Experience Description
On May 29, 2008, I was having some chest pains so I went to see a cardiologist. He did an EKG, and immediately sent me to the hospital emergency room. They checked me in, planning to place a stent in a couple of my heart arteries. Unfortunately, they discovered one of the locations was not an option for a stent. They wanted to perform a bypass surgery the next morning.
On the next day, May 30 2008, they prepped me and rolled me to surgery. I had a large fear of the procedure, but was told hundreds of bypass procedures were performed everyday and with no issues. That statement did make me feel better, but I was still scared. I was looking forward to when the anesthesiologist started the knock-out gas flow.
I was very worried about my children, my wife, my mother, and my job. I was not able to imagine how they would manage and get along without me; especially my wife, since I handle 90% of the household issues. Yes, I was scared, but more for them rather than myself. Finally, I received the knockout gas, and at first, I was not aware of anything. It was just like I was asleep.
What seemed like just a few minutes passed by, and then I was wide awake. I had a terrible deafness, to the point I could not even hear my own yelling as I was trying to tell the doctors I was awake. Everything was dark, and that immense deafness was overpowering for me and close to the point of pain. It was as if I was in a vacuum. After a short time, I started floating up out of my body. I could see my body being worked on by a medical team. The deafness pressure started to subside, and I could hear again. I could also see clearly. I continued to float up and could hear the chatter of the doctors around me. I started to float back down, just short of going through the ceiling.
As I started a slow descent, I could see my father and my maternal Grandfather, standing at the end of a very long hallway. I was excited to see them, and was waiving and shouting to them. But they never acknowledged me. They were talking to each other, as if they had not seen each other for a while. They would look my way occasionally, and I would waive and shout again. But still, they never acknowledged seeing me. I couldn't hear what they were talking about. It did seem like they had not seen each other for a while though. They also appeared as they way I remembered them in my head. That is, my dad looked like he did before he got cancer, and my grandpa looked how he did when I was a teenager.
I finally descended and was sitting on a table next to the operating table. A door at the start of the hallway opened and a man walked out to greet me. He asked me how I was doing. I pointed over to the table where they were operating and told him it looked like I was not doing too good. The man gave a pat on my back and said, 'Not to worry, everything would work out okay.' I told him I thought my dad and grandpa must be mad at me because they were ignoring me. He told me that they were not allowed to interact with me. He told me that this was because this was not my time to pass the final barrier, and that I would be going back to my body soon. I asked the man who he was. He told me that he was my brother. He had a cast on his foot, that he said he had gotten from skiing. He said that he is in a place where the people get a re-do of life on the things they missed out on. They get to experience pain, pleasure, food, joy, happiness, and most other things. He explained it as a place for people who died young, before they got to experience life. Here, they were able to make decisions. He said the primary reason for life was to learn, and to choose your own paths. He said they stay there but could leave whenever they felt they had experienced and lived enough. He then said it was time for me to go back.
During this period, after I came out of the dreadful vacuum of silence, I did not feel pain, enjoyment, or pleasure. I had no memories of my loved ones still alive, so the pain and worry of leaving them was missing.
I did not see any bright light or tunnels. Although the hallway could have been viewed as a tunnel, I guess. I did not talk to anyone except my brother. I did not receive any messages to live better, or spread the word of God, or anything like that. Overall, I would say it was an uneventful happening.
It was about 4 days before I was awake enough to have normal thoughts and have cognizant abilities. I was told they stopped my heart to allow them better grafting of the harvested arteries to my heart during the surgery. I was kept alive with a machine that pumped my blood, and also a breathing machine.
When my wife and mother came to visit, I was out of ICU and I was alert again. I told them about my experience, and ended with saying it had to have been my imagination or a dream, since I did not have a brother. My mother teared up began to cry. She told me that I did, indeed, have a brother that he had died of crib-death. She had never spoken of him due to the pain she carried. The father I saw was my adopted father, not my biological father. He is the man I always called dad and I loved him as such.
I ultimately went back to work, but my health was never the same after that bypass. I had to have stents implanted within 6 months in one of the harvested arteries. I also had to have a pacemaker installed. All of this caused me to retire as disabled. I have days during the month where I do not have the energy to get out of bed, so I stay there for 2 or 3 days. This happens 3 to 5 times per month. The other days, I am able to shower, dress, and manage what most would call a normal life. I have near fainting spells 2 to 3 times every month, so I stopped driving. I live one day at a time, and no longer have a fear of death. – I am not wanting to get in the short line or anything like that, but I have accept my impending death and understand that dying is part of the living process. It is something we will all do. During those 2 or 3 days per month, when I cannot get out of bed, I have a constant feeling of doom. Yet it is a calming sense of foreboding, that is not laced with fear.
After the surgery, we started to position ourselves better financially by clearing all debt, so my wife will not have to struggle when I pass. I have worked with her to help her learn most of the things I always took care of around the house so she could be self-sufficient.
My takeaways from this experience are a few things:
1) When we pass away young, or with severe handicaps in this world, we have the choice to have a 'do-over' and live a life free of the medical ailments. These souls can progress when they feel ready. (I would equate this to a type of purgatory)
2) The loved ones are there for us and will rejoin us when the time is upon us.
3) The loved ones appear as you best remembered them. This could be when they were any age that you recall them looking their best, or when they were the happiest.
4) Our lives here are intertwined like a bowl of spaghetti. We are supposed to help people get un-twined. We are supposed to treat others with kindness, patience, and love. We are supposed to help people live the life-path they choose.
5) The people in your life now will not be missed when you depart. It almost seems like that pain of missing them is blocked out.
6) For the folks that have already died, they will be there to greet you when your time comes. I think it will only be the ones that were the most impactful to you, and that you had the strongest bond with. At least in that initial meeting. I have no knowledge or experience with what is beyond the final barrier, or how many other souls may be there to meet you.
7) My faith and beliefs have never changed. I am still a Christian, and I speak to the lord through prayers at times, with my core beliefs not being impacted one way or another. I have not been a group participant of the lord (like going to church regularly) for 20 years before the surgery, and that still remains today. I think churches are good for helping those in need, but I think the Lord cares more about how we live our lives, and how we treat and help others more than our church attendance habits.