Last December, I thought I was going to die. I don’t mean that in a “the Reaper gets us all” kind of philosophical platitude, but in a very real, very immediate sense. I remember thinking, “So, this is it?”

I had tonsillitis. Growing up, my mum had told me that I’d had my tonsils removed, but either she or the surgeon was lying because after two weeks of worsening symptoms, the out-of-hours doctor at my local hospital told me I had a pretty egregious case of tonsillitis. I hadn’t eaten for five days. I’d tried my best to drink, but I was dehydrated and weak. On the 18th of December, I nearly died.

I had been half asleep when some saliva I was too scared to swallow dripped onto my voice box — and my throat completely constricted. I couldn’t breathe. I jumped out of bed, I paced around the room, and I tried to jam my fingers down my windpipe to open it.…