Coming out of a Coma

Waking up from an induced coma is a strange kind of homecoming. You return to your body, your life, your people—but you also return from somewhere else entirely. A place that felt real, sounded real, and in some moments, made more sense than the hospital room you eventually open your eyes to.

I was placed in an induced coma a couple of years ago, and since emerging from that coma, I’ve had time to reflect on the incredible, often absurd series of hallucinations I experienced while under serious pain medication. I’ve had surgery before—appendix, cyst removal—but nothing prepared me for the vivid, sprawling alternate universe my mind built this time.

One of the more amusing hallucinations placed me on the sixth floor of the hospital, where I became convinced a full television production crew was filming a documentary about amputations after overseas holidays. A friend of mine who works in film even joked later that she’d happily handle the release forms for the non‑existent documentary. At the time, it all felt perfectly logical.

Another hallucination transported me to a hospital that doubled as an ABC Radio station in regional Victoria. In that reality, a nurse was also the breakfast‑show technician—checking my vitals one minute and adjusting the faders the next. I remember thinking, “Well, that’s efficient.” I’m not sure why, but they were playing an album by Grace Jones and Vince Knight as their only CD.

There were others. Many others.

I believed I was being moved between temporary hospital wards around Sydney and told a friend we should make a documentary about the staff. (Honestly, I still think that’s a good idea—but it can wait.)

I dreamed of being in a vast open space where someone kept buzzing a door no one could open.
I asked a young person if I could borrow their mobile phone, only to be told, “Oh no, our generation doesn’t use mobile phones anymore.” That should’ve been my first clue that I was deep in hallucination territory.

At one point, I became absolutely convinced that a piece of medical equipment was a 1990s mobile phone and tried to call friends on it.

Some moments were less funny—like the fear that my “toxic faeces” would destroy the hospital plumbing, or the belief that a nurse was holding me hostage and threatening to blow up the building.

Looking back, I can see how external conversations seeped into my unconscious mind and were magnified into full‑blown cinematic experiences. It was like dreaming with the volume turned up.

For days after waking, I clung to the belief that some of these hallucinations were real. I even wondered whether my phone’s location tracker might confirm my “trip” to Victoria. Unfortunately, the phone was switched off, so the mystery remains unsolved.

Recently I’ve been speaking to some other amputees for a podcast, and they’ve told me similar experiences.

One woman told me about the night her elderly mother received a 3 a.m. call from the hospital. Doctors had already amputated below the knee, but the infection was so severe they needed to go higher. Her mum simply said, “Do what you have to to save a life.” That decision stabilised things—but the coma that followed brought its own strange reality.

She described it perfectly: “Being in a coma feels like you’re living a life that you’re not actually living.”

Her hallucinations were just as surreal as mine. She was in ICU near the helicopter bay at the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne, so the constant sound of choppers wove itself into her dreams. Somehow, she became Lara Croft, flying over the MCG on a mission to assassinate Eddie McGuire.

We laughed together about the sheer nonsense of it all, but there was comfort in knowing someone else had lived in that same blurred space between reality and imagination.

She told me about the moment she realised her own hallucinations weren’t real: waking up and proudly telling her best friend she’d spent the night racing mattresses on the hospital roof. Her friend burst into laughter, and she knew instantly—none of it happened.

That moment of recognition mirrored my own. The slow, sometimes unsettling process of stitching reality back together.

For me, friends and family found themselves confused. Some thought I had lost my mind and were facing “the new reality of James”, while others recognised what was going on. A friend who was a nurse previously humoured me, another family member, also a nurse, burst into laughter at the stories I told her.

Emerging from a coma isn’t just waking up. It’s recalibrating. It’s learning to trust your senses again. It’s accepting that your mind, under stress and medication, can create entire worlds that feel as real as the one you return to.

Talking with another amputee who had lived through the same disorienting mental landscapes helped me understand that these experiences aren’t signs of weakness or confusion—they’re part of the brain’s wild, protective, sometimes hilarious response to trauma.

And if nothing else, they make for some unforgettable stories.

I may not have raced mattresses on the roof or produced a documentary from my hospital bed, but I did live a whole other life for a while. A strange, vivid, impossible life.