The Woman Who Saw Her Own Funeral

The year is Nicola Tuthill’s 2017. Her place is a hospital bed in the North of England, United Kingdom.
The foregoing, though brief, must stand as my introduction to a tale so strange as to cause one to wonder whether it is not the fruit of an overactive imagination.
In the winter of 2017, I was rushed from my home into hospital after the onset that morning of a severe headache which is perhaps best described as the worst headache of my life.
I don’t remember being particularly concerned about it as I have often been prone to migraine-like episodes, and I presumed that was what was happening on this occasion.

I was in hospital for three days. The nursing staff repeatedly administered morphine but without success; the pain persisted unabated. They carried out all manner of tests – blood, cardio, neurological – but nothing untoward was revealed.
On the third day, someone came to tell me that I was going to be discharged, and it was then that I asked whether I would be given anything to ease the pain. The response I received was one that came out of the blue and has stayed with me ever since. I was told that it would be pointless to give me painkillers because I was going to die that day.
I can still recall the look on my face as I stared back at the speaker. It would not be fair to describe it as horror, but I was certainly shocked and disbelieving. However, I took it onboard and asked to see my mother and sister who, by an extraordinary coincidence, were waiting outside the hospital.

When they came in, the person who had spoken to me earlier repeated what he had said. Now, I want you to pause for a moment and imagine the effect that this kind of news might have on two people who up to that point were unaware of any cause for such pessimism.
My mother’s first thought was to complain about the abysmal treatment I had received. My sister’s response was more philosophical. She said: “If you’re going to die, you’re going to die. We can’t do anything about it.”
I agreed with my sister but nevertheless asked to see the consultant in charge of my case. When he arrived, I asked him why I had been told that I was going to die. His answer was that I had suffered a massive brain haemorrhage and that there was no point in treating me further. In fact, he said, I shouldn’t even be alive now.
“I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you. You’re going to die within the hour. There’s no point giving you painkillers," he said.
I thanked him for what he had said and asked to be left alone. Then the waiting began.

At this point you are probably asking yourself: How can anyone prepare themselves for their own demise? And the answer to that is: It isn’t possible. It’s something that just cannot be done.
There are those who will tell you that they had a near-death experience and that it taught them that there is nothing to be afraid of. Well, all I can say to that is that if they were as convinced of that as they make out, they might very well wish to die at that moment.

I am sure that many people will read this article and say: “Oh I would have been so brave. I would have faced up to it like a stoic. I would certainly not have wanted my poor mother to hear such terrible news.” But, my friend, you can’t say what you would have done until you have been there.
The one thing that I did do, which I did within twenty minutes of being told the news, was to call my brother who lived 200 miles away. I asked him to come and see me and to bring my notebook computer. I was determined that I would face up to what was happening and make sure that my funeral instructions would be observed.