Imagine surviving a cardiac arrest, only to wake up blind, with a brain injury, and a mind flooded with vivid hallucinations. That’s exactly what happened to me after a heart attack left me in a coma during the third Covid lockdown. But here’s where it gets controversial—those hallucinations didn’t just haunt me; they inspired a novel and reshaped my entire life. Let me take you through the journey.
It was February 1, 2021. My wife, Alexa, and I were exhausted, trying to juggle homeschooling our restless kids while working from home—me as a lawyer in the music industry, her as a charity fundraiser. We’d just settled onto the sofa with sausages and chips, relieved to have survived January. Then, I started making strange noises. ‘Are you joking?’ Alexa asked, followed by, ‘Are you choking?’ She knew it was my heart. Days earlier, my cardiologist had warned me about a leaking valve that needed surgery within six months. I’d joked, ‘I’ll just drop down dead,’ never imagining how close to the truth that would be. By the time my dinner tray slipped to the floor, I was clinically dead. My heart had stopped, and I wasn’t breathing. And this is the part most people miss—I’m alive today because of Alexa, my son, our neighbor Peter who performed CPR, and the paramedics who restarted my heart after 40 agonizing minutes.
I was rushed to the hospital in a deep coma, leaving Alexa in our living room, surrounded by chaos—furniture pushed aside, mud on the floor, and medical debris everywhere. It would be two months before I returned home, visually impaired, with a brain injury, and a completely altered perspective on life.
While Alexa lived a nightmare, unsure if I’d survive, I was oblivious in a coma. When I finally woke up, I was incoherent. The next day, it became clear I was blind. The doctors’ conversations with Alexa shifted from relief to dread as they discussed the brain injury caused by oxygen deprivation. A few days later, Alexa visited me as an exception to lockdown rules. I was hallucinating—I’d just told her I’d attended a film premiere about bees. Over the following days, we video-called often. I laughed and joked as if hosting a dinner party, completely unaware of what had happened. No matter how many times Alexa, the doctors, or nurses explained my cardiac arrest and brain injury, I’d forget instantly.
Weeks later, during neurological rehab, tests revealed my memory and cognitive functions were in the bottom 2% of the population. One day, I asked why my mother hadn’t visited, only to learn she’d passed away three years prior. Slowly, my sight began to return, but only partially, and I struggled to process what I saw. I remember sitting by a hospital window, feeling cold air seep through the frames, longing to breathe it in. Snow had fallen overnight, and I couldn’t understand why Hampstead Heath was white.
The hallucinations continued, my brain compensating for my vision loss. One, in particular, stood out—and it became the seed for my novel, This, My Second Life. In it, I was in a cottage hospital in Dublin, alone in a dark room. Outside, young nurses with lilting Irish accents murmured softly around a table lit by an oil lamp. I felt profoundly cared for, as if nothing could harm me. That hallucination mirrored the real-life kindness of the doctors, nurses, and caregivers who’d looked after me. I’m still grateful for their compassion.
During that time, I felt like a content baby, untouched by the world. Before, I’d juggled a stressful job, lockdown, and homeschooling. Now, I simply existed, floating through time, my busy mind silenced. It was like the calm after a storm.
When I returned home, I wanted to hold onto that tranquility. I began writing, creating a world that reflected the peace I’d experienced. I wrote slowly, by hand, often forgetting what I’d written, hindered by dyslexia and fatigue from my injury. Over three years, I realized how deeply my experience had changed me. I see the world differently now—limited in what I can do, yet feeling freer and more open.
My novel connects to my late mother, the writer Helen Dunmore. The main character, Jago, shares the name of a boy from a picture book we’d worked on together. I also brought back Granny Carne from my mother’s Cornish Ingo books, a wise figure who helps Jago navigate his new life. Though I can’t share my book with her, I’m comforted by the thread connecting our work across time.
After finishing the novel, I initially set it aside, hesitant to re-enter the world. But I knew I needed more than just drifting through life. I took a leap, sent it out, and when a publishing deal came, it felt like a new beginning. Writing, I realized, is my path forward.
This, My Second Life isn’t just Jago’s story—it’s mine too. I have challenges, but I’m alive, I can see, I have my family and friends, and I can write. My hope is that readers feel uplifted, finding the same peace, contentment, and possibility the book has given me.
Here’s the controversial question: Can trauma truly lead to transformation? Does it take a brush with death to appreciate life’s fragility? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments—do you believe hardship can unlock creativity, or is it just a painful detour? Let’s discuss.
