INTRODUCTION
Flatline, ECG printout, 1999.
“What if you let me live, and I commit my life to making art?” my inner voice pleads with a divinity I’m not sure I believe in. Seven days in this hospital bed, a series of traumatic goodbyes to family members, and my teenage art-student body is still unprepared for what would happen next.
The bleep-bleep sound of the ECG machine flatlines to a single shrill note. It reverberates through the paper-thin, forget-me-not blue curtains between the hospital beds. The drip they fed my feeble veins with didn’t stabilise the allergic reaction I’d been losing the fight against for the last few days—I was allergic ...
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