Forty-Seven Seconds
Pain hit me like lightning—sharp, blinding, tearing through my chest as if someone had split me open with bare hands. I woke up to white light and the piercing beeps of machines. My head throbbed.
Where was I?
The room spun. White walls. Transparent tubes snaked around my arms. I tried to sit up, but my body screamed in protest. My chest felt stapled shut by fire. Beneath the thin hospital gown were layers of bandages, holding me together—barely.
“Like I got hit by a truck,” I croaked. “What happened?”
“You’ve just had emergency triple bypass surgery,” she said calmly. “Your heart stopped for forty-seven seconds during the operation.”
Forty-seven seconds.
For forty-seven seconds, I had ceased to exist.
“But we brought you back,” she added with a smile. “You’re going to be fine. Two more weeks, and you can go home.”
I looked around the sterile room. No flowers. No cards. No one waiting.
No one who knew—or cared—that I had technically died.
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