Once, I underwent a procedure for my heart.
As I lay on the slab being anesthetized, I had no inkling of God but was pierced by an exquisite understanding of Michael Jackson.
I had never given much thought to Michael Jackson beyond the casual, “Oh. Wow. Strange.” Nor was I especially susceptible to his (I’m told) undeniable genius as a performer, so this was not a communion I was expecting.
But the drug they were dosing me with was propofol, the very drug that killed the King of Pop, and therein lay our merger of souls.
This is what propofol does not do:
It does not supply you with some swift and vanishing orgasmic rush after which you feel all cheap and used.
Instead, propofol draws you into the plushest oblivion imaginable—unimaginable, really. It wipes away all terror of Last Things, of physical extremity and Hell, wooing, easing, consuming you. It is the dream of a lovely death.
A doctor employed propofol to put Michael Jackson to sleep every night, and I am here to tell you that, given the money and upper-echelon/back-street connections, anybody in his proper, quaking mind would hire a doctor to do the same for him. Perhaps a less distracted doctor.
Perhaps not.
One thing is certain: Michael Jackson died a happy man.