short, I'm still here. I came round. I've experienced first hand how wonderful the NHS is, and have nothing but respect for all the lovely people who took care of me in the hospital. My family are amazing and I love them more than ever. While I was out of the picture, they finally managed to persuade my father he needed to be in a care home, at least for the time being. He's so stubborn, that's close to a miracle. And now I'm looking forward to my daughter's wedding again, and thinking about writing another book. 

A few days after surgery, I looked at my emails for the first time in weeks, and found one from an agent I'd contacted about my cosy crime, a couple of months earlier. A nice, polite rejection - she didn't like my main character. 

Was I upset? 

No. That's what I mean about changing perspectives. Before this happened, I might have dwelt on the rejection, going over the same old ground - thinking the fact she didn't like my main character was a reflection on me, that I was a failure and should probably give up writing. 

Instead, I read the email, laughed and took another bite of my chocolate ice cream. I couldn't have given fewer fucks.

 What difference would it have made if she'd loved my book? Ok, the ice cream might have tasted even better. But it would have been the same book. Admittedly I should have done at least two more edits before I submitted it to anyone, but if she'd liked the idea and the character, she'd have seen beyond that anyway. 

All I'm saying is, as writers, we're often far too harsh on ourselves. Can't believe it took a journey to hell and back for me to realise that. 

Lu Hersey

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