For a lack of better terminology -- and I did use these very words to myself -- I had a “feeling of impending doom.” However, there was never any question of what the impending doom was. I was going to die -- that day and within the hour. On August 31, 2009, I awoke at approximately 6:00 a.m. and this was what I awoke to -- the hour of my death.

“Today is the day I am going to die.” Was it a conscious thought? I do not think so. It was just there, all knowing, like I knew my name, my history, my thoughts. I was going to die. Still, I felt calm and peaceful; I felt total acceptance. I was not in a shock or a panic or even in pain. Did I wake up knowing it or did it come to me after I woke up? These are things I do not know, though I have spent plenty of time pondering them since.

The feeling was so strong that I never even felt I had a choice. I accepted my death. It was going to happen and soon, though I also knew that I had some time left -- maybe 30 minutes, maybe an hour. I never ever thought to save myself by seeking immediate medical care. The feeling was too strong that it was my time.

Where that thought came from, I do not know. Again, it was just there. One can call it a premonition, intuition or any other word that works for them. For me, the thought of my imminent demise was so powerful, so overwhelming, that words, like intuition or premonition, seem so tame in comparison and do not adequately describe the feeling. My whole body was in tune with the fact that I was going to die, but again, there was complete acceptance and no regrets.

Later, after talking with a cousin who was an EMT, I found out that many people do have feelings of “impending doom” before major health crises, like heart attacks and strokes, though I had never heard of it before. Had I done so, I might have felt more inclined to believe that I had a chance to live.

I’d like to say that I went calmly to my death, because I certainly had every intention of doing so. My only stated request was that I make it upstairs to my sleeping 22 year old daughter, so that she would not find me dead later that day. What a trauma for a young woman to face and I certainly spent minutes worrying over that. I begged God not to let that happen to my daughter. It was the only thing I really prayed about, though I had enough time that I even sat for a while and reflected on my life for a bit, though I had no regrets for the loss of my future life at all. Though I did not then or later have a near death experience, I felt at one with God. I did not have to pray. God knew my every thought or so it seemed. He gave me the gift of knowing I was going to die, allowed me to accept it and gave me time to ponder it. I was amazed by this and thanked God for allowing it.

At the last moment before going upstairs, I decided to call 911. I did not do this to save my life, as remember, the overwhelming feeling was that there was no choice and I had already accepted my death. I called just to make sure that, in case I did not make it upstairs, the emergency crew would wake up my daughter and be with her when they found me dead.

There was only one problem. I knew that initiating the phone call was going to accelerate the attack. For those who are not familiar with asthma, my asthma, at least, is tied to my emotions. Have you ever been emotional enough to feel “choked up?” That, to me, is similar to what asthma feels like. As you get emotional, the airways constrict and the throat starts to hurt. Though there is much more to it, for those who have never experienced it, it is a start. As I made the call, I could feel my throat closing up.

Making matters worse, my cell phone is an out of town area code, requiring more answers than I wanted or, really, was even capable of giving as my attack accelerated. Finally, I choked out the address, let them know that I could not breathe, (I was already at that point just from the phone call) which, at that point, my air intake was going fast. I slammed my phone shut and headed for the stairs, hoping I could still make it.

Though I would have sworn I passed out just as I opened the door to the living room from the basement, I did not. I make it into my daughter’s room and was able to wake her up. I also helped her try to set up my nebulizer machine, though I have absolutely no recollection of anything past opening the door and yelling my daughter’s name. She also made a 911 call. In spite of everything to the contrary, the feeling of doom, and the acceptance of my death, I lived.

Unfortunately, I had to be intubated. In other words, I ended up at a hospital on a ventilator, fighting for my life for almost 48 hours before the tube was removed. During that period of time, my family was not sure whether I was going to live or die. They were also unsure whether I was going to have any long term effects of the trauma, as in loss of brain cells due to lack of oxygen.

I was in a drug induced coma for the most part, only coming out when the trauma of the invasiveness of the ventilator overcame the effectiveness of the drugs. Whenever I did wake up, my only thoughts were to get that thing out of my throat. I could not talk. Unfortunately, my hands were tied down so I could not get to the tube but I knew I wanted it gone. My face was swollen and the skin underneath my eyes were blackened. I had large red dots in my eyes from the lack of oxygen. Really, I almost did die.

They realized that I did not have brain trauma when I was able to trick the nurse into letting me write something with a pen, late on Tuesday night. Fortunately, he also did not know I am left handed, as I needed my right hand untied. As quickly as he untied my hand and gave me the pen, I dropped it and jerked the intubation system out of my throat. It felt like a chicken leg in my throat with the meaty end pointing up. It sure did feel good for it to go.

Of course, I could have done some major damage, but I did not know that at the time. I was only thinking that it had to go. Fortunately, with oxygen, I was able to breathe on my own. I do not remember much about what happened afterwards, except hearing my 230 pound, 6 foot tall male nurse saying, “Oh, no, she didn’t!” I did and I do remember feeling immense satisfaction that I did it. I thank God that I still had the brains to do it and of course, would do it again in a heartbeat, even if it killed me. That is how much I hated it being there.

Now, obviously, I can not be held totally responsible for any feelings or actions that I have under the influence of major medication like morphine either (especially under a doctor's care), so please do not judge me if you are reading this. It is one of the reasons that I have waited so long to write since my attack. I am still very much confused by it all.

By the way, I am still in the hospital --32 days later -- though it does appear that I shall live after all, in spite of it all.  I developed a problem to one of the medications they gave me called Heparin-induced thrombocytopenia which has kept me here all this time. What that means is that while most people have blood platelets of 140,000 (like I did when I came in), my blood platelets went down to 15,000, causing several dangerous scenarios. They are now coming back up and I should be home within a week or so, barring any further problems. I am happy to be back at work on Hubpages and I do hope that a few of you missed me.  I know I missed all of you.

I have missed hub pages, my writing and my friends that I have been making, though once or twice I felt good enough to make a comment. Still, I get tired very easily. This is my first attempt at writing since my ordeal, but I have a lot of good material that I am anxious to get working on. Obviously, this one is the hardest one to write as I had already thought I had written my last one. Here is to many more….