I laughed when many years ago I read a letter in the paper from somebody who'd been involved in a serious car smash. In and out of bouts of consciousness, as he was being wheeled out of surgery, he swore bling he'd distinctly remembered the porters stopping a nurse and asking her "Will he die?" to which she took a cursory glance at the paperwork and replied "Yes" before moving on. Little sleep was had over the next few nights where he summoned a priest and "made himself right with God" It wasn't until until two weeks had passed did he twig what he'd heard - he was in the fracture clinic - the William Dyford Ward which, colloquially, had been shortened to Willie Dye. 
After that the priest's services were called upon less and less!
