I eat breakfast 300 yards from 4,000 meds who are trained to save me.
The level of surrealism in my life gets higher and higher. Since I came within minutes - hours, perhaps - of dying on October 16th, 2019, there has been a dream-like nature to everything I do, experience, observe.
Breakfasting with a view of Tallaght Hospital, I mean, come on, that's just off the fucking surreality charts. I can recall - as if it happened yesterday - Pretty pushing me around the hospital corridors while my tattoo repeatedly faded and as the tattoo faded Pretty would begin to turn into a man, but only she and I were aware of this, and I would stare at my arm, praying for the tattoo to reappear because then she would be a woman, again, and her supervisor wouldn't know her secret. Her name is Pretty and she is pretty and from Zimbabwe - all true - and she is just one of the incredible people who perform incredible acts of life saving kindness day after day, night after night.
I often think of her. I often think of all the staff I encountered, especially when I sit on this balcony on a bright sunny morning and think: I know I'm awake, but it feels like I'm in a dream.
Day 37 of continuous sobriety. I am looking forward to Day 38 in a way I haven't looked forward to a day for a long time, if ever.
Surrealer and surrealer.