Childhood asthma was due to my heart. Many pediatricians misdiagnose this.

I was awake on the operating table.  The anesthesiologist pumped me full of drugs.  I was lucid and hallucinating.  The room was a chilling 60 degrees, but I could reach out and touch the lights above me like a God caressing the sun. Suddenly my back began to itch.  The operating table had turned to salt.  They were embalming my corpse, packing me in natron, preserving my heart for the journey into the afterlife.  I could hear their voices coming in and out of the static.  English mixed with lost intonations of ancient Egyptian. A turn of the dial and the Greek of Alexander the Great emerged from the silence.  Another turn and I suddenly heard them speaking Arabic.  The salt beneath me had dissolved completely and I was now a medieval cadaver under the hands of the great Ibn Nafis.  He was observing my Arabesque tendrils, my intricate foliage in his forceps.