You can wander off in space or in time, set out for Tierra del Fuego or for King Midas's court. My diving bell becomes less oppressive, and my mind takes flight like a butterfly. To fight off stiffness, I instinctively stretch, my arms and legs moving only a fraction of an inch. On the yellow sheets, are hurting, although I can't tell if they are burning hot or ice cold. After their night's respite, my congested bronchial tubes once more begin their noisy rattle. At seven the chapel bells begin again to punctuate the passage of time, quarter hour by quarter hour. When I finally surfaced, I was in Room 119 of the Naval Hospital at Berck-sur-Mer, on the French Channel coast - the same Room 119, infused now with the first light of day, from which I write.Īn ordinary day. I myself had twenty days of deep coma and several weeks of grogginess and somnolence before I truly appreciated the extent of the damage. Of course, the party chiefly concerned is the last to hear the good news. My left eyelid is my only means of communication.

You survive, but you survive with what is so aptly known as 'locked-in syndrome.' Paralyzed from head to toe, the patient, his mind intact, is imprisoned inside his own body, unable to speak or move. But improved resuscitation techniques have now prolonged and refined In the past, it was known as a 'massive stroke,' and you simply died. Vital piece of anatomy when a cerebrovascular accident took my brain stem out of action. That day I was brutally introduced to this I've since learned that it is an essential component of our internal computer, the inseparable link between the brain and the spinal cord. Up until then I had never even heard of the brain stem. No need to wonder very long where I am, or to recall that the life I once knew was snuffed out Friday, the eighth of December, last year. Photos of loved ones, my children's drawings, posters, the little tin cyclist sent by a friend the day before the Paris–Roubaix bike race, and the IV pole hanging over the bed where I have been confined these past six months, My heels hurt, my head weighs a ton, and something like a giant invisible cocoon holds my whole body prisoner. Through the frayed curtain at my window, a wan glow announces the break of day.

The diving bell and the butterfly book