John-Michael S

I was working on a counterinsurgency contract in Afghanistan in 2012. For the eight years prior, I had been doing logistics in Iraq. I came from a religious mother and grandparents, but religion never felt right to me. I had recently gotten married, and this was supposed to be my last contract. It turned out to be the most dangerous work I had done in all my years over there. I was alone most of the time, but thankfully, I lived just outside Kandahar in a compound with other expats. Most of us were former Marines, SEALs, or Special Forces. Earlier that summer, I had been home on leave. We had just bought a home in Fort Worth, and life felt good; at least on the surface. But apparently, I had a strong feeling of impending doom. On the morning I was to begin my flights back to Afghanistan, I started drinking beer. My parents were visiting. I told my mother to take care of my wife and kids because I didn’t think I’d be coming back. We needed the money, so I went anyway. I don’t remember saying any of that. I was told later by my mother and wife. What I do recall is feeling barely sober enough to board the plane, weighed down by an overwhelming sense of dread. I arrived in Dubai and stayed a few days. I wasn’t feeling well, but a local American doctor at a clinic started treating me for bronchitis. A couple of weeks later, while conducting late-night missions around the NATO base in Kandahar, a coworker and I were caught in a minor IED attack. It didn’t seem serious and not even worth calling home about. I had sustained worse injuries riding my dirt bike. I felt fine the next morning, but by that night, I was dying. I don’t remember this part clearly, but somehow, I managed to put on my armor, strap on two guns, and gear up in full combat equipment. Then I crawled 250 yards to my best friend’s door. We called his portable building a “hootch.” This crawl, under those conditions, is hard to comprehend. Even in peak physical shape, my gear had always felt heavy. Doing it with a collapsed lung seems impossible, but somehow I did it. My buddy later told me he heard scratching at his door. He looked outside, saw nothing, and went back to bed. Around midnight, I made enough noise to wake him again. He had been a Pararescue Jumper in the Air Force—the kind of medic who retrieves wounded soldiers mid-battle. With help from a Delta Force operator, they got me through a checkpoint and a brief firefight to the main hospital, 12 kilometers away at Kandahar Air Field. I have a vague memory of trying to draw my handgun to “help” them, but I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. The two men later told me that the Role 3 medical team hesitated to treat me because I was a civilian contractor. They drew their weapons to stress the urgency of the situation, but it made no difference. My heart stopped, and only then did the staff act. My next memories are fragmented. I recall parts of the near-death experience itself. I remember being with my wife as she flew to Dubai, although she was still in America at the time. My father arrived first. I hadn’t known he was coming, but somehow, I sensed his presence. I also remember my wife being with me on the medevac jet from Kandahar to Dubai. I didn’t know it was a plane at the time, but her presence brought me immense comfort. I can’t explain how, but it felt real. Strange visions followed. I saw an imaginary patient in my room who died shortly before my own condition worsened and my heart stopped again. I believe now that he was a guardian angel. I also sensed the spirit of a newborn who had passed away in the ICU. When a code was called, I thought it was for the baby, then realized it was for me. I drifted out of my body. The unbearable pain I had felt, even in a coma, was gone. I watched the medical team performing CPR. I heard a doctor urge a nurse to stop, but she refused. None of that mattered anymore. The pain was gone, and suddenly, I was somewhere else. The place was gray, like the sky before a hurricane. Mist reached up to my knees. There was no sound or smell. It should have been frightening, but it wasn’t. I knew I was supposed to walk. Eventually, I reached an enormous, ancient tree like those in medieval forests. My uncle, who had died from alcoholism in 2011, sat against it, unresponsive. Further ahead, my grandmother appeared. She had died in 2008 and was accompanied by my uncle’s father, “PawPaw Pete.” That surprised me, because I expected her to be with her husband. Pete called me “son,” just like he always had. Seeing him filled me with joy, but my grandmother refused to look at me. I understood why. I had become cruel and indifferent to the suffering I caused overseas. Even though I felt tremendous relief at being pain-free and ready to die, Pete warned me. He said I would not be judged, but I would go to hell if I didn’t turn back. I caught a glimpse of damnation, and it terrified me. Still, I tried to continue toward a distant city that I felt was where God resided. Pete touched my shoulder, and I was instantly overwhelmed by agony. I woke up to an Indian doctor shouting, “Mr. John, you’re back!” Nurses were crying. So was I. A few days later, after the tracheostomy was removed, I shared what I had seen. Doctors and surgeons visited, some deeply moved. One, said to be the best in Dubai, listened quietly and nodded as if he understood. Later, I experienced something else. I saw a blue, electric figure urging me to rip out my IVs. I fought it, until my wife arrived and calmed me. I once thought it was a demon. Now, I believe it was my own darkness made visible. When my wife had to return home, my sister came to escort me back. I was determined to leave. I bargained with a doctor: if I could walk the length of the ICU, he would discharge me. He didn’t believe I could do it. But I dragged myself out of bed, gripped a walker, and shuffled forward like my life depended on it. A taxi took us to a hotel in Dubai, and on May 5, 2012, I walked out. I don’t have any grand revelations from my near-death experience. Some people return with messages of divine love or a clear purpose. I came back with nothing. I believe in hell, but I still struggle with anger and bitterness. I dislike most people, and it’s a miserable way to live. There is one last detail I should mention. I heard prayers layered over each other, like the "emails to God" scene in Bruce Almighty. Voices from people in my Texas hometown came to mind, including ones I hadn’t thought of in twenty years. A churchgoer later told me it was intercessory prayer. Whatever it was, it worked. Still, I’m cautious now about what I pray for. I should have died. Some days, when the pain is bad, I wish I had. But I accept this life as penance. My mother still carries guilt. She prayed for my survival, and while her prayers were answered, my health has never been the same. I struggled with painkiller addiction, then switched to natural remedies. I stay away from alcohol now. I’ve lost too many friends to it. I wish society focused more on alcohol’s damage than pain pills or marijuana. I’m doing alright for someone who died; not great, not wise, just alive.