I always thought I knew what it was like to be shot.  I had seen enough films. You would look terrified when the bad guys pointed a gun at you, and  would plead with them not to shoot you. Ignoring you totally, they would smile with an evil grin and shoot. You would fly backwards, clutching the place where you had been shot, and  lie on the ground, groan a bit, bleed a lot and usually die.

It wasn’t like that at all when I was shot.

It is not that the Dominican Republic is particularly dangerous; it is just that they do things a little differently.  I put it down to the lack of availability of stocking masks.  When you are burgled, the chances are you will know your attacker, as everyone knows everyone.  They just don’t want to go to jail.  The jails here are pretty gruesome as jails go, and so if they get caught in the act of robbing your house, they really have no option but to stop you snitching to the police.  And so they shoot you.

I am not sure whether they were aiming for my heart and shot too high, or my forehead and shot too low.  In any event, when I caught them in the act of robbing the house, I said “good evening”, as everyone is polite in the DR. The short one said to the tall one “Give it to her”.  I waited for whatever it was they were going to give me, totally unafraid, and then one lifted up his T-shirt, pulled out the gun tucked into the top of his trousers, pointed it at me and fired.

I saw the gun, and a little spark, and then heard a loud bang, so I turned and ran, in case they shot me.  I had no idea I had already been shot – right through my neck.  I didn’t fly backwards, it didn’t hurt.  I didn’t feel a thing.

The dogs decided it was about time they did what they should have done when the guys broke it, and went for them. The burglars fired more shots, killing one dog, but that still left four attacking them and, having run out of bullets, they left. Meanwhile, I was beginning to work out that I had probably been shot somewhere as I felt a tad odd.  The bullet had passed through my throat and then gone straight through my right lung. It was now stuck in my back. I am not sure where else it went, but it was a .22 and I was told later they bounce around a bit once inside you.  The air was escaping from my lung but instead of going out of my mouth or down my nose it was filling the top half of my body with air – I was slowly blowing up like a balloon. This meant that I couldn’t see as my face got fatter, and my eyes were swelling shut.  I quickly tried to use my phone to call for help. Stupidly I hadn’t got my reading glasses with me so couldn’t see any numbers. Note to self, to always carry reading glasses in case you are shot.

To cut a long story short, help arrived on foot in the form of 30 or so locals, who tried to call 911 – no reply; the police – phone didn’t work as they hadn’t paid the bill; an ambulance – there were none.  I eventually made it to the local hospital being carried, then draped over the back of a motorbike, and eventually in a car. It still didn’t hurt; it was just dammed hard to breathe.

There followed a tracheotomy.  I thought you could do one using a ball point pen casing, making a tiny hole, but for some reason the Dominican doctors decided to slice a four inch gash across my throat, which was a far larger cut than necessary, in my humble opinion.  Unfortunately, as I still appeared to be dying, I had to go to a bigger and better hospital in the capital. Three hours later a clapped out ambulance with a broken windscreen arrived. It refused to go anywhere until someone paid to fill it up with diesel.

Still no pain and my recollections are a tad fuzzy as well. I think your body must produce all sorts of natural painkillers when you get shot.  By the time we arrived at the large hospital, there was no oxygen left in the ambulance.  This was very inconvenient as it was being used to bag me, being unable to breathe on my own. Time was of the essence here and I was rushed into the ER. Unfortunately, before they would start work on me, they insisted on a deposit.  By this time it was 3.30 am, and fortunately there was an ATM right next to the ER.  My husband managed to get the requisite cash out and then they started work on me. To my utter dismay the first thing they did was to cut off my Dolce and Gabbana top. That hurt far more than being shot.  They put chest drains in, which is a very unpleasant, although necessary procedure, and I gradual began to deflate.  It actually took over a week before I stopped looking like the Michelin man and all the air in the top half of my body disappeared.  Once the chest drains were in, I regained full consciousness and my body decided to stop producing painkillers.  Then it hurts – by then some nine hours later.

Twelve days later I was home.  No longer able to work as a scuba diving instructor as my lung had holes in it, and courtesy of the botched tracheotomy, no longer able to sing karaoke or even speak properly.  But still alive and kicking.

So don’t believe what you see on the films – it isn’t like that. And if the government wants to reduce violent crime in this country, they should start selling stocking masks.