Last Sunday, I collapsed in a Hastings car park and was briefly dead.
A passer-by gave me CPR, and the pharmacists from Morrisons ran out with their defibrillator machine to shock me back to life.
I was taken to Eastbourne by Air Ambulance, where I had stents fitted.
Despite the NHS’s problems, the people who treated me were wonderful and compassionate.
My ribs were crushed by the CPR, and my organs were topsy-turvy.
I was administered an insulin drip and my blood glucose levels were up the spout.
The first thing to go when you’re really ill is dignity.
I was shuffled about in a gown, my bum on full, wobbly view, and a male nurse had to remind me to cover up.
I received a get-well message from Stephen Fry, which I made sure every member of staff knew about.
On my last morning, a nurse told me that my first grandchild was on the way.
When I got home, I burst into floods of tears.
Here was the grandson I very nearly never got to meet. Talk about death and entrances.
»Roger Lewis shares death escape experience«
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