Realization...what a Concept

REALIZATION, what a Concept.

It is a bit difficult to put an exact time, or even a date, on when it all started, it is not really important anyway. Once I tell you the full story you will have some understanding of why it is suffice to say time matters very little to me now. In actual fact I truly do have all the time in this, or any other world.

First let me explain how an unusual medical problem is totally to blame for my current situation. According to my local medico, Dr Crow, if I do not have the blockage, which is stopping blood getting any further down my legs than my knee removed, it could result in one or two amputations. Would you have to think very hard about having the necessary procedure done, I mean seriously would you? I have formed quite an attachment to my left and right legs, using them on a daily basis for the best part of eighty five years, well I suppose eighty four really, I did not start actually walking until my second year. Perfecting using them in tandem, you know, left, right. left, sort of thing, one after the other comes naturally to me.

 Unfortunately my wife will tell you I am typical of the male species.  I put off going to the Specialist until the condition became unbearable. OK considering how it has turned out, I do admit, on this occasion her assertion is correct.

Prognosis for the procedure to alleviate the problem was good and the date set for last Thursday January 18^th. I believe I have now been here, in what I believe is the recovery ward, after the surgery for at least six hours without anyone coming to check on me. I don’t have my watch, so I am only guessing. Where are all those dedicated nurses, the ones who promised me a drink and a sandwich when I wake. Before surgery it was a procession of light blue uniform clad nurses asking the same questions over and over. Can you tell me your name? What is your date of birth? Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. If it wasn’t one of that ilk it was one in dark blue ‘scrubs’ wearing those silly head coverings asking exactly the same questions. I can only assume light blue nurses and dark blue nurses are not allowed to speak to each other. Last thing I recall is the junior Doctor, Bridget, holding an oxygen mask over my face and telling me I was ‘doing good’. Doing good for God’s, sake, all I was doing was breathing, which is another procedure I have perfected. Next thing I wake up in this very small room with the temperature about the same as I would think it would be in a morgue. I have no recollection of the good Doctor Bridget giving me a fail mark on my breathing ability.”

“That is because you are in the morgue,” A voice at last, not quite using the phrase I was hoping to hear.

“That is not funny. Who is speaking? I cannot see you. In fact I cannot see a bloody thing.”

“I’ll get you out and we can talk more freely.”

“Out? Out of where?”

“Where you are.”

“And where is that? It is pitch black in here.”

“You haven’t twigged yet have you?”

“Twigged? What is that supposed to mean, twigged to what?”

“You didn’t make it.”

“Didn’t make it? Can you at least try to make some sort of sense? What is it I didn’t make?”

“I’ll try and put this as gently as I can. When I said you didn’t make it, I meant through the surgery. To be succinct you died on the operating table, you Mr Poach are in fact quite dead.”

“That also is not funny. Is that a medical joke you use on patients to see their reaction or get their blood pressure up? If it is take it from me I fail to see the humourous side and my blood pressure is fine. Who are you anyway?”

“Mr Poach you no longer have a blood pressure and the procedure you were having did not include extracting your sense of humour, loosen up a little. My name is Cerberus, you must have heard of me.”

“Is that Doctor Cerberus or light or dark blue nurse Cerberus ? Doesn’t matter really, just get me out of wherever I am.  I want to see who I am talking to.”

“Seeing me is definitely one thing you do not want to do. Look it has already been a very trying day. With all these wars going on the influx I have had to process this week has been far in excess of my budget. And don’t even think about suggesting increased staff levels. No one is going anywhere, and you sir are included in the no one. I will get you out, but if you complain you will be put straight back in and you will also go to the end of the queue.”

“Queue? What fucking queue?”

“Well there you go, no sooner are you out than you rack up a demerit for using unseemly words. Word to the wise from the wise, WATCH YOUR MOUTH, sunshine.”

“Sunshine? I’m dreaming aren’t I? I am going to wake up and find I was having a nightmare because of the drugs they pumped into me.”

“No Mr Poach, you are quite dead and on the bottom of the waiting list to be moved on.”

“I want to either speak to whoever is in charge of this asylum or be woken out of my nightmare. Pick one.”

“Let’s go with speaking to me, I am Cerberus. I am in charge, something I have been doing for centuries, guarding the gates.”

“Oh that Cerberus? The one who doesn’t let people out of Hell and guards the gate? Are we on camera? Do you get to wear a three headed dog uniform?”

“No to each of those questions Mr Poach. To be perfectly honest they do lack originality, I have heard them all before, many times. Technically it is the gates to the Underworld, not Hell, so best you understand the difference, not that you will be given a choice. You will go where I send you.”

“You say I am dead, right? OK tell me how I can hear you.”

“I will explain the system to you. I will only do it once so please pay attention. You are, or were prior to your demise, eighty five, well past the use by date for men in Australia which cuts out around the eighty first year. You are one of those who slipped through the net, so to speak. When you stopped drinking that was bad enough but stopping smoking, well that really upset the order of things. You were expected much earlier until you did both of those things. In order to achieve a balance in our numbers we blocked a couple of arteries hoping you would ignore the signs and just demise gracefully in your sleep. The plan was working beautifully until your wife insisted you see a Doctor. What upset the apple cart was you actually took notice. You know the rest. You fail on the breathing test and voila, you join the ever increasing throng I have to deal with. Order is restored. Things here are not much different to where you left, except you answer to me, not your wife.”

“If just for one minute I accept the premise I am dead, not dreaming, what happens next?”

“First you have to accept the concept of time not existing in any other form than what you want it to be. An instance is your one minute you mentioned. Where you came from it represents a fleeting sixty seconds and it is gone forever. Before you are allocated a specific destination from here you have all the time in the world to enjoy your minute.”

“My concern with that Mr Cerberus is which world. The prospect of joining your Underworld does not conjure up great feelings of joy, particularly as you have snakes coming out of your dog’s heads. Let me think about it.”

“Take all the time you need Mr Poach.”

“If I am truly dead I really do need all the time in the world.”



“Now you understand.”