I am lying on my back, the surface beneath me is hard, cold. Concrete. What am I doing lying on concrete? How did I get here?

There is pain somewhere but I haven’t the foggiest notion where. It’s there, just a level up from where I am, the level where things start to fall into place, the level that instinct demands I fight my way toward. So difficult, such a task, when just this, just lying here, barely breathing takes monumental effort.

There is sound here too. A voice? Voices? Someone is talking. Nonsense words. I cannot force them into coherence. Long words, I think, flavoured in urgency. Close, very close, and much too loud. I don’t like that. Can’t he just be quiet?

I open my eyes, just a flutter. It is all that I can manage. A glimpse, brief, unfocused. White, cloth. pockets, two, a male chest angled directly over me, shining, silver, a badge perhaps an emblem, unreadable words – uniform, yes, uniform, medical of some sort.

They are ingrained in me so deeply, these strange characteristics, these odd turns of personality, that, lying here, too weak to hold my eyes open, hardly able to draw breath, I want to speak, to protest, to deny a need for assistance. I want to wave this person away, don’t want anyone to witness my dramatics. It’s nothing, nothing, really. Just give me a moment or two. I’ll be fine. My mouth opens but I cannot breathe out the words, suddenly it seems that I cannot breathe at all.

Still, I can hear the activity about me. It seems so strange, so busy. I am ready to let it slip away, all this bustle. I cannot stop it, either the movement about me or my sinking from it. Control, whatever control I ever thought I had, is illusory. I can see that now.

My body is moved, touched. There is something on my face. My body lives its own life, finds the assisted air and draws it in greedily. Oh, please, no. Acceptance is so hard won. Let go. But, mindless of my frivolous thoughts, my lungs pull air. I breathe.

After a time – short, long, I cannot tell – I find the energy to open my eyes. He is there, the uniformed man, scientific magician, who pulls bodies back from the brink, souls willing or unwilling still attached. A strong face, his character etched in it. He does the impossible because it is the only thing he knows, because it is what must be done. He has a good face and he smiles down at me, at his latest falling high-wire act caught in mid plummet. His smile tells me not to worry, I am in good hands. He will fight the good fight for me.

It takes only the space of a single blink and he is gone. Kneeling beside me now, his grey eyes fixed upon my own, anxiety painted on his somehow weak features, is Ian. He looks away frantically. I see him find what he seeks, feel him lift my arm, note the sensation of the needle piercing my skin, a tiny explosion of pain. I turn my head slightly, looking down the length of my arm as though into another country. Even my layman’s eyes can see that something is not right there. With unwelcome empathy I feel Ian’s anguish knowing that he has made a mistake, that the needle has missed the vein, that he has chosen the wrong site, the wrong needle, the wrong angle. I know that the growing swell below my skin is going to turn very ugly and very painful very soon, but he didn’t mean to hurt me. He had the best of intentions and he did what he thought was right. He was trying to help. I have no doubt of this at all. I can see the pain in his face, feel the utter crushing weight of his disappointment in himself.

Still I cannot speak and so I do the only thing I can.

Slowly, shakily, I offer him my other hand.