The First Time I Died.

Abstract

The First Time I Died Rynn Burke Much of my life can be characterized as 'Failure to Die.' In February 1962: I was 18 months old. My mother ironed my hand. She did this intentionally, as she did so many things. Medically, I know that I eventually went septic, required multiple surgeries, and developed scarlet fever. I was in the hospital for months. But what was outstanding in my memory was the pretty ambulance lights, which I associated with the pain stopping. When nerves are deeply burned away, as with a thirddegree burn, the pain stops. It is a small surprise that I always wanted to run ambulance, which I eventually did. The first time I recall the experience of dying, I was eight years old. I had many severely painful plantar warts—to the point where a breath of air or the lightest drag of a sock was excruciating. This was not a high-risk surgery. It was not common practice to explain anything to children—we were to shut up and do as we were told. When I was first admitted for surgery (I had had many surgeries by then and was quite comfortable in the hospital environment), I was hungry. Of course, we all now know that you do not eat prior to surgery, but nobody told me that. I found a bag of M&Ms in my bedside table and chowed down. I was uncomprehending when they came in to transport me to surgery, and everybody started screaming at me. Clearly, I had done something wrong, but I did not know what. As a severely abused child, my overarching objective was always to avoid attention, which brought pain. I always felt it was my job to avoid the abuse. I was very good at being very quiet, still, and disappearing in plain sight. Abused children always blame themselves. The surgery was rescheduled. I was likely more carefully supervised, and I don't recall being hungry. In any case, the operating room was a dull pea green color. The anesthesia mask was black rubber and stunk badly. In those days, they used ether and other volatile gasses. We still use these, but you are put to sleep with an IV first, and the gasses no longer stink. I fought the mask, and I remember crying. Obviously, I was held down and physically overwhelmed. Much of medical interventions resemble rape. The next thing I remember is being up on the ceiling of the operating room, looking down at myself on the table. There was no distress or discomfort. I was alone but felt that there was someone looking over me or looking out for me. I heard and saw everything going on in the OR. Initially, I detected no urgency. Then the anesthesiologist started sweating and double-checking his equipment. He reached over to the bag and started squeezing it manually. A woman who I think was a nurse started taking another blood pressure. The surgeon working on my foot looked up and decided to work a little faster. My experience was sort of like floating without any fear of falling. I was given a choice. I could join my relatives who were waiting for me. There would be no more pain. This was a totally okay [End Page E1] choice that was available to me. But there was an undercurrent of another choice that might be more approved of, better, more exciting. The other choice was to go back and learn more. Clearly, the purpose was to learn. The objective was to learn everything possible. How fun is that! The choice was also clear, though, that there would be pain. I remember glancing 'back' somehow. My relatives were not clear—they were more vague presences. They would wait. They did not feel that I needed to come now. Nothing would change. They would be there when I needed them. My choice was obvious. Re-entry was not pleasant—jarring and harsh with immediate pain. I told the OR team about what happened to me as they were wheeling me back to my room. One woman said, "Nonsense." I told her I knew she had not been in...