The Story of my Death

Unlike the case with Mark Twain, the reports of my death have not been highly exaggerated. I did indeed die, a few years ago, and returned quickly. Therefore, I can provide scientific information regarding what really does happen after a person dies. Some will question the validity of my report, of course. But all I can do is describe my experience, and let each person pass their own judgment on the usefulness of the conclusion.

I died when I had my heart attack at age fifty-nine. I was away from home but with caring friends, and they endeavored to comfort me as I lay down in a cold sweat, held my hand over my aching heart, and said "Feels like this is it. It's okay, but I wanted to do some things before my life was over." Not an unusual feeling one has when the final bell rings.

I slowly fainted away and lost visual contact with the physical surroundings, and instead my senses detected a low humming sound, rather pleasant, more like soothing music than an alarm or irritating noise. I felt amazingly calm, at peace, weightless with only the slightest sensation that my body was floating upward and turning slowly, as though I were spinning gently on a giant rising disk. Then I was set upright by invisible but loving hands and found myself standing before a large decorative gateway. It shimmered with refracted colors, as though it were made of enameled copper. White cotton clouds drifted through an earthly blue sky, and a short, dark man in a coat and boots approached and stopped at the open entrance. I knew immediately that it was Saint Peter. He had the scraggly black beard, long curly hair, large rough hands, and the hardworking smell of fresh fish. His eyes were as beautiful as emeralds, intense but comforting.

"Welcome, John," he said.

And there was a pause. My brain rested in a state of peace and comfort I had never known on Earth.

He continued. "You have made a successful life for yourself, John. Now you are here in heaven for eternity. You will recall the doctrines of the Church I'm sure. You believe in the resurrection of the body and everlasting life. Right?"

"Yes," I answered, but the way I used to answer my wife when we went driving and I had not heard what she had said. What else could I do? I certainly was taught what Saint Peter certainly knew what I was taught. So, I did not agonize over what I believed. I just answered "Yes" to the implied question about what I had been taught.

"All right then, John. Now that you are here in heaven for eternity, what would you like to do?"

Then the earthly blue blended into a sandy yellow and swirls of purple like paint being mixed in a hardware store. The pleasant hum returned and I floated downward again. This time spinning gently as before but counter-clockwise. I heard faint voices and wondered where I was and what was happening. I regained a sense of ordinary life and remembered that I was having a medical crisis. Was my heart beating? What was happening to me? I felt that I was on Earth again, and probably alive again, but in trouble. Not feeling pain, but in trouble. Finally I heard some words with sufficient clarity:

"He's back. That heartbeat is troubling but steady. Get Doctor Fletcher, and more Heparin. Good job people."

I have an advantage now, knowing what question I am going to be asked the next time I arrive at the gates of heaven. I have some more time to prepare an answer. I wonder though, whether more time will help me compose a good answer to that old fisherman's question. I suppose I could inquire as to how others will answer that question, but then again, it does not matter how others might respond. It's my eternity.