Tim's back too. Explains that 'cause the glass has come out and they're still not sure what it hit and was therefore blocking, they're going to have to go in and drain the blood off.

Apprehension - I have no idea what's going to happen next, but the gown's coming off (don't know how that got there) and I'm being surrounded by various sheets of material.

Tim explains : The drain's a tube that they're going to have to put in through my chest wall (he indicates an area somewhere near my left armpit). He's trying to keep it light but there's a certain tension there as he explains that as the damage site's so low down (7th rib, I'm told) the drain will have to be pushed all the way down onto my diaphragm. Says it may "not be too comfortable" going in.

Everyone goes off to get scrubbed up and I get my own personal iodine experience.

Tim's back again. Sudden thought. Anaesthetic ?

Apparently it's all going to be done under local.

Problem : I'm resistant to lignocaine. Rather than the advertised 1-2 hour gap it gives you, I shake it off in around 30 mins and need something like a six to one dose on top.

Seems like Tim can't risk the chance of getting any form of anaesthetic inside my chest caviity, so he's going to have to go with recommended doses. Yet another needle. Slight delay to let the local take effect.

Left arm back behind head, stare at ceiling and start to count holes in the tiles. Can't believe that they can work in such a low level of light.

Local hasn't taken and I feel the scalpel blade part the skin. Disorientating stinging sensation that you get directly after you realise you'e cut yourself. Sharp, intrusive.

Tim apologises and gets on with it. Stroke after stroke of the scalpel, each one a stinging reminder of the layers that are being cut through.

Pause. I glance down. Mistake.

Tim's picking up a pair of scissors and my rib cage is being dissected in front of me.

Scissors have an added mechanical impact that's way worse than the scalpel cuts.

Count ceiling tile holes, breathe.

Very sharp pain that prevents me breathing.

Tim apologises - ribs have their own nerve supply, and this one's completely active. Don't know if he's telling himself or trying to reassure me but all I can hear is "nearly there, nearly there".

One more impact from the scissor blades, a sharp blow and then the obscenely intimate sensation of someone's finger hooked over a rib, moving inside my chest to check the incision's all the way through. I can't breathe.

I hear "deep breath", inhale and feel a wash of warmth covering me from armpit to hip. It crawls between my side and the matress and seeps underneath me, cooling and slowing as it goes. Takes a long time.

Pause, try to draw the next breath and hear the most disgusting slobbering noise. It's the same sound as a wellie boot being pulled out of semi-liquid mud but it's in time to my attempted breathing. Smell hits me. Blood. You need a fair volume of that in the open before you smell it.

Pushing sensation on the side of my chest.

In terms of pain, what's gone before is just a sample.

Left arm feels like everything from my shoulder down that isn't bone is being pulled off.
Pencil's been hammered down the side of my neck.
Feels like someone's pulled a knife across my stomach and thrown battery acid into the wound.
Never had indigestion like this before.

"Nearly there, nearly there". Don't care. Want it to stop.

"Nearly there, nearly there". Fresh wave of indigestion and my arm's been plugged into the mains and set on fire. I'm not breathing. Just can't.

"Nearly there, nearly there". Feel the tube slide 'round towards my back, lift and settle.

"Bottle ?". Movement below the level of the matress.

"Deep breath". Amazingly, I can.

"Get another". Another what ?

Pulling sensation just under my arm, then someone rubs something down my side. Assume it's all over and I'm being tidied up. Cold. Dim.

New chant's taken up.

"300".

Pause. "Now ?".

"300".

I'm aware of two things. The only bodily sensation I can feel is the pain like the pencil hammered down the side of my neck - nothing else. Somewhere down the line, in the absence of any other input, my awareness of the whole cubicle's expanded.

Each bag on each IV line has a nurse hanging off it, trying to pump fluid back into me.
Pressure cuff tries to inflate, gives up. No-one bothers.
Tim and Duncan staring at the monitor.
Can't see how they could do what they did in this crap lighting.
See a bank of portable spots. Still on. Still looks dim.

"Now"
"300"

Tim sees me. Explains that there's no throacic surgery unit at Weston and that they'll have to get me up to Bristol if the bleeding doesn't stop. They don't have that much blood of my type so they can't risk running it into me now as they'll have to use it in the OR if they have to go in to tie off whatever's been hit. Glances at his watch. Can't move me until I'm stabilised. To do that they'll have to run the blood into me. Bit of a dilemma. Checks his watch again.

"Now"
"200"

Awareness : He's upped the sample rate. Numbers relate to blood flow.

See a nurse take a container away. It's full of viscous, purple fluid. Looks to me roughly the same size as a 6 pint milk carton but it's got a wierd chamber on the side of it. It's pretty much full.

Awareness : Seen something similar. Chamber's a non-return mechanism. Container's graded in ML.

"Now"
"200"

Cold. Tired. Very tired. Had enough of this.

Tim says something but I can't be bothered to listen. Awareness cuts in again. Reassuring noises don't quite stack up with the tone of the conversation being held at the foot of my trolley.

Tim looks at the nurse who's monitoring the blood flow into the bottle. Doesn't even ask the question. She makes a "what can I do ?" face, people let go of the IV bags and Duncan moves away elsewhere.

Other people drift away leaving Tim and two others looking at the montior.

I get a wave of, well, something.

Awareness : Emotions don't work properly when you don't have enough left for your body to react to them.

Awareness : I'm going to die.